17
HUNTER
The next six weeks passed quickly.
I was drowning in work and essays, but never missed a chance to fuck my roommate, who—it was safe to admit now—had turned out to be the best roommate in the history of roommates.
Just to be on the safe side, I didn’t get my bed replaced. It made slipping into her bed every night seem more practical and less…whatever. Even after Sailor got back to training full-time and started waking up early again, I still found time to fit in a morning quickie, even if it meant waking up with her.
It really took the edge off the rest of the day.
Bonus points: Da didn’t seem to be pissed at Sailor after that bullshit dinner, so there was no immediate threat to my inheritance. While he was careful not to talk to me, and limited our already-restricted communication, Sailor told me he’d been emailing her more frequently and had even used the term of endearment “sweetheart” (insert throwing up emoji here).
“He said he respected the way I stood up for you and gave him a piece of my mind, but at the same time, he knew I was smart enough not to get involved with you,” she told me the day after that dinner, ironically minutes after I’d used her thighs as ear-warmers and eaten her out for twenty minutes.
My lips were still glistening with her juices when I laughed, throwing one arm behind my head.
“Maybe I’m not that smart.” She nuzzled her head in the crook of my arm as her fingers played with my chest hair. I fucking loved when she did that. I didn’t even know why. Sometimes she tugged at them real hard, but it was an intimate gesture no fling had ever done.
“Maybe he’s not that sharp,” I replied.
“The answer probably lies somewhere in the middle,” she mused.
I took her face in both my hands and kissed her hard. “There’s no way you are less than a genius. Takes one to know one.”
Though I didn’t feel like a genius, no matter what my IQ test indicated.
After that stupid-ass dinner, we went to visit my family or hers almost every weekend. Dinner with the Brennans was the tits.
Sparrow Brennan was a world-class cook (literally), and it was fun watching the infamous Troy Brennan getting the third degree from his spitfire wife and hell-raising daughter. I even learned how to get along with Sam. Sort of, anyway. He was a scary motherfucker.
We talked about every subject under the sun—politics and TV shows and new things to do in the city and the future, but never about money, which felt fresh. Da and Cillian only talked about money. Sometimes Aisling tagged along, which I liked, too, because she was pretty much the only family member I had that I was sure didn’t want to maim me to death with a dildo. But also didn’t like it, because she looked at Sam like he had the world clenched in his dirty-ass, violent palm. Aisling and Sam were a bad idea.
She was the princess in the ivory tower, and he was the punk who was going to steal and corrupt her on his lunch break from setting the world on fire.
He was too everything—old, experienced, and dangerous—for my baby sister.
Sometimes the Penrose sisters were there, too. I didn’t mind them all that much. I told myself they probably had no idea Sailor and I were fucking. They no doubt thought I didn’t deserve her, or worse—that I had no chance with her in the first place. Both were true, by the way.
Things didn’t go as fine and dandy when we had to visit my family, but as long as I kept my interactions with Da to a minimum, I survived. I even shared a few lukewarm words with Cillian that entailed zero profanity—mainly Patriots crap or how the new refinery in Maine was going down the shitters (my words, not his, God forbid). Still, it counted for something. One day at work, Kill even brought a cheesesteak sandwich and a large Coke to my desk when I was studying for an exam and didn’t have time to take my lunch break.
“Here, Legally Blonde.” He tossed the food onto my desk without sparing me a look.
“Fuck. Thanks, old sport.” I looked at the food in disbelief. “Juggling college and work is a bitch.”
Kill slid a piece of paper with an email on it across my desk after the food. “Have someone else write your essays for you. Have them make you summaries for the tests. Life’s too short to pretend you give a damn about business law.”
“Do you give a damn about anything?” I jested. My parents had fucked both of us up thoroughly, but in different ways. I cared too much and acted up. He didn’t care about anything at all.
“I’m sure I do, but I’ve yet to find it,” he said.
“Liar.”
“The truth is overrated—an uncreative, uninspired way of seeing things.”
I got used to the hard work and the late-night studying. I even got used to fucking just one girl. The only thing that made me frustrated as hell was Sylvester. I listened to his recordings thoroughly, almost every night, and still couldn’t find anything concrete to nail him with.
One day, Da called me into his office. I could count the times he’d done that since The Dinner on one hand, so I approached in a sour mood. Pushing the door open, I noticed Kill and Syllie already seated in front of him.
“Sit,” Da spat, barely glancing at an empty chair next to Syllie.
“I’d rather stand. What’s up?” I asked.
All eyes darted to me. I think they were as surprised as I was to hear my voice, low and sober and lacking that playful, wannabe-rapper twang my family loathed so much. I was growing a spine. The growing pains were a bitch, but I was starting to recognize that I didn’t have much choice.
“Hunter,” my father warned.
“Leave him be, Athair. There are much more pressing issues right now,” Cillian growled impatiently.
I’d have kissed him on the mouth if he wasn’t my brother and my lips weren’t partial to a little redheaded banshee.
“Well?” I jutted my chin out.
My father sat back. He looked worn out, tired as fuck.
“The three of us—you, me, and Cillian—are going on a trip to monitor the progress on the refinery. We’re giving them the opportunity to sort the machinery mess, but it is clear something needs to be done. There have been too many hiccups with the project, and I think it could raise overall morale if we show a united front and go there together,” Da said.
I was surprised to be included. At this point, I was thankful they didn’t put a pair of goddamn orange shorts and a white bra on me and call me their office Hooters waitress, but something else irked me.
“What about you, Syllie? Are you coming?” I flashed him my good-natured smile.
The man turned to me, shaking his head.
“Someone needs to make sure everything runs smoothly here. Also, my wife has that thing,” he added as an afterthought.
“What thing?” I pressed. Someone goddamn had to.
“She’s a bit under the weather. She underwent surgery a little less than two months ago.”
“What surgery?” I didn’t relent. I could see Kill in my periphery, smiling in amusement.
“Oh, I’m not sure this is a conversation she’d appreciate me having. Obviously, I regret I cannot join you.”
“Obviously,” I repeated, cocking my head, examining his face. He met my eyes with defiance.
“Weren’t you the one who brought it to Athair’s attention that we were falling behind schedule on the refinery and it would never pass health and safety inspections at this rate?”
Syllie’s smile began to fade. I knew I was pissing off more than just him. Da hated being criticized. Especially by me.
“That’s his job,” my father boomed behind his desk. “What’s your point, ceann beag?”
I shrugged. “No point. Just putting things together.”
“Your job is filing things, not gluing them into a narrative,” Da reminded me. “It’s settled then. You’re coming with us. You’re excused now.”
I saluted him, marching out. Instead of sitting back at my desk, I sauntered all the way to Syllie’s office, checking on all the BS I’d used to record him, seeing that nothing had been moved. Since that first time I’d met Knox, I’d paid him two more visits and managed to put a tracker on Syllie’s phone (he used burner phones, but even the slyest motherfuckers slipped sometimes). I’d gotten two numbers for reliable private investigators, but I knew something like that could blow up in my face if I didn’t handle it carefully.
My nights were spent as follows:
Come back home.
Fuck Sailor.
Talk about our days over takeout food—she was my Western Wall, there to listen without judgment, to hear without shoving her opinion down my throat—then listen to Syllie’s recordings after I was done with my college shit. Sometimes Sailor helped me. We would sit together on the couch, I’d massage her legs, and we’d both have our AirPods tucked in, listening to different parts of Syllie’s recordings. When one of us felt we were on to something, we’d play it for the other. So far, though, Syllie was too careful for his own good.
Finally, when we retired to bed, I’d fuck her again. Sometimes she fucked me. Sailor was a feisty one.
We didn’t talk about what we were.
What we weren’t.
We just existed: a butterfly and a man who appreciated beautiful things.
Co-existing in the eye of a storm we’d been thrown into.
Knight: Yo, asswipe. What are you doing next weekend?
Hunter: Scratching my balls. Making voodoo dolls of my dad. That kind of thing. What kind of question is that?
Knight: One I’d like a serious answer to, you little ass fucker.
Hunter: Not ass-fucking, unfortunately. Study, probs. Got dinner at my folks. You?
Knight: In Boston with bae for her book deal. We’re coming to see you.
Hunter: You’re fucking an author now? That’s the height of intellectuality you’re going to reach. I hope you realize that.
Knight: Did I say see you? I meant stay with you. Also: Ha. Ha.
Hunter: Cheap bastard.
Knight: Is that a yes?
Hunter: It’s not a no.
Knight: Would your nerdy roommate mind?
I hadn’t told Knight or Vaughn about bumping uglies with Sailor—not that I was embarrassed or anything. But I knew she was private. She hadn’t confided in her friends about us, and it felt like betraying her confidence. Especially if at some point my father found out about us and shit hit the fan. The more we kept it on the down low, the better. I wasn’t going to throw away my inheritance over a pussy—no matter how sweet and tight—and she was getting sweet-ass media coverage and hitting all her PR marks.
Sailor was recently interviewed on a local morning show, had been featured in two teen magazines, and Crystal, her agent, had said her name had been Googled more last month than a certain Kardashian sister, even though the latter allegedly remodeled her entire face and some other body parts. Keeping Sailor a secret was making sure what we had was just that—an ongoing fling with an expiration date. She wasn’t my girlfriend. But we lived under the same roof and enjoyed sucking each other’s privates.
Really, there was no reason to tell Knight about Sailor, just like there was no reason to tell him about any of the other flings I’d had over the years.
Hunter: I hardly care what she thinks.
Knight: Brutal as always.
Hunter: Catch ya next week.
Knight: Be seein’ ya.
The following morning, my new king-sized bed arrived. I got it for Knight and his fiancée, Luna. I paid a rush fee to make sure the little fuckers had somewhere to sleep. I hadn’t gotten the chance to bring Sailor up to speed about it, because the previous night, as soon as she’d walked in the door, I’d been too busy ravishing her to squeeze a sentence in.
It caught her off guard as we drank our morning coffee on Saturday morning like two grown-ups or some shit. The elevator dinged and the movers came out, holding the boxed pieces with the giant-ass print of the bed.
Sailor arched an eyebrow over the rim of her cup, feigning calm curiosity, but I knew she was pissed. Her green eyes always turned a shade darker when she was annoyed.
“I don’t remember exiling you from my bed. We have a bit more time to our arrangement.”
I grinned, dropping a kiss at the crown of her head.
“Not gonna sleep in the new bed for a second. My friend Knight and his girlfriend-slash-fiancée-slash-ballbuster Luna want to crash with us next weekend. She’s meeting with her literary agent here or some shit. That cool?”
“Sure.” She shrugged and meant it.
The tension had evaporated from her shoulders. I knew it was going to be hard on her when I gave her the boot. Honestly, I’d miss her ass, too (and her pussy, and mouth).
“But you won’t be sleeping in my bed when they’re here. No one can know about us,” she warned.
I nodded, happy she still had her head screwed on right. Some chicks lost it where a well-endowed billionaire was concerned. Not Sailor Brennan, though.
“I’ll crash on the couch when they’re here.”