Hunter #2
“As most of you know already, they brought in older boys who had graduated from the program and made me touch them. But what I haven’t shared…” he clears his throat and casts his eyes down, picking at his nails. “Is that Brother Mark, he uh, forced me to my hands and knees and raped me.”
Shock rips through me. “The fuck?”
The words rip out before I can stop them, loud and ugly in the quiet room. My voice cracks on the last syllable, the beer and the rage and the sudden, sick twist in my stomach all colliding at once.
Charlie’s eyes lift to mine again, meeting my stare with that same soft, steady look that’s been crawling under my skin since the first session. Like he’s not surprised I reacted that way, and he expected it.
The rest of the circle is frozen. Someone shifts uncomfortably. Tim opens his mouth, probably to redirect or calm things down, but I can’t look away from him.
Raped.
That soft kid with the golden curls and painted nails and the voice that never gets loud—someone held him down and raped him while praying over him like it was holy work. Those sick motherfuckers.
How can he sit here and tell us this as if it’s just another scar? How is he still so fucking soft with that trauma? Why didn’t anyone protect him?
My stomach rolls. The beer I’ve been pouring down my throat all afternoon suddenly feels like poison.
Part of me wants to force out a laugh or snarl at him that his pain doesn’t compare to my own.
I know it’s not true. But I want to do anything except sit here feeling as though the floor just dropped out from under me.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Charlie’s painted fingers keep picking at his nails, but he doesn’t look away from me. He’s daring me to say something else.
“Charlie, thank you for sharing that. That took immense courage. We can sit with it as long as you need.”
“Thanks. I just wish the nightmares would stop. You know? And the panic attacks. Sometimes it’s too much.”
He sounds like he’s apologizing for bleeding in front of us. Like he’s sorry the story hurts to hear.
I can’t fucking breathe.
The urge to protect him rides me so hard I clench my fists and press them into my thighs until the fresh gauze bites into the skin underneath.
I want to murder the people that hurt him.
I want to find every single one of those sick motherfuckers who held him down, who prayed while they broke him, and make them feel every second of what they did to him.
I want to burn their church to the ground and make sure he never feels the pain of those memories again.
That’s a feeling I know well.
The same rage that made me charge back into that warehouse after Robby. The same rage that almost got Mike and Diaz killed last week. The same rage that’s been eating me alive for six months.
And now it’s roaring for this soft kid with the golden curls and painted nails who just sat here and told us he was raped while grown men prayed over him like it was holy.
But protecting him means admitting I care. That I’m not dead inside.
And caring means I’m not the monster I’ve been telling myself I am.
“That’s a lot to carry, Charlie. Panic attacks and nightmares are common after trauma like that. You’re not alone in it.”
Charlie gives a small nod, fingers still picking at his nails. “Yeah. I know. Some nights are just louder than the others.”
I can’t take it anymore.
I push to my feet, chair scraping loud against the floor. The room tilts from the leftover alcohol in my system, but I don’t care.
“I need some air,” I mutter.
I don’t wait for permission. I shove the door open and stumble out into the hallway, down the stairway, then out of the building and into the alley way. The cool evening air washes over me, and my stomach heaves. I lurch toward a dumpster and empty the contents of my stomach into it.
My whole body screams with the movement, but the pain is good. Honest. Better than sitting in there feeling like I just watched someone bleed and then wanted to wrap my hands around the wound to stop it.
I lean against the wall, chest heaving, and let my head fall back against the bricks. The smell of piss and trash heavy in the air. At least it doesn’t smell like smoke.
That pretty boy. That soft, broken, still-gentle kid. All I can think about is how badly I want to keep anyone from ever touching him like that again.
Robby’s voice is a silent encouragement inside my head. Telling me it’s good to care about something again, even if it’s this.
The door opens again. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.
Charlie steps out, the cool air catching the edge of his cropped hoodie and making the fishnets on his thighs stand out even more.
He hesitates for half a second, then walks over until he’s standing a few feet away, hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie like he’s trying not to reach for me.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, voice soft and careful. “If my story hit a sore spot… I didn’t mean to dump all that on you when you just walked in.”
I push off the wall too fast, the world tilting again, and step toward him. “Don’t fucking apologize.”
Charlie blinks, those smoke-blue eyes widening just a fraction. Then the corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough to piss me off.
“Are you drunk?” he asks, the words coming out with just enough sass underneath to make it clear he’s not backing down. “Because you smell like a brewery, and you’re swaying like the building’s moving.”
I laugh once. “Yeah, I’m drunk. So what? You gonna lecture me, too? Tell me I need to be nicer? Fix me with your pretty nails and your gentle little voice? Huh, pretty boy?”
He doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head, golden curls shifting in the light coming from the building.
“How is pretty boy supposed to be an insult? I’m the prettiest goddamn boy in all of New York City.”
The words are light and sassy, like he’s teasing a friend instead of a drunk, raging asshole who just threw up in a dumpster. It should piss me off more. It does. But there’s something else under the anger now—a stupid, warm twist in my gut that makes me want to laugh for real.
I step closer, swaying without meaning to, towering over him in the dim light. The vanilla and berries scent on his skin cuts through the beer and vomit smell clinging to me.
“Yeah?” I growl. “Keep talking like that and I’ll show you exactly how pretty I think you are, twink.”
Charlie’s eyes flash with something bright and stubborn. He doesn’t step back. If anything, he lifts his chin a little higher, that soft mouth curving into the tiniest smirk.
“Careful, big guy. You’re drunk, and I’m sober. I win every sass battle when the other person can barely stand up straight.”
Big guy? It comes out teasing. Again, like I’m a friend and not who I am. My fists clench at my sides, shoulder screaming, but I can’t look away from his eyes or his lips curving up into a smile. He’s clearly not afraid of me.
I want to snarl at him.
I want to shove him against the wall and kiss that smart mouth until he moans into mine.
Instead, I just stand there, the protective urge and the rage and the alcohol all crashing together until I don’t know which one is winning.
“You’re trouble,” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Pretty, soft, trouble.”
Charlie’s smirk softens into something else that looks almost curious. “Am I, Hunter?”
The sound of my name in his soft, teasing voice hits me like a backdraft—sudden, hot, impossible to ignore. It cuts straight through the beer haze and the self-loathing.
I sway closer without meaning to, close enough that I can see the faint shimmer of his eyeliner and the gray streaks in his blue eyes. I could reach out and touch him if I wasn’t such a fucking mess. He really should keep his distance from me. I’m not good for people’s chances of staying alive.
“Yeah,” I rasp. “You are. Walking around looking like that, talking like that, after everything you just told us in there…you’re nothing but trouble.”
For a second, I think he might lean in. Then he takes one small step back, enough to put space between us, and the obvious rejection feels like a cold shower.
“I know I am,” he says, as if I spoke the truth. “But I’m trying really hard not to be trouble for anyone else right now. Especially not for someone who’s already carrying as much as you are. But if you need to talk while you are here, I am a good listener.”
The words sting. He’s definitely rejecting me. Politely. Carefully. As though he’s protecting both of us.
It only makes me want him more.
How is that possible? Robby hasn’t even been gone a full year yet. I’m such a bastard. How can I even think about kissing someone else when he was my whole life? The one I thought I’d grow old with.
The guilt slams into me like a collapsing beam, heavy and crushing. Robby’s laugh echoes in my head—bright, warm, the one that used to fill every empty corner of our apartment.
And here I am, drunk in a dirty alley, staring at this soft, pretty boy with painted nails and thinking about shoving him against the wall and kissing him until neither of us can breathe.
I’m a traitor.
I’m a monster.
I hate myself so much it burns worse than the scars on my shoulder.
But the want doesn’t go away. If anything, Charlie’s gentle rejection only makes it worse. He’s protecting me. He’s protecting himself. And that quiet kindness makes me want to break every wall I’ve built just to see if he’d still look at me the same way when they’re gone.
“You shouldn’t be nice to me,” I mutter. “You don’t know what I am.”