The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(22)

I owned exactly zero dresses. Belle and Persy, who were both much more voluptuous than me and therefore couldn’t lend me anything, jumped to my rescue. I thought they’d be dragging me through shops at the mall—my idea of torture—and had already braced myself for an afternoon from hell.

On Friday, right after they finished their college classes and Junsu dismissed me from training, Emmabelle sent me a message to meet them at a South End address. When I Google Mapped it, I found out it was a butcher. I decided asking questions would seem ungrateful, and I trusted they knew I wasn’t the kind of chick to make a weird fashion statement a la Lady Gaga’s meat dress.

I parked my car in front of a row of red-bricked buildings. One of them had a black metal door that obviously led to the butcher. I waited in my car, engine running, nibbling on the dead skin around my nails. “There’s No Home for You Here” by The White Stripes blared from the Bluetooth. It made me think of Hunter.

I considered bailing on the fundraiser. I hated parties, had never danced in my life, and there was a reason I never went shopping—I felt like a glorified coat hanger when I tried on fancy clothes. I could always see my ribcage poking through the fabric, the corpse-like outline of my sternum.

Still, the fighter in me had to see this through. Hunter’s family was counting on me, I needed his father’s endorsement, and besides—I owed it to Hunter, even if I disliked him.

A knock on my car window made me jump in surprise. For some stupid reason, I thought it’d be him. But no. Behind the glass, Belle flashed me a row of white, pearly teeth. She wiggled her light eyebrows, opening the door for me and offering me a little bow. Persephone was behind her, jumping up and down and squeaking in delight. I stepped out of the car, eyeing them with suspicion.

“A butcher, huh?” I yanked my brown leather satchel and hoisted it over my shoulder, frowning at their collective excitement.

“Keep an open mind, ho.” Belle grinned. “Bastard’s not going to know what hit him when he sees what a knockout you are under these rags.”

“Seriously, Hunter is going to die after we’re done with you.” Persy practically shoved me across the street to the mysterious black door.

“Is that a promise?” I mumbled.

I would actually have to talk to Hunter tomorrow, after five days of radio silence. To my surprise, my hatred toward him had somewhat dissipated, fizzling to a small flicker of dislike.

“Persy and I have reached the conclusion that for Hunter to grow up and take responsibility, and for you to…well, get a life and a clue, you guys need to fall in love,” Belle explained, knocking on the metal door that rattled against her ring-filled fingers.

If Persephone was conventionally beautiful, Emmabelle was a risqué pinup girl who’d never be tamed. Persy wore a red polka-dot dress, while Emmabelle wore condom-tight leather pants and a holey white designer shirt that probably cost a fortune. Her lips were big, pouty, and infinitely red, her eyes dark blue, like the ocean on a stormy day. If Hunter thought I had a mouth on me, Belle would demolish him completely, all while looking like a long-lost Hadid sister.

“The only person Hunter Fitzpatrick is capable of loving is himself. Even then, he does a shitty job. Look at all the mess he got himself into,” I pointed out.

Belle and Percy were the only people I had told about my agreement with Hunter other than my family. I knew they would never tell a soul and trusted them with my life.

The door whined, straining against its own rust as it was yanked open. An old, wrinkly man with white hair wearing a heavy-duty vinyl butcher apron nodded hello, leading us to his backyard silently. He smelled of raw meat and sweat, not exactly like Macy’s. We followed him as he stomped toward a shed. I was about to ask my friends if this was a spontaneous escape room when he unlocked it, opened the door, and motioned us inside without coming in.

“Everything is seventy percent off retail. No receipts. No returns,” he said sternly, turned around, and tramped away.

I stared at my two friends, bewildered.

Belle shrugged, tearing her sunhat off her head and boomeranging it to her sister. “Retail is just another word for devil, and the devil wears Prada. Coincidentally, I cannot afford Prada. But I can afford this.”

“How does he get his hands on these clothes?” My eyes flared, not that I had the right to be preachy. My father ran a less-than-clean shop, and Sam followed his footsteps. The difference was, I had nothing to do with their affairs.

“He’s got guys who raid vessels before they reach the port. Super Wild West. They know where to look, what to…extract.” Emmabelle snickered, flipping the light switch on with a familiarity that suggested she was a regular visitor, and sauntered deeper into the room. The place was full of racks. Rows and rows of wedding dresses, ballroom gowns, and upmarket frocks I’d only seen Hollywood starlets wearing. I opened my mouth, about to tell them this wasn’t a good idea, when Persy pressed a finger to my lips, shutting me up.

“Look, I’m not a huge fan of this, either. But you hate shopping malls and busy streets and…you know, people. This is our best shot.”

“This is wrong,” I whispered.

I always turned a blind eye to what my dad and Sam did. It helped me love them wholly. But that didn’t mean I agreed with how they chose to make money.

“C’mon, Sailor.” Emmabelle chuckled, her upper body already obscured by lush fabrics as she sifted through the dresses. “The only people who get screwed over are top designers who charge two grand for a dress that costs fifty bucks to make. The US economy will not collapse if you buy one evening dress.”