13. Chapter 13
Hunter
Picking a major assumes I give a shit about later. I don’t. But the advisor kept talking anyway. Could’ve been working on my paper. Studying. Doing something useful. Instead, I sat through forty minutes of useless shit. I roll my neck and shove open the door.
Atlas is on the couch, mid-match, his thumbs hammering the controller. “Flanking left, flanking left, oh, you piece of—” His character dies. “Bullshit.”
I toss the bag of tacos onto the coffee table, grab the second controller off the mini fridge, then drop down next to him. The cushion dips, and his arm brushes mine.
“Oh, fuck yes.” He pauses the game, rips open the bag, pulls out a taco, and takes a bite so big that half the filling lands in his lap. He wipes his hand down the front of his sweatshirt. “Dude, sign on. Hurry up.”
I grunt and pick up my controller. “Better wash that thing.”
He looks down at the streak. “Well, yeah. It’s dirty now.”
“You've been wearing it three days straight. It’s been dirty.”
“How many times do we have to go over this? I wear a shirt underneath. Do you wash your jacket every time you wear it?” He hits the start button on the controller. “Bet I get more kills than you.”
“What do I get when I win?”
“I’ll clean the bathroom.”
I breathe out hard through my nose. It’ll never happen. Just like I ended up cleaning the truck because he kept pushing it off.
The lobby loads, and we drop into a match. I sink deeper into the couch, knees falling open. A few minutes in, some of the tension in my body eases even with Atlas talking the whole time.
“Behind you, behind you—Oh, I got him. Did you see that? That was nasty.”
I take out two enemies crossing a doorway.
Atlas whistles. “See, that's what I'm talking about. We're disgusting together.”
He calls out an enemy on the left. But there’s another on his right. His character dies. “Oh, come on!”
I grab a taco and finish it in four bites. Then a second one. The ache in the left side of my jaw flares when I chew, so I massage near the joint.
Atlas glances at me. “Oh, my god. You're such a baby. You don't see me bitching about my lip.” He sticks out his lower lip to show the scab. “Actually, no. He should've come after me. That's our thing. Not you and him. Me.”
I smack him upside the head.
“Ow.” He rubs the spot. “I'm just saying. Surprised you didn't clock him for hacking you in the legs with that stick.”
I shift on the couch, the bruise across the backs of my thighs throbbing. It was deep purple when I checked it this morning. Jenkins put weight behind that hit.
When I spun around, he was standing there, glowering. No shirt. Blood trickling from his eyebrow. Spit at the corner of his mouth every time he sucked in air.
We were the reason he was worked up. He didn’t need me to crush his eye socket. He needed to calm the fuck down.
So, I dropped my arm.
I grab another taco and take a bite. “He likes being restrained.”
Atlas starts coughing and pounding on his chest. Then he turns to me with watering eyes. “What? How do you know that?”
“His pupils dilated when I pinned his wrists.” I finish off the taco, crumple the wrapper, then toss it into the bag. “His neck flushed too.”
Atlas clears his throat, takes a swig from his can of pop, then goes back to playing. He doesn’t say anything for a full thirty seconds. But I catch it when he adjusts himself.
“What map we playing next?”
He shrugs.
I chuckle low. “Cat got your tongue?”
He bumps his whole body into mine. “Fuck off.”
Going to miss this.
I shove down the thought. Still got time before we’re in two different cities, playing for two different teams.
“How'd the meeting go with your advisor?”
“Fine.”
He snorts. “Yeah no, okay. Did you pick a major?”
“No.”
“Hunter.”
“I said no.”
He sighs and kills two enemies on screen. “You need to declare something even if you're going to Carolina after graduation.”
“Stop.”
He pauses the game and turns toward me. “Or do you want to go now? You could. They'd take you tomorrow. You're not staying here for me, right?”
“Atlas.”
“Hunt, if you're staying because of me, that's—”
“Stop.” I set the controller down and press my palms flat against my thighs. “The NHL isn't for another two years.”
“Less.” Atlas sighs. “Wish you could've been drafted to Philly with me.”
My knee starts bouncing, breaths becoming shallow. My fingers trace the puckered skin under the tattoo sleeve on my forearm. The ridges catch under my fingernail. I drag along the longer one.
“Hunt?”
“I'm good.”
Atlas puts his controller down and places his hand on mine, stilling my fingers. “It's been a few months. Maybe I should tell Cap he needs to set something up now.”
Last hunt was back in May. Reyes walked in on some guy trying to rape a girl at a frat party. We ended the prick later that night. But the itch under my skin has been getting worse since midsummer. Not sure what set it off.
Jenkins has calmed it. For now.
But it’s that goddamn sticker that’s currently eating at me.
My nails dig into my scarred skin. I've checked every lot on campus three times. The Grove, the student center, the athletic complex. The Prius isn't there.
It could be in the faculty lot or belong to someone from the U.P. who was visiting.
My knee bounces faster.
Atlas squeezes my hand again. “What's going on?”
“Saw a car in the lot with a 906 sticker.”
Atlas rips his hand away. The color leaves his cheeks first, then his neck. His eyes widen, and his mouth opens.
I pull him against me. His body is rigid, then his forehead drops against my shoulder. I press my hand flat against the back of his head and hold him. “Won't let anyone get to you again.”
He grips the front of my shirt, his breathing shallow and fast against my collarbone.
Atlas is the reason I'm at this school. The reason I get up in the morning. Keeping him safe is the only thing that matters.
I hold him until his breathing steadies, then I ease back. “Could be nothing. Probably is. I've been checking, and the car's not there anymore.”
He nods, his hands still fisted in my shirt.
“You finish that presentation yet?”
Atlas snorts, but his voice is low. “You going to call Mom if I didn't?”
“Maybe.” I run my fingers through his brown hair when he rests his head on my shoulder. “Need a gummy?”
Therapy didn’t help him. Or me. But the gummies do.
He shrugs.
“Atlas.”
“Nah, I'm okay.”
Someone pounds on our door. “You two shitheads open up.”
Rua.
The pounding gets louder. “Open up, open up, open up!”
I grunt. “He’s making a real case to be the next person I chase through the woods who doesn’t come out.”
Atlas chuckles, but it’s low, barely there. He lifts his head off my shoulder and wipes his eyes.
I get up, stomping toward the door, then hurl it open. “What?”
Rua is bent over, wheezing, tears running down his face.
Shin is leaning against the wall beside him, scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t bother to look up. “Jenkins smashed the windshield of your truck.”
My grip tightens on the doorframe, muscles in my neck cording.
Atlas appears beside me. “How does he even know which truck is ours?”
Rua straightens, taking a second to catch his breath. “Shaw told him. Jenkins was heading over to the Charger. Lucky for Jenkins. You know how territorial Shaw is when it comes to Reyes. It would’ve been a bloodbath.”
I cross my arms. “And you just watched.”
Rua waggles his brows. “No. I recorded it.”
Atlas shoves past me. “You're both fucking assholes.”
Shin rolls his eyes, tucking his phone into his pocket. “He had a bat.”
A growl rumbles up my throat as I stalk to my room to grab my helmet and keys. I spent two days cleaning the damn truck. Waxing it too. I step back out and glare at Atlas. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To teach our Little Titan a lesson.”
I pull out my phone and open the tracking app as Atlas goes to grab his gear.
Found you.
Rua quirks a brow. “Yours? Oh, that’s interesting.”
He’d better leave it alone.
Shin picks at a fingernail. “I had better things to do today than drive to Crestwood to cover your asses.”
“He's not there.”
Atlas comes back into the common area with his helmet. “Then how the hell are we supposed to find him?”
“I put a GPS tracker on the Range Rover.”
Atlas stares at me for three full seconds, jaw slack, helmet dangling from his hand. “Wait, is that where you went the other day?”
I nod, pushing past my two teammates before they say something stupid and I break someone’s nose for it.
Jenkins can break every window on that truck. Can hit me all he wants. Won't change a goddamn thing.
Time to remind him who he belongs to.