Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hunter
“Fuck, I’ve seen bases that are less secure than that place. Marine and Navy, especially. And Air Force? Fuck, no question.”
Diesel sweeps his hand in a slow gesture at the crumbling building in front of us.
The Red Room sits like some monument from a dead civilization. Broken columns, crumbling plaster, shattered windows, they all hint at a place built with grand intentions crumbling inevitably into death and decay. Yet, in the places that matter — the reinforced doors, the steel bars in the windows, the goons in front — The Red Room is still very much alive.
I grunt in agreement. “Why here? This neighborhood’s fucking dead.”
“Literally a ghost, brother,” Diesel says. “Saw a sign as we were driving in. Everything around here used to be some town called ‘Friedland’ that went ass-up in the 1930s. They were originally in the timber business and shipping and supplies during the gold rush of the 1800s, they tried to diversify afterwards — hence the Art Deco styling of the theater that now is The Red Room — but the market crash in 1929 and the subsequent Great Depression wiped the town off the map.”
“You got all that from the road sign as we were rolling by?”
“We were going slow, I read fast, and I have good eyes — I loved sniping, remember that, I wiped your ass on the range — and a natural curiosity. Learning stuff is fun. I learned metalworking and jewelry making just to diversify my tattooing and piercing business. People want to come in and get some gauges in their ears or some earrings. Well, not only can I put the holes in them, I can fill those holes, too.”
“Aren’t you a modern day renaissance man.”
“Don’t bring a guy down for learning. What’s the last thing you picked up?”
“A crying baby from my dead brother’s house,” I say.
“Oh fuck. Cold.”
“Sorry,” I say, staring through the dark at the impenetrable Red Room. “I learned how to change a diaper the right way, how to calm a crying baby, how to feed and burp him…”
“You’re learning how to literally raise a human life. You know how fucking impressive that is?”
“Didn’t do it all on my own. Got Emily to thank for a lot of it. Without her…” I say, and I check my phone, hoping to see a text from her that she’s done with her paper for the night. Still nothing. “Without her, brother, fuck, I’d still be strapping diapers onto Charlie with duct tape and taking them off with combat knives.”
“Well, knives and duct tape are both tools. They both can have many applications,” Diesel starts.
“Exactly.”
“Hunter, I was joking. It scares the shit out of me that you were literally bundling that kid up with duct tape like he was some hostage and then using your knife on him. How the fuck he survived the first twenty-four hours with you is a goddamn mystery.”
“Thanks to her,” I say. For a second time, I check my phone. Then, despite myself, I send her a text. How’s the paper? It’s fucking lame. I feel ridiculous doing it, but I can’t help myself.
“Emily? She the one you’re texting right now? What’d you say? Show me your phone.”
“Fuck off. We’re supposed to be scouting this place. Looking for a way in. For weaknesses.”
Diesel laughs. “A way in? I found it — the front door. A weakness, well, to get to the bottom of that, I’d have to challenge each of the many guards to an arm wrestling contest. Face it, Hunter, this will not be a walk in the park. Unless you want to die. In which case, yes, it’ll be easy. Just go right in.”
“That ain’t what I want.”
“What do you want?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Her. A life here, with Charlie, and with her.”
“Going domestic, huh? The Hunter I remember, who would blow into town like a hurricane and leave before most people even knew his name, is now thinking about putting down roots?” Diesel grins and slaps me on the back.
“Not just thinking about it, Diesel. This could be it.”
“You sure?”
“I want a fucking family, man. When I’m with her, when I think about what I can do for Charlie here, fuck, I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s like my heart’s a grenade and someone’s pulled the damn pin — I don’t think my ribcage can contain it. I love her.”
“About fucking time. And you know what I think? I think you should go to this Emily right fucking now. I’ll keep working on this Red Room, but you? Shit, you need to go.”
“You sure?”
“As sure as I am that the guards are really looking at us and, unless you and I start making out or doing other things that I am not comfortable doing, they’re going to get suspicious, because we’ve been lurking here in the semi-shadows for a long time. Go see Emily, go fuck her brains out, and remember me as your best man when it’s time for a wedding.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Don’t hang around any longer unless you’re ready for me to stick my tongue down your throat, Hunter. I’m a top, that’s for sure, and I sure as fuck don’t play around. Go.”
Without another word, I go.
I drive through the dark, empty streets, my mind racing faster than the bike. The decrepit buildings of the ghost town fade away, replaced by the familiar landscape of the city. As I approach Emily's apartment, my heart pounds. What am I doing? This isn't like me. I'm not the guy who shows up unannounced, desperate for a woman's attention. But Emily isn't just any woman.
I stop the bike and sit there for a moment, gripping the handlebars. My phone buzzes. It's her. "Paper's kicking my ass. I’m going to be at this for a long time. Sorry, can’t meet tonight.”
I look up to the window and see lights out in her living room. Frowning, I get off the bike and walk to the building’s front door and hit the button on her buzzer. It buzzes. Buzzes. Buzzes.
No answer.
I stand there, finger hovering over the buzzer, uncertainty gnawing at my gut. Something's not right. Emily's always been straight with me, even when it hurts. Why lie about working on a paper?
I circle around to the back of the building, muscle memory from countless ops guiding my movements. The fire escape creaks under my weight as I climb, but I barely notice, focused on the dark window above.
Her apartment's on the third floor. I reach it in seconds, peering through the glass. The place is empty, no sign of Emily or her laptop. No half-empty coffee mugs or scattered papers that would indicate an all-night study session.
My heart rate kicks up a notch. I test the window, finding it locked. Without hesitation, I pull out my lockpick set and make quick work of it. The window slides open silently, and I slip inside.
The apartment is still, shadows stretching across familiar furniture. I see her laptop on the coffee table, the screen dark. There are no coffee cups, notebooks, or papers beside it. No sign of Emily. She hasn’t been here in hours.
“Emily?" I call out. No response.
I reach her bedroom and push the door open slowly. The bed is made, in the neat, almost-military perfect way that I’d expect from her. I step into the room, looking for any signs of trouble or hints of where she’s gone. For a minute, I get distracted by her underwear drawer, getting hard imagining each item on and off her body.
My hand is on my cock before I know it, while the other grabs a red lacy thong from her underwear drawer. I clench the fabric, first in my hand, then between my teeth, as I stroke myself.
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. This isn't the time. Something's wrong, and I need to figure out what.
I scan the room methodically, looking for anything out of place. But everything is exactly where a person like Emily would have it — clean, orderly, exactly in its place.
A similar search of the rest of the apartment yields the same results: nothing, except a serious appreciation for how neat and organized Emily is and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
She’s hiding something from me, and whatever it is, it’s serious.