7. Chapter 7
Hunter
Atlas is two bike lengths ahead, finally leaning into the curves instead of muscling through them. His riding smoothed out about thirty minutes ago.
Him and those fucking edibles.
Don't know what set him off tonight. He was fine when I left earlier. But when I came back, he was sitting on the couch staring at nothing, eyes glassy with that look he gets when his head's somewhere he won't talk about.
We needed to get out.
My body's been restless all week. The dorm makes it worse. Even the couple I was supposed to fuck did nothing for me. I walked into their room, looked at them, then left.
Thought the ride would help, especially since Atlas’s eyes are better.
Except what I need is to scratch the itch that’s getting louder under my skin. Except we haven’t found someone worth putting into the ground, and I won’t become my father. I won’t kill an innocent person.
I catch up to Atlas, rev the bike, then point to my gas tank. He nods and follows me off the next exit to the nearest station. We pull up to the pumps, cutting the engines before fueling.
Atlas flips up his visor. “How come you came home early? Something happen with that couple?”
“Didn’t want to be there.”
He huffs. “Yeah no, okay .”
I stare at him. “Problem.”
“Nope.” He taps off, then screws the gas cap back on.
He’s been snapping all week. Won’t tell me what the problem is. Can’t figure it out either, which means I can’t fix it.
And I need to fix it for him.
“Stop staring at me. I'm fine.”
My jaw clenches. “You’re not.”
He shoves his visor back down, mumbling something I can’t understand. Whatever it is, I’ll get it out of him. But right now, I let it go.
Once the pump clicks, I hang the nozzle, screw the cap back on, and then start the engine.
Atlas pulls out first. I fall in behind him, and once we’re on the parkway, I accelerate past, heading north.
A BMW drifts into my lane without signaling. I cut right, keep the throttle steady, and clear him before he finishes the merge.
New York.
Too many cars. Too many drivers doing dumb shit.
Duluth rides are different. Dark roads. Empty stretches. Smoother pavement. My body settles there.
Here, it doesn’t.
We push ahead, putting distance between us and the traffic stacking up behind us. Atlas blows past me before popping a wheelie. I close the gap until we're trading the lead back and forth, engines screaming in the dark.
The sign for Rosewood Bay shows up, and I take the exit.
Atlas pulls up beside me at the light, lifting his visor. “Where are you going?”
“The harbor.”
“Why?”
The light turns green. I go without answering.
The roads leading to the harbor wind, and I lean into each turn without slowing down, tracking for cops. Last thing I need is Rosewood Bay cops on our ass. Their badges bend for the families that own this village.
Including the one the Titans’ captain comes from.
The harbor lot is half-full. I pull in, kill the engine, take off my helmet, then scan the streets. Storefronts. Parked cars. Foot traffic. Three ways out. No threats.
Atlas parks beside me, pulls off his helmet, and hooks it on the handlebars. “Why the hell are we in Rosewood Bay?”
“Don't know.”
“Hunter.”
“Said I don’t know.” I dismount, stepping into his space. “Going to tell me what’s eating at you?”
He turns away, reaching for his cap inside his vest.
I grab the back of his neck and make him face me. “Talk to me.”
“Let it go.”
“No.”
“Hunter.” He shrugs out of my grip, fits his cap on backward, then stretches his arms overhead. His shirt lifts, exposing a strip of skin above his waistband. “Since you dragged us to enemy territory, you're buying me food.”
I grunt and start walking. He falls in beside me, close enough that our arms brush.
Main Street runs uphill from the harbor. Tight sidewalks, Friday night crowd, people stepping aside when they see us coming.
I catch him swipe under his left eye. “Did you do your eyedrops?”
“Right after dinner. My eyeball’s just being a little bitch. Also, Mom called. Wants to know what we're doing for Thanksgiving.”
My stride doesn't break, but my chest tightens right behind the sternum.
“You hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“So, are we going home, or no?”
Thanksgiving is two months from now. I don’t think that far.
But Atlas is looking at me, waiting, and the tightness in my chest is spreading into my shoulders.
I nod.
“Cool. She's putting you on potato duty again.” He bumps my shoulder. “You know she only asks you because she wants you in the kitchen with her.”
The tightness spreads up into my throat. Last Thanksgiving, Mrs. Trembley put her hand on my face and told me I looked tired. She gave me a place to stay when I needed one and never asked me to leave.
Nobody told her to do that. Nobody asked her to care.
But if she knew what's been pacing under my skin all week, she wouldn't want me near her family.
“Hunter?”
“Mashed potatoes are fine.”
Atlas grins and picks up his pace. “Yes! Ralph's is open.”
He's at the window before I catch up, already scanning the board, bouncing on his feet as one of the workers comes over to take his order. “Birthday Cake. Large.”
I step up beside him. “Chocolate Graham Marshmallow. Medium.”
He chuckles. “Dude, really?”
“I like marshmallows. Get over it.”
Atlas smiles at the girl behind the counter as he hands her his credit card. “Can you believe this guy broke my nose once for touching his secret stash of marshmallows?”
She looks from him to me, then to the credit card machine.
I punch him in the shoulder. “Fucking dumbass.”
He grabs our Italian ices, laughing, and has the spoon in his mouth before we make it to the side counter.
“. . . and then this kid bumps into him and . . .” He scoops another bite.
“. . . Shaw just stares at the guy, flipping his knife, smiling, and the kid's tray is shaking.” Another bite. “And Cap dragged him away by the hair.”
“The hell are you going on about?”
He waves the spoon around in the air. “What you missed at the food court because you had plans .”
“What else happened?”
He shoves another spoonful into his mouth. “Nothing much.”
“Then why’d you take an edible? No one walked you back to the dorm?”
He glares at me. “Rua did, asshole.”
I take a bite of my ice.
Asshole.
He’s mad at me for something.
Atlas shoves too large a scoop into his mouth, and melted yellow ice collects at the corners. There’s already some on his shirt.
Such a mess.
I reach over and swipe it with my thumb, then go back to my ice.
Atlas sputters, coughing around whatever’s in his mouth, stepping back slightly.
My brows furrow. “You good?”
He takes a napkin, wiping his face. “Yeah.”
I step closer. “Tell me what I did.”
“What? Nothing.” He shakes his head, shoving more Birthday Cake ice into his mouth. “It’s not you.”
“Atlas.”
“I said it’s not you.” He sighs, shoulders slumping. “Drop it, okay?”
“Not happening.”
He looks over my shoulder, eyes going wide, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Well, holy fucking shit. Look who it is.”
I turn, following his sightline.
Jenkins.
He’s outside a grille two storefronts away, standing with a group at one of the patio tables, laughing.
My eyes narrow on the guy whose hand is resting on his shoulder.
“I want to kick his ass.” Atlas’s voice comes out rougher than normal.
I look at him.
Atlas isn’t angry. Not fully. His expression is the same as when he’s about to fight Jenkins on the ice.
I toss my cup into the garbage. “Let’s go.”
Atlas whips his head toward me. “Are you fucking kidding me? He’s right there.”
“With friends. We’ll wait.”
“Little shit is the reason my eyeballs got scratched. He got me sentenced to drops four times a day, and I’m supposed to wait?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’s ours?”
I nod.
He drags in a breath, then dumps the rest of his ice, smirking.
Atlas just threw out food. He never throws out food. Last week, he ate cold pizza off the dashboard. And that smirk . . . it came too fast.
He’s into Jenkins.
A low heat rolls through my chest, spreading to my groin. “The bikes. He has to leave eventually.”
We pass the grille without stopping. Jenkins doesn't look up. He's facing his friends and that guy’s hand is still on his shoulder.
Back in the lot, I pull on my helmet. The restlessness from the week eases, just enough for something else to take its place. I swing my leg over the bike, then adjust myself.
Fuck.
My cock is half-hard.
Atlas looks at me, nods, then starts his bike.
Jenkins walks out of the grille ten minutes later, alone, hands in his pockets. When he makes a right at the corner, we pull out of the lot and drive up beside him.
I rev my engine. Atlas does the same.
Jenkins jumps. “What the hell!”
I do it again.
“What’s your problem, asshole?” Jenkins gives me the finger, then keeps walking.
We follow, continuing to rev the bikes.
He picks up his pace.
Atlas jumps the curb onto the sidewalk, revving behind Jenkins while I stay on the road.
Jenkins whips around, gaze flicking between us before his eyes widen. “Oh, fuck!”
Finally figured out we’re the same guys from last weekend, Little Titan?
He turns and runs.
My lips curl up as I hold out my hand, signaling Atlas to hang back. He drives the bike back onto the road while I keep my eyes on Jenkins.
A block and a half up, the Titan lunges into a black Range Rover. The brake lights flash and then he peels out of the parking spot, blowing through the stop sign.
I point right, letting Atlas know which way to go. Once on the side street, I open the throttle.
The little Titan can run all he wants. We know where he’s going.
And we’ll be waiting.