4. Chapter 4
Hunter
Jenkins is thirty feet ahead and losing ground. He just doesn't know it.
He’s still running like there’s a way out of this—arms pumping, gym shoes driving through the pine needles and dirt. But his left stride shortens every fourth step, his breathing loud enough to track from twice this distance.
Adrenaline is carrying him.
But the gap will close. Always does.
“Well fuck me sideways. Jenkins is Cap’s sidepiece’s boyfriend.” Atlas is talking louder than necessary, his voice barely muffled by the mask.
“No shit.”
Jenkins showed up without a mask or an armband, scanning the crowd as if he were looking for someone specific. And he was angry. That was his mistake.
Angry people make bad decisions.
Up ahead, he cuts left. His stride shortens as the trees thicken.
Mine doesn’t.
My boots don’t make noise as they strike the ground. They never do. Not here, not in Ironwood, not in any stretch of woods I've moved through since I was old enough to understand why it mattered.
Silence keeps you safe. Keeps you hidden.
Tonight, it keeps me behind Jenkins.
“Can't believe Cap was just going at it like that. Even looked right at Jenkins and fucked that girl harder.”
“Atlas.”
“I'm just saying, that was brutal to walk in on. But kinda wished we hung back. Would’ve loved to see what Jenkins was going to do. He definitely looked ready to charge Cap.”
The ground slopes, and Jenkins slides on the grade, but he keeps driving forward.
Twenty feet.
Jenkins was never going to outrun us.
“Go wide. Push him toward the creek bed.”
Atlas barrels right, crashing through the brush, making enough noise for three people. “Bet he's shitting himself.”
I grunt.
“You know he's running straight toward the shit ground, right?” Atlas calls from somewhere to my right. “This is almost too easy. I'm kind of offended.”
Jesus, fuck.
“Atlas, shut up.”
Jenkins vaults a root system. His right hand catches wrong on a branch and his stride stutters. He's fighting the trees instead of reading them. Every branch he shoves through slows him down.
“This is almost sad.” Atlas dodges a branch. “Like chasing a golden retriever that got off its leash.”
In front of me, Jenkins trips, his hood falling back. I’m on him before he finds his balance. I yank the hood sideways, swinging him back down.
His body hits the ground hard, but he twists fast and drives his fist into the inside of my leg near the knee.
Pain shoots up my leg, knee buckling. “Fuck.”
He slips out of the hoodie and gets loose. For two seconds. Then Atlas runs past me.
Jenkins grabs a nearby branch and swings, cracking Atlas across the head. “Get fucked.”
Atlas catches the branch mid-arc on the second swing, wrenches it free, then whips it into the dark. “You little fucking shit.”
They collide. Fists, elbows, grappling. My best friend loves fighting Jenkins on the ice. They both push each other’s buttons. Also, the little Titan doesn’t back down.
Ever.
He keeps getting back up. Just like he is now.
I shake out my leg just as Jenkins punches Atlas in the throat.
Atlas doubles over, hacking, one hand on his throat.
My fists clench, fingernails biting into my palms, molars grinding so hard they might break. “You’re dead.”
Jenkins sprints away, weaving between trunks. I could catch him in four seconds. Pin him face down in the dirt, then snap his fucking neck.
But Atlas comes first.
Always.
I crouch next to him, gripping the back of his neck. I tilt his head so I can see his eyes through the mask. “You good?”
“Get—” He coughs, sucking air through his teeth. “—that motherfucker.”
I nod, stand, then take off.
Jenkins might have a head start, but he’s loud in the brush. Easy to follow. I close the last few feet and drive into him from behind. My arms lock around his torso as I take him down. His chest slams into the dirt hard enough to knock the breath out of him.
He bucks, elbows swinging, heels kicking back into my shins. “Get the fuck off me! Get. Off.”
I flip him onto his back, straddle his thighs, then drop my weight to pin him. I lean forward and wrap my hand around his throat, squeezing hard.
My best friend.
My . Fucking. Best. Friend.
This piece of shit throat-punched him.
Jenkins’s nails tear into my wrist, then he punches my forearm, hips bucking, trying to throw me off. “Fuck you—fucking—get off—”
My fingers dig deeper.
His mouth opens, but no words come out. Then he claws at my fingers, trying to remove them, but it does no good. So, he bucks again.
My eyes widen the slightest bit.
What the fuck?
Jenkins bucks harder this time.
I grunt, my grip loosening.
He’s hard.
Jenkins coughs and gasps, saliva on his chin. His chest heaves as he shoves at my forearm, his abs tight and flexing. “Get off me, you fucking psycho piece of—”
My head tilts. “That what you want?”
His brows furrow, nose scrunching. “Fuck you.”
After shifting my weight, I slowly trace my thumb down his lower abs, off-center so it’s close enough to his cock but not touching. It twitches, and the right corner of my mouth curves up.
Jenkins goes still—completely fucking still—and he shuts the fuck up.
I keep my gaze locked with his. “Looks like that’s exactly what you want.”
His cock twitches again.
A growl grinds out of my throat, my cock thickening. I let go of him, reach down, and stroke once.
His gaze drops to my hand, then snaps up. A second passes before Jenkins loses his shit. He starts slapping my arm and chest. His legs kick out and he thrashes. “Get the fuck off me—don't fucking touch me—I said get off me —”
My eyes travel from his throat to his chest. To his abs. Then, to the outline of his cock straining against his joggers. I graze my thumb over the material near the tip of his cock, lifting my gaze to meet his. “Wet already.”
Jenkins roars, his nails digging into my forearm, then a deep, guttural whine fills the air.
I snap my head up, turning to the left.
Atlas.
He’s three feet away, hand pressed flat to the front of his pants, like he's trying to keep something contained. His gaze is focused on Jenkins’s cock.
My jaw works.
Eight years of knowing him, sharing a room, having threesomes together—I have never once heard that sound leave his body.
Most of the time, he’d rather hang out and play video games than date or fuck. Even during the threesomes, he wasn’t ever fully present. I never asked why, just figured it was because my family had broken him.
Pain detonates between my legs, and I curl forward. “Fuck!”
Jenkins's foot drives into the same place. This time, my vision whites out as everything from my navel to my knees feels like an exposed, raw nerve.
I fall sideways, clutching my cock and balls as Jenkins scoots from under me. But he doesn’t take off. Instead, he charges Atlas.
“You fucking psychotic assholes.” Jenkins throws a right hook.
Atlas slips it, catches his wrist, and yanks him forward so Jenkins stumbles past. “That your best shot? Come on, man. Give me something to work with.”
Jenkins whips around and charges. “Drop dead.”
Atlas sidesteps, hooks his ankle, and sends him face-first into the dirt. “Down you go.”
Jenkins scrambles up, spitting pine needles. “Fuck you.”
“Dude, at least buy me dinner first.”
Jenkins swings wide. Atlas ducks under it, comes up behind him, then wraps an arm around his chest, pinning Jenkins's back to his front.
He holds him there. Doesn't throw him. Doesn't hit him. Just holds him.
Jenkins thrashes, driving his elbow back into Atlas's ribs. “Let go of me, you fucking—”
“Why? This is so much fun. Don’t you like being hugged?” My best friend cinches his arms tighter.
I press my palm into the dirt and push up to one knee just as Jenkins throws his head back into Atlas's face. My best friend drops the little hockey player.
“Fuck.” Atlas shoves his hand under his mask. “Okay. Ow.”
Jenkins tackles him, and they go down. Jenkins sits on Atlas's chest, knees pinned under his armpits, both hands wrapped around my best friend’s throat.
Atlas laughs.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Jenkins squeezes harder.
“Lots of things. You got a few hours, or no?” Atlas grabs Jenkins's wrists, but he doesn't pull them off. “You squeeze like shit, by the way.”
I'm on my feet. Every step sends a sick pulse through my groin.
Jenkins turns and spots me. His eyes widen, and he moves to run. But Atlas grabs his ankle, yanking it back. Jenkins collapses onto his hands and knees, fingers clawing the dirt.
I move faster. Don’t want the little hockey player getting away again.
Luckily, my best friend must think the same because he rolls onto his knees, positioning himself behind Jenkins. Atlas reaches forward and grabs a fistful of Jenkins's dirty blond hair, wrenching the little Titan’s head back.
Jenkins huffs out a breath, his spine curving, hips pushing back.
Atlas bucks.
My feet stop, tongue pressing against the inside of my cheek.
I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth.
Didn’t think the little Titan would be our plaything for the night. Didn’t expect Atlas to pick him.
Or anyone.
But he did.
I close the distance, stopping right in front of Jenkins. His eyes flick up, mouth hanging open, fingers digging into the dirt like he’s trying to hold himself in place.
My attention shifts to Atlas. He’s white-knuckling Jenkins’s hair, his chest rising and falling too fast, too heavy.
He looks up at me, and I give a small nod.
That same deep, guttural whine drags out of him again.
I reach down, replacing his hand with mine. My fingers twist into Jenkins’s damp hair and tighten.
Jenkins growls, reaching up with one hand and placing it over mine. “Get your hands off me before I break—”
“That mouth needs to be stuffed.” I grind my hips forward, my cock pressing against his mouth, muffling whatever he was going to say.
“Oh, fuuuck .” Atlas bucks.
Jenkins pushes harder into me, whatever sound he makes vibrating through my jeans.
I grunt and grind my aching cock against his face. “Bet you want to choke on it.”
His eyelids flutter, a high-pitched squeak escaping him.
Atlas bucks again and, this time, Jenkins locks up. He makes no sound, his eyes rolling up, then his entire body shudders.
I pull back, and his mouth just hangs agape, no sound coming out.
Fuck.
He’s coming.
Untouched.
I look at Atlas. He’s gone still. Head tilted slightly, gaze locked on the back of Jenkins’s head.
“Fuck. What—” Jenkins shakes his head, his whole face twisting. “Get off—I’m not—” His voice cracks. “I’m not into guys.”
He starts kicking backward, swinging wildly with one hand.
I let go of his hair and step back. “Don’t fucking think about hitting me in the cock again.”
He spins too fast, hurling a fistful of dirt at Atlas.
“ Fuck! ” Atlas’s hands fly to his eyes. “What the— fuck —are you—”
Jenkins bolts, disappearing into the pines.
I walk over, then kneel next to Atlas.
“Fucking dirt.” He's rubbing, blinking, tears streaming down his face. “That little shit threw— fuck that stings—dirt in my fucking face .”
I grab his chin and turn his face toward me. “Can you see?”
He squints, eyes bloodshot and watering. “Yeah. Yeah, I can see. I'm going to kill him—”
“Enough.”
I check him once more, then stand. Jenkins is gone, the sound of him crashing through the brush already fading.
Doesn’t matter.
We already know where to find him.
“Run all you want, Little Titan. You're not getting away from us that easily.”