The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(52)

He sounded chill as fuck. This was how much I didn’t chart as a threat to him. I’d been caught red-handed in his office, and he didn’t even raise an eyebrow. I grabbed the first thing within reach on his desk, a stapler, and started for the door.

“Just wanted to borrow your stapler.” I waved it in my hand for good measure. Oscar-worthy performance, I tell ya.

“Why?” He shoved his hands into his pockets. His face had random features that didn’t really gel. He was lanky and looked like the Caucasian version of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.

I improvised some more. “Got a little carried away with one of the interns. Ruined her virtue. Also, her pencil skirt.” I exposed my white fangs, hooding my eyes. Syllie grinned back. Wide. After all, I was a “literal fucking joke,” always up for a tumble in the supply closet.

“That’s my boy.” He clapped my back, letting his hand linger there for a second too long. “I won’t tell on you,” he promised earnestly, his hand clutching his heart. “For what it’s worth, I’ve always thought your da was too harsh on you. You should live a little. Have fun.”

I raised my fist to his. We pounded it. He felt cool. My job here was done.

“Yo, if you wanna get high on gas fumes later, let me know,” I offered out of nowhere, turning to him while still walking out of his office. I thought about that idiot accountant from yesterday.

Syllie laughed. “Maybe, son. Maybe.”

Adults were trash.




Later that day, I was invited to a meeting about the Maine-based refinery Royal Pipelines was supposed to open this year, which was still under construction. Syllie rallied for Da, Cillian, yours truly, and himself to take a quick trip there in the next few months to examine it up close.

“We need to keep our finger on the pulse, get a better understanding of what’s not working. It’ll also give Hunter a chance to feel included.” Syllie spoke brightly, looking around Da’s desk.

My father, who still couldn’t look at the hedonist monster he’d created, said nothing, probably his way of trying to figure out if I was worth the hassle. I took minutes during that meeting, then mailed them to Da and Cillian, knowing there was a one-hundred-percent chance they weren’t opening my goddamn emails.

Hours later, I decided to take my lunch to the public library and cram in some studying time. Eating at the library was prohibited, so I concealed myself behind the autobiography shelves. Nobody fucking cared—not about what dead people did, and not about me.

As I debated whether it was technically possible to kill myself by smashing my head into the economics textbook, I heard a familiar voice three rows down, seeping from the Braille selections like poison.

“…in motion. You’ll have to put things together quickly. I’m shooting for next month, or the one after it. Soon.”

There was a pause. The other person was talking. What were the chances of Syllie going to the library to take a personal call? Good, I realized. The place was dead, and you wouldn’t find any of the Fitzpatrick men in the library unless it was a trendy name for a brothel.

Or so he thought.

“Father and older son pose more threat than the little one, as I mentioned,” he added.

Don’t be so fucking sure.

“Keep me posted. I’ll call soon.”

He killed the call. I threw my sandwich into the trash can, my appetite gone.

He was going to pay.




HHH: When are you coming home 2night? I got nudes.

HHH: News*. #DieAutocorrect.

HHH: (tho I got nudes too, if you’re interested).

Sailor: You know that means you type the word nude more than news, right?

HHH: I’m sensing you have a point somewhere in this sentence.

Sailor: How often do you sext women?

HHH: Is that a trick question?

Sailor: Nvm. Getting into PT in 2 mins.

HHH: How’s the Patriots’ dude?

Sailor: Good. Thanks for hooking me up.

HHH: Always happy to hook a friend up, unlike someone I know. eyes peeking emoji Sailor: If I had a guilt trip every time you made me feel shitty about holding my side of the bargain with your dad, I’d be crippled with anxiety.

HHH: Sex is great for anxiety.

Sailor: Besides, I gave you Knox.

HHH: That you did. And I successfully deployed all the devices he sold me.

Sailor: I’m glad! I knew you could do it.

HHH: When did you say you were coming home again?

Sailor: Late. Got a meeting with Junsu after this, then I have that shoot for the sports magazine Crystal got for me. DoorDash away without me.

HHH: Ok. x




I ordered sushi that night.

Not good sushi, either. Sailor always knew what to get, where to get it, and who made the best food in the city. The apartment felt extra empty without her. I resisted the urge to FaceTime Vaughn or Knight as I placed my reusable chopsticks and LaCroix on the dining table, listening to a podcast about this hipster chick who lived a year in the Scottish highlands trying to figure out if the cryptozoological loch ness monster really did exist.

The doorbell rang. I opened up. It was a woman: Asian, real babe, with a heart-shaped face and long, purple hair that looked extra silky. Banging body. Sailor-small, as in miniature. She raised the thrice-knotted plastic bag between us.