The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(64)

HHH: Crosses off fingering a celebrity, too.

HHH: I’ll wait. What 2 DoorDash?

Sailor: Do they deliver manners?

HHH: Sushi with a side of my superior sense of humor it is.

Sailor: Try to make sure the delivery person keeps their clothes on this time.

HHH: No promises.




That night, Sailor and I had sushi while listening to Syllie’s tapes and trying to decode some of his conversations. It felt like buddy studying for a test together or some shit. I kept punctuating my speech with my chopsticks and asking her: “And what about that?” “Did you hear what he just said?” “Does that sound suspicious?”

We came to some conclusions, though not exactly groundbreaking shit. Syllie definitely hated Cillian with Shakespearean fucking passion. He hated Da, too, but tried to remain professional when talking shit about him. He didn’t talk about me at all, something neither I nor Sailor pointed out for the sake of my ego, which currently was unsalvageably destroyed.

RIP, pride. Can you miss something you’ve never had?

“I think,” Sailor said as she packed up the empty containers, getting ready to throw them into the recycling bin, “he is definitely hiding something. And if you want something bad enough—more than the person you’re up against—you always get it. So, yeah, you can nail him.”

I’d rather nail you. “Are you speaking from experience?” I asked. I wanted to know why she always looked one step away from dismembering Lana Alder. Not that Sailor needed much to get riled up, but her hatred toward the hot archer seemed personal, intimate. I knew my roommate, and she didn’t blacklist people unless they were major-league cunts.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Guess I’ll find out soon.”

“I’ve seen her in action.” I slam-dunked an empty can of LaCroix straight into the recycling. We both knew who I was talking about. “She’s not a natural-born archer. She ain’t you.”

“Talent is just one ingredient. It doesn’t make for a perfectly executed dish. There are other factors to consider.” She kept herself busy tidying the coffee table.

“You have the recipe, too.” I took the trash from her, disposing of it myself.

“Then why is she winning?” she asked softly behind me. “Because right now, it looks like she does. What does she have that I don’t?”

“Fame.” My back was still to her as I continued moving about.

“And beauty,” she finished.

I wanted to say that no, Lana Alder didn’t hold a candle to her mysterious, punch-to-the-balls beauty. That Sailor had discipline and passion and morals, and you couldn’t beat those with a toothy, white smile.

I knew, because I was a Lana, and the dudes with the talent always left me eating dust when it came to the finish line.

Look at my friend Vaughn, who got an internship in England.

Or Knight, who was attending his college of choice and slaying the fuck out of life.

I wanted to say reality catches up with the myth. Always.

Instead, I walked back to her and kissed her temple. “Just fame,” I said.

She nodded, seeming to understand all I wasn’t saying. Sailor reciprocated by pressing her hand over my heart, stopping me from moving away.

“About Syllie,” she said. “What he said about you… I just want to share something my father once told me. He said if you love someone, and they love you, there’s no point taking offense in what they say or do to you, because they never mean you harm, anyway. And if you don’t love someone, if you don’t care about them, then there’s no point in taking offense in what they say or do to you, because you don’t care about them. Either way—”

“You don’t get offended,” I finished. It was a fair point; even I had to agree.

She smiled. “Yes. This Sylvester Lewis guy, you don’t care about him. Don’t make it personal, then. Just bring him down.”

We shared an awkward hug, during which I wondered when my limbs had turned so goddamn clumsy, and then I retired to my bedroom before I did something stupid.

I got an incoming text message before I’d even closed the door. Sailor?

Maybe she changed her mind.

Maybe it’s a booty call.

That temple kiss was a killer.

But no, it was Alice, my old flame. The chick my father may or may not have paid a fortune to keep her mouth shut. I never bothered to ask her if she jumped on the bandwagon, because the answer would hurt like a bitch. Still, I’d messed around with her not even weeks ago. What was fucking wrong with me?

Everything, you moron. That’s why you have a babysitter.

I opened the message. It was another thirst trap. This time a picture of her pink-lace-covered crotch with her hand shoved inside the panties. Real subtle. It was followed by an actual text.



Alice: Skype? ?

I turned my phone to silent and crashed, dreaming of Sailor straddling my face and riding it.

When I woke up, all I had were nocturnal emission, a killer headache, and a thirst for Syllie’s blood.





Hunter used a GPS app to get to his parents’ gigantic mansion.

He didn’t know the way by heart, something he admitted to me with a sullen frown that ripped through my chest like a bear’s claws. We had to be buzzed into the premises after waiting at the iron-wrought gate for fifteen minutes for a servant to open for us.