The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(8)

She was Troy Brennan’s daughter, and Troy Brennan was a person you didn’t want to make an enemy out of. He was Boston’s underworld’s fixer, the guy the upper society of the city had on retainer to do the dirty work for them.

The few times I’d met Sailor, she’d seemed annoyingly resistant to my charms (as I said, lesbian).



“Kinda out there, don’t you think?” I feigned boredom, itching to haul ass to the Southern Hemisphere and escape my verdict.

“Better the plan being out there than your penis driven into holes it has no business being in,” my father deadpanned, taking a handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbing his sweaty hands with it, focusing on the clover-green fabric.

“Six months to live and play house with a complete stranger—that’s unorthodox, Da. Some would go as far as saying prosaically medieval.”

“You were just caught having sex with five young women on top of your friend’s antique Italian furniture—which, by the way, we still have to pay for and will be deducted from your salary. You’re too far from the realms of orthodox to be concerned about your reputation.”

“What about Sailor’s reputation?”

“She has none—a clean slate. And no one is insane enough to talk badly of her, considering who her dad is.”

He is sending me to live with a girl whose father is a cold-blooded murderer. Me. With my unfiltered, filthy mouth.

“What makes you think Sailor would agree to this?” I squinted at him.

I’d met Sailor Brennan maybe three or four times in my life. Her parents had restaurants all over Boston. Her mother was a chef and had cooked for a few events my mother hosted a while back. The entire time, Sailor messed with her phone or looked at my sister curiously (more proof of the lesbian theory).

I barely remembered the chick. What I did recall was carroty hair that looked about as soft as blistered feet, more freckles than a face, and the body of a malnourished, five-year-old boy.

“I have my reasons, but she will take some persuading.”

“So, how do you see this going down? I go to her and just say, yo, let’s move in together?”

I didn’t want to lose my inheritance because my dick had the social life of the entire Kardashian clan. Living with a geek and six months of celibacy weren’t going to kill me.

Probably.

Only time would tell, honestly.

“Do whatever you see fit to make sure Sailor says yes.” Da shrugged. “I’ll throw you a hook, but you’ll be doing the fishing. Not Syllie—who, by the way, I’ve ordered never to help you again. No more screwing around. If you want something, you need to chase it. It’s your job to make Sailor cooperate. You’re on your own now, Hunter. If you fail to show me you’re the man I need you to be in the next six months, you’re out. And Sailor is just the type of person to keep you in check.”





Dear God,

I know I talk to you periodically, mainly asking for favors, but I swear this is the last time.

…

Fine. It’s probably not the last time, but hear me out anyway, okay?

Please give me a signal that my Olympic dream is not a bust.

Make it rain.

Have a pigeon poop on me.

Anything.

It’s the only thing I care about. The only thing I truly want.

Yours,

—Sailor Brennan (P.S. I totally gave up chocolate and salty snacks for Lent, so if you look me up and see a list of my family’s sins, particularly my dad’s and brother’s, just remember I’m cool, all right? P.P.S. I pray for them, too.)

I drew an imaginary line between myself and the target, squinting under the pounding sun, sweat casing my forehead. Using three fingers to hold my arrow and string, I raised the bow toward the target, my inner elbow parallel to the ground. I could practically feel my pupils dilating as I focused, a tingle of excitement shooting up my spine. I released the arrow, watching as it spun in the air, missing the bull’s-eye by mere millimeters.

I lowered my bow, wiping my brow.

“Sailor,” my trainer, Junsu, clipped in a cutting tone. He approached from the shaded visiting area of the archery range, his hands clasped behind his back. “You have a visitor.”

I removed my bracer and leather tab, turning around and dumping them into the open duffel bag behind me.

“Visitor?” I grabbed a bottle of water from the plastic chair, squeezing its contents into my mouth. “Who would visit me?”

The question was not meant to sound as pathetic as it came out. Lots of people could visit me. My parents, for instance. Mom often dropped food off for me at reception, knowing I always forget to feed myself. I also had friends—Persephone (Persy) and Emmabelle (Belle) Penrose, namely. They both spent a good amount of time trying to drag me to social events I didn’t want to attend. But everybody knew I wasn’t big on visitors while I was training. Never mind the fact that I was always training.

“A boy.” Junsu’s mouth twisted around the last word. His Korean accent, touched with an unexplained British twang, rang with accusation. “A tall, blond boy.”

Junsu was short and sinewy and didn’t look a day over thirty, though considering his prime years in the Olympics were thirty years ago, he was no doubt pushing fifty. His hair was raven black, his tan skin wrinkle-free. He wore tight, simple clothes of expensive fabrics. They always looked neatly ironed.