15. Chapter 15
Atlas
The kid at the counter won't stop staring at me. He's maybe seven, drowning in an oversized Serpents’ sweatshirt, and he's been doing that thing where he looks away every time I glance his way, and then immediately looks back.
I point at him with my burger. “Yo.”
His eyes bulge. He waves so hard his whole body moves with it.
I wave back, burger in hand. “You play hockey?”
He nods fast enough to give himself whiplash.
“I’m Trembley.” I tap my chest. “Number four.”
His dad mouths sorry and steers him toward a table. The kid is still looking at me over his shoulder, a grin plastered on his face.
“You just made that kid's whole year.” Rua reaches across the booth and swipes his thumb across the corner of my mouth. “Also, you have ranch on your face.”
I swat his hand away. “Dude, I had it.”
“You didn't. There’s ranch on your chin too.” The bastard’s gaze even goes to my tousled light brown hair, as if I somehow also managed to get ranch up there. “You eat like a feral toddler.”
I huff and glance at my phone on the table.
“Anything?” Rua nods at it, pulling a wing apart with his teeth.
“Not yet.” I take a swig of my pop. “They’ll find him.”
Rua tosses a clean bone onto the pile. “Worst case, Shaw's sitting on a roof somewhere trying to stab pigeons.”
My knee bounces under the table. Shaw disappeared a few hours ago. Left the dorm without telling Cap where he was going. Even turned off his phone. Hunter went to help find him before Shaw does something that’ll get him locked up again.
Rua grabs a napkin and wipes his mouth. “Between Shaw and me, Reyes deserves hazard pay. Can’t be easy being our roommate.”
“You mean your babysitter.”
“Blah. Blah.”
The waitress comes back to our table. “You two need anything else? More water? Wings?”
Rua smiles, pointing at me. “This one needs a bib. Got one in the back?”
She chuckles, cheeks turning red.
I roll my eyes. “Dude, my shirt is clean. I didn’t drop anything on it.”
“For once.”
I turn back to the waitress. “Can I order a new friend?”
She shakes her head. “Well, let me know if you need anything. I’m going to go check my other tables.”
The waitress leaves, and Rua goes back to his wings. “Shaw's probably fine. He just needs to blow off steam. Same as the rest of them.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, Calix has been twitchy for weeks. And Kincaid—” He points a wing bone at me. “When's the last time your boy got to stretch his legs?”
“He's been okay.”
“Okay or managed?”
I pick at my straw wrapper. “Managed. But yeah, we need to hunt soon. Don't want to push it too long.”
Last time Hunter went too long without an outlet was senior year of high school. He'd hooked up with some kid, and one of the football players found out. Cornered the kid in the hallway and called him every slur in the book.
Real original stuff.
But the football player never touched the kid.
Didn't matter. My best friend put the football player through a locker door, then kept going. I had to put him in a headlock and physically drag him backward, and still, it almost wasn't enough because once Hunter crosses that line, nothing gets through.
Not even me.
South Shore University is where I learned just how deep Hunter’s darkness really goes. And mine, honestly. Turns out some of my teammates are wired the same way. And there was already a system in place for guys like us.
No one knows who started the hunts or how far back they go. And we don’t really care.
Rua sucks the sauce off his thumb. “Shin's got eyes on someone. He’s been following him for a couple of weeks.”
“Thought it was above him to go scouting.”
“I’m just happy I don’t have to do it. Anyway, the guy supposedly runs a massage parlor that doesn't do a whole lot of massaging. The girls working there didn't exactly fill out job applications, if you know what I mean.”
My hand flexes around my glass.
His head tilts. “Looks like you need to play live whack-a-mole too.”
“I’m not like them.”
“Mhm.” He tosses a pickle fry into his mouth, grinning as he chews.
I take too large a bite of my burger, glaring at him. I’m not exactly like Hunter. For him, the itch is constant, pacing under his skin until he kills someone. Then it quiets for a bit.
For me, it’s certain triggers—particular crimes—that set me off.
“I think you guys need to broaden your horizons.
There's a whole buffet of shitty people out there, but you're stuck on the same menu.” Rua takes a few gulps of water, then sets his glass down a little too hard.
“My nana wrote a check to donate to the fire department two weeks ago. Someone got hold of it. Ran a whole fraud scheme off her account. Five grand gone before she caught it.”
I swallow the chunk of burger I’ve been chewing. “Shit. She okay?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “We got the money back, but that prick’s out there still.”
“She coming to any games this year, or no?” I toss a fry into my mouth.
“Maybe.” He pushes the wing basket to the edge of the table and sits back. His nose crinkles as the smirk spreads. “So. How's Jenkins?”
The fry goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough, pounding my chest.
“That good, huh? I'm assuming since nobody got a group text asking for a cleanup, he's still alive.”
I clear my throat. “Yup.”
“Surprised. Especially since he went after Kincaid.” Rua shakes his head, leaning back and draping his arm across the top of the booth.
“He came at me too.”
Rua waves me off. “That’s been going on since last year.”
“Well, fuck you then.” This time, I toss a few fries into my mouth. “Nobody seems to care he busted my lip open.”
“Aww, poor baby. But, again, you two go at one another every game.” He waggles his brows. “Kinda reminds me of Killian and Jackson.”
I snort. “Yeah, no. I don’t get turned on by getting my ass kicked.”
Except that’s not totally true. There’s something about Jenkins when he’s furious and bleeding and looking at me like he wants to kill me.
Rua watches some preppy-looking guy laugh as he strolls by. “Think he’ll let me choke him as I ride his dick?”
“Jesus, fuck.”
He laughs. “Anyway, back to your Titan problem. Kincaid put me through the sheetrock for trying to give him a lap dance. My ass was on his lap for four seconds. So, you’re telling me Neander-monster just let Jenkins go?”
I shove the rest of the burger in my mouth and chew.
“Oh, shit! What happened?”
“Nothin’.”
“Swallow before talking. I’m so not into giving the Heimlich.”
I finish chewing, then swallow. “It’s none of your concern.”
That wicked grin of his shows up. He steeples his fingers and drums them, brow quirked. “Spill it, or I’ll tell Calix.”
Fucking hell.
“Hunter’s locked in. Doesn’t want to kill him. And somehow, focusing on Jenkins is keeping him level. For now, at least. And I’m not complaining.”
For more than one reason. But Rua doesn’t have to know all of it.
“Kincaid must be a blast to play Fuck, Marry, or Kill with.”
I chuckle. “To him, everyone’s kill.”
“Except for you.”
I stare at him, leaning in. “What about the time I ate his stash of marshmallows freshman year? Blackwell almost called the cops. My eye was swollen shut for days.”
We both laugh. And it feels good.
I lean against the wall, lifting my right leg onto the seat just as the preppy guy walks past again. “When's your next work gig?”
Gig.
Because what else do you call a sex party?
“There’s one Thanksgiving weekend and another right after Christmas. The tips are the highest of the year.” He sighs dramatically. “Last year I got fucked though because I had to help certain people with a certain situation.”
I snort and take a swig of my pop.
Rua throws a pickle fry at me. “Not all of us are about to collect NHL paychecks.”
“Don't remind me.”
“Oh, right. Because going pro is every hockey player's worst nightmare. How do you cope?”
My left knee starts bouncing again. “I mean, the NHL isn't the problem.
Who doesn't want to play professional hockey? That's the dream I’ve been working toward since I was like eight.” I'm talking faster now, but I can't stop.
“It's just . . . logistics. You know? Like, the logistics of it are—I mean, Philly and Carolina aren't exactly next door.”
“I know you both went through some shit together. But are you two physically capable of being in different cities, or will one of you just stop functioning without the other?”
My jaw clenches.
Some shit?
“We almost died together when we were fifteen. That's not just ‘some shit,’ Raiyne.” I drop my right leg back to the floor, sit forward, then pick at my napkin. “What happens if he loses it? I'm supposed to just be living my dream while he's rotting in a cell because I wasn't there to stop him?”
My phone chimes.
Hunter: On my way back
Me: Everything good?
Hunter: Reyes is taking care of it
Me: Shaw okay?
Hunter: Mostly
My thumb hovers over the screen. I already know he’s tired of me asking, but whatever.
Me: Heard from Jenkins?
Hunter: No
Me: Give me his number
Hunter: No
My nose scrunches, and I growl. The asshole refuses to give me Jenkins’s number because he insists I’m going to start shit. Which, okay, maybe. But I also want to check on Mr. Smooshy. That dog loves me. We have chemistry.
Hunter claims I’ll send a dick pic.
I grin.
Jenkins would lose his shit if I did that. Then again, how long would he blow up my phone for?
Of course, Hunter's running this like a Call of Duty loadout. No improv. No freelancing.
It’s so fucking annoying.
My thumb traces the edge of the phone case. Jenkins probably hates us. He should. But he kissed me back. Nobody made him do that.
And Hunter.
I saw him looking at me, stroking. Saw the huff of breath and the way his hips snapped harder.
The back of my throat goes dry.
In eight years of friendship, and two threesomes, he's never reacted to me like that.
“Ohhh, this got more interesting.” Rua is leaning over the table, reading my texts.
I lock the screen and put my phone face down on the table. “Mind your own business.”
He sits back, but the smile that’s been on his face all night is gone. “Be careful. He’s not like the others.”
“The others?”
He nods. “Let’s just say Knight, Novotny, and Walsh are more like us than you think. But Jenkins isn’t part of their group.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “And?”
Rua taps a finger on the table, eyes locked with mine. “We don’t come from rich families. Not like the ones in Crestwood. Jenkins finds out about what you and Kincaid—what we do—then all of us go to jail.”
He’s right.
My thumb runs over the scar along my palm to the Patrick Star tattoo on the inside of my wrist.
Jenkins might have kissed me back, but he’s not like us. And if he finds out what I’ve done, what I am . . . I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing my eyes.
I killed Hunter’s father to keep him safe. Bashed his skull in with a rock.
“Atlas?”
My eyes open, and I sit taller, jaw set. “Jenkins won't be a problem. Hunter comes first. Always has. No one threatens that.”