The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(77)

“Why not Aisling?” I tried to dodge her touch at the same time I tried to pinch her ass. We tango-ed like a pair of aggressive peacocks for a few seconds.

“Oh, you have Aisling’s vote, for sure. But you need the swing states’ support. Think of Cillian as Virginia.”

To put his name with anything virginal would be a crime, but I saved her my smart-ass comment.

I wanted to be mad at her, but for the life of me, couldn’t. Leave it to this crazy bitch—and I used the term endearingly—to call the other craziest motherfucker I’d ever known and negotiate the terms of my relationship with him.

“I don’t have any riding shit,” I gritted, stalling.

“Figured as much. Cillian said he’ll let you borrow some,” Sailor sing-songed.

I turned around to face her as she swung the door open. The movers were marching back from my room, dusting off their hands.

“I hate you.” I double-tipped them, waving them goodbye. Because I could be both a cunt and a great person at the same time.

“I’ll find a way to carry on.” She flashed me a smile I wanted to wipe off with a kiss.

“Don’t be so sure. It’ll be a struggle when I hate-fuck you and put a hole with your shape through your mattress.”

Sailor gave me another shove. “Then I truly hope your friends won’t mind sleeping on a Sailor-shaped mattress, because I’ll definitely be taking the new bed. Good luck and goodbye!”

The door slammed in my face, and all I could do was laugh.

Goddammit, Sailor.




Downstairs, Kill picked me up to go to the equestrian center. I spent the ride fiddling with the Dala horse on my neck while Cillian sneered at numerous things we passed along the way: a bed of wilting flowers, a broken tree on the side of the road, general litter. Everything pissed the asshole off. He was going to be dead by age thirty-three of a heart attack. He gave me such rotten-ass juju I’d need to lock myself in a Hindu holy site on an Indian mountain for a decade just to get rid of his negativity.

When we got there, I found out Cillian had a few horses that legit belonged to him. Apparently, he hadn’t limited his riding hobby to my ass alone. I knew Kill had played polo in his youth, too, and was more accomplished than I (insert shocked emoji here), but when we hurled our tall frames onto two twin, black Arabian horses and began riding, it was pretty clear we were both skilled.

Cillian handed me a helmet, a saddle, and a pair of boots. He looked like an eighteenth-century aristocrat in his gear, and I wondered if he enjoyed being so perfect twenty-four-fucking-seven. From the outside, it looked exhausting.

We headed to the neck of the woods, the saddle—made of rich leather that’d been broken in by my brother—tinged my nostrils with an earthy scent. I’d missed riding. There were signs scattered across the woods warning riders about hunters (ironic). When Cillian shot me a sidelong glance to see if I cared, I shrugged, aided my horse, and galloped forward. Straying far on a horse I wasn’t familiar with in woods I didn’t know was supremely stupid, but I knew my brother was responsible enough to keep us both alive.

Kill caught up with me quickly.

“So, are you still playing the part of Auguste Dupin and scheming Sylvester’s downfall?”

Of course he’d reference an Edgar Allan Poe character before Sherlock Holmes. Kill thrived on being different. He probably thought I was under the impression Auguste Dupin was some sophisticated French dessert. I rode faster, making him sweat for the conversation.

“He’s cooking something up,” I clipped. “Years of being an asshole make me an expert at recognizing shitheads when I see them.”

“I trust your instincts,” Kill drawled with his usual, grave politeness, ignoring the pack of blonde stable girls who burst out of a corner of the woods, giggling and pointing at us. Cillian didn’t even spare the groupies a look. I realized, with some annoyance, that I wasn’t particularly interested in sampling their goods, either.

“Then why aren’t you backing me up on this?” I seethed.

Did Kill’s hatred for me trump his love for Royal Pipelines? I tried to remain calm. Cillian loathed emotions. I wondered how, exactly, he was going to give Da the precious heirs he was obviously waiting for when my older brother was appalled by any type of emotion, lust included.

“You started this, put things in motion. Now it’s your job to finish it,” Cillian explained, aiding his horse and quickening its pace, his back straight as an arrow. We kept chasing each other, changing paces. I remembered his words: “Everything is a pissing contest.”

I launched forward, catching up with him.

Song of the day: “Wild Horses” by The Rolling Stones.

“I don’t like tests,” I hissed.

“I don’t like taxes,” he deadpanned. “But guess what I’m doing every April fifteenth? Let me give you a hint, not five Californian cheerleaders on my friend’s fourteen-thousand-dollar carpet.”

I almost laughed. For all his shittiness, my brother was cooler than a Trader Joe’s cashier.

“That sucks,” I groaned, referring to Syllie. I still couldn’t remember the orgy.

“Welcome to adulthood. Leave your joy and creativity at the door.”

“What if I can’t nail him?” I dug my nails into his horse’s coat. I’d noticed Kill was warming up his black Arabian, aiding him frequently, like he wanted to jump him. I found it typical that he hadn’t even given his two favorite horses names. He was impersonal, even to the things he was fond of.