20. Chapter 20
Atlas
The problem with Hunter is that he hides shit in boring places.
Not under the mattress. Not taped behind a drawer.
Not inside the hollowed-out spine of some creepy survival manual like a serial killer with a library card.
No. That would be too obvious, considering the man once watched an entire three-part documentary on pantry organization and called it “useful.”
His marshmallows are probably somewhere deeply stupid. Already checked the nightstand, under the bed, his sock drawer.
Nothing.
I pull open the bottom drawer of his dresser and stare at folded compression shirts stacked so neatly it’s offensive. “Jesus, Hunt. It’s fabric, not evidence.”
A bark comes from behind me.
I look over my shoulder. “Get off his bed. I'm serious. We’re not supposed to be in here.”
Mr. Smooshy rolls onto his back, tongue flopping out the side of his mouth, all four legs in the air. His tail whips against Hunter's pillow hard enough to send it halfway off the bed.
“No. Don’t wag at me like this is negotiable.”
He flops onto his side.
I scowl at him. “Did you not hear what I just said?”
He snorts.
“Okay, yeah, that’s fair. Listening is more of a Hunter thing.”
I check his desk, under the bed, even the nightstand.
Nothing.
“Your new friend is selfish.”
Mr. Smooshy sneezes.
“Exactly.”
I open the closet and riffle through his annoyingly organized hoodies, grumbling because where the fuck did he hide these things?
Then I see it. The top shelf of his closet, behind a folded towel that has no reason to be folded so perfectly.
I stretch up, shove the towel aside, and grin. “Jackpot.”
The bag of marshmallows is unopened, which means this is either a backup stash or Hunter is losing his edge. I’m going with backup stash because the day Hunter Kincaid loses his edge is the day I start voluntarily rinsing toothpaste out of the sink.
I hold up the bag. “Come on. You’re going to love these.”
The dog launches off the bed and barrels past me, nearly taking out my knees. I look back at Hunter's mattress. “You've got to be kidding me.”
The comforter is a mess, the pillow on the floor. And the fur.
So much fur.
“Oh, no. Absolutely not.” I shove the marshmallows under my arm, strip the blanket off, then shake it out. “You trying to get us killed?”
I remake the bed. Corners tucked tight. Pillow centered. The comforter smoothed flat without a single wrinkle.
Perfect. Better than perfect. I should hire myself out for housekeeping because apparently, I'm capable of this when the stakes involve keeping my best friend from strangling me.
Closing the door, I step out into the common area and point toward my room. “Move it before he sees you.”
Mr. Smooshy trots into my room and jumps on the bed.
Damn, this place looks like there was a war between a laundromat and a snack machine. I should really clean it this weekend.
After closing my door, I make my way to the bed, then shove the pit bull to the side because he’s taken up two-thirds of the mattress, looking at me like he lives here and I'm the guest.
I tear open the marshmallow bag and toss one into the air. He catches it, then stares at me, tail thumping.
“Did you even chew that?” I pop one into my mouth, then offer him another. He inhales it, then pokes the bag with his nose. “You’re like a marshmallow vacuum cleaner.”
He better not choke, or I’ll never hear the end of it.
“What is your name anyway?” The bright yellow collar covered in tiny blueberries has no tag, no phone number, no name.
I blow out a breath.
How the fuck would anyone know where to return Mr. Smooshy if he ever got lost? Jenkins would lose his shit. “Looks like we might have to stop at the pet store and get you a tag.”
I shove another marshmallow into my mouth, grab my laptop from the nightstand, prop it on my thighs, then open it. Dr. Kapoor's communications paper is due Friday, and I haven't started it.
But how the hell am I supposed to focus when Hunter won’t give me a reason for why he passed me off to my teammates after the UConn game instead of walking with me himself? Had someone walk me back from class a few times this week too.
And that little shit Jenkins still hasn’t unblocked us.
“Ugh, I just want my best friend to come home and sit next to me. Is that too much to ask for, Mr. Smooshy?”
The dog wiggles closer until his whole body is pressed against my side like he’s trying to become part of my ribs. He shoves his head under my arm, and I automatically lift it so he can wedge himself closer.
He huffs.
“You were sleeping with Jenkins just like this when I first met you, weren’t you?”
They looked stupidly comfortable together. Hated disturbing them for about half a second, then Jenkins started having that wet dream. And yeah, sorry, that’s seared into my brain forever.
“Okay, let’s get this assignment done. No more procrastinating.”
Who am I even kidding?
I’ve been procrastinating since elementary school. Drove my family up the wall. Everyone was relieved when Hunter moved in and took over, keeping me on task. Except he hasn’t checked in once this week. He’s been too distracted and won’t tell me what’s going on.
Whatever.
It’s my degree anyway.
I type a thesis sentence. It's bad. I type another one underneath it.
Worse.
On the third try, something clunky but usable comes out, and I keep going because bad words on a page are better than no words.
“You want to do this for me?”
Mr. Smooshy licks my chin.
“Terrible answer. You’re cute, but academically useless.”
He licks my face again, more aggressively this time, and I laugh, shoving him back. “Okay, okay. At least someone wants me around.”
Halfway through the assignment, the door to our room opens, then closes.
“Got pizza,” Hunter says.
I spring up, pushing the laptop aside. “What kind?”
“Pepperoni and sausage.”
“Did you get one with the hot honey?”
“No.”
“Hunter. Hot honey is the whole point. It's the reason pizza exists. Without hot honey, it's just bread with stuff on it. You know this. We've had this conversation.”
“Put honey on it yourself.”
“That's not—okay, you know what, I'm not having this argument again because I will win and you will grunt and nothing will change.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and look at Mr. Smooshy. “Wait here. And do not make a sound.”
Of course, he whines.
“No.”
Another whine.
I get to the door, turn, and hold out my hand, palm facing forward. “Stay.”
He stands.
“Terrible. We’ll work on it.”
I slip out of my room and close the door behind me.
Mr. Smooshy whines again, louder this time.
My grip on the doorknob stalls.
Why does he have to sound like I’m abandoning him?
“Someone here?” Hunter is standing by the common area table with a pizza box in one hand and a two-liter of Pepsi tucked under his arm. His eyes move from me to my hand on the doorknob.
“Nope.” I walk over and take the pizza box from him without looking at his face. “Just me. All by myself. Like I have been the past couple days.”
The smell of garlic, cheese, sausage, and pepperoni hit my nose. My stomach growls because, apparently, emotional damage still respects pizza.
Hunter doesn’t move.
I set the box on the coffee table. “So, is this a peace offering, or did you just remember I’m less annoying when fed?”
His gaze finally leaves my door and settles on me. “Just pizza.”
“Cool. Great.” I flip the box open and grab a slice and take a bite so big sauce gathers at the corners of my mouth.
“Because you've been shutting me out since the game.
And you've sent Rua or Cap to walk me back to the dorm four times this week.
Four, Hunt. Like I'm a fucking FedEx package you keep rerouting.” My voice cracks around the last word, which pisses me off even more.
His jaw clenches. “Had stuff to do.”
“ Obviously. ”
“Atlas.”
“Let's just eat.” I take another bite and chew with my mouth open because I'm already annoyed, and my table manners are the first thing to go. “I'm hungry. I'm not letting you ruin pizza for me.”
“Be right back.” He walks into his room and closes the door.
“The fuck!” I toss the half-eaten slice into the box, walk to his door, then shove it open so hard it hits the wall and rebounds back. “This is the shit I’m talking about. You never close doors except the few times you bring someone home to fuck.”
His head whips around to face me, lips pressed into a thin line, then he tucks his phone into his pocket.
I blink.
Then blink again.
My shoulders drop, chest hollowing out. “Oh. Is that what this is? You're talking to someone?”
“No.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Yeah no, it’s okay.”
He grabs my arm, squeezing hard. “There’s no one else. Just Jenkins.”
I flinch.
Not you and Jenkins. Just Jenkins.
“Look at me.” He grips my chin, lifting it. “You are mine.”
“Don’t say shit like that.”
His left eye twitches, and he’s quiet for a moment before stepping back, tucking both hands into his pockets. “If you want to stop things with him then—”
“No.” I blow out a breath, raking a hand through my hair. “I like him.”
Hunter’s dark eyes widen the smallest amount. On anyone else, it would be nothing. On Hunter, it’s a car crash. “Then nothing changes.”
“Yeah no, something has.” My voice is low enough that it doesn't even sound like me.
A bark cuts through the dorm.
Oh, no.
Hunter’s head turns toward the wall, then slowly back to me. “What did you do?”
“Me?” I point at my chest. “Nothing.”
Another bark.
Louder.
“It's a video I was watching. You know how I get when I do homework by myself. I procrastinate. It's a whole thing.”
Hunter steps closer until his chest is almost against mine, eyes narrowed and darker. “Atlas.”
A third bark.
He growls and stalks past me toward my room.
“Hunt, just—Can we talk about the pizza situation first because I really do think hot honey is—”
He opens my door.
Mr. Smooshy stands in the middle of my bed with the marshmallow bag clamped in his mouth.
Hunter turns around. Slowly.
I rub the back of my neck. “So, funny story.”
“Atlas.”
I hold up my hands. “Jenkins blocked us. You weren’t doing anything about it, and I was lonely, and I just meant to go see if he was home. But Mr. Smooshy was looking out the window, all sad and alone. Like, tragically alone. Pixar opening scene alone. I figured we could have a playdate.”
Hunter’s nostrils flare.
Mr. Smooshy decides now is the time to shake the bag, and marshmallows fly everywhere.
“ Atlas! ”
I take off running, but only make it two steps past the couch before his arm hooks around my waist, and he slams me to the floor.
He locks an arm around my neck. “Off-limits. How many fucking times—”
“He was hungry.”
“He’s a dog.”
“He’s a guest.”
“He’s stolen.”
“Borrowed.”
Hunter tightens the headlock. “You kidnapped his dog.”
“I left a note.”
He doesn’t let up, so I sink my teeth into his forearm because when you're outweighed by thirty pounds, you fight dirty.
“Fuck.” He jerks but doesn’t let go. “Only five-year-olds bite.”
“Stop choking me, and I'll stop biting.” I hook my leg around him and try to flip his body, but he doesn't budge.
His elbow catches my ribs. I punch his side. He grunts. I laugh because I can’t help it, because this is us.
Then the smell hits.
We both stop and look up.
Mr. Smooshy stands at the edge of the couch, tail wagging, head tilted, looking very pleased with himself.
“Oh, my god .” My eyes water, and not from emotions. “What just came out of your body? Oh my god, that is— Holy shit .”
Hunter rolls off me, coughing, pulling his shirt over his nose. “What did you feed him?”
“Well, we stopped at Starbucks on the way back.” I sit up and gag and wave my hand in front of my face. “Did you know they give dogs whipped cream in little cups? He was very excited about it.”
“Atlas.”
“And then marshmallows. But only a couple.”
Hunter stares at me over his shirt.
“Like twelve. Okay, maybe more. It's not my fault they're delicious, and his face is very persuasive.”
When the smell finally goes away, Hunter grabs a slice of pizza, his thigh pressed against mine. Before he even takes a bite, Mr. Smooshy plants his giant ass in front of him, eyes locked on the food. Hunter sits taller. “No.”
The dog grumbles and flops onto the floor.
I snort, shaking my head as I dig out the remote from between the cushions, flip to the Food Network, and settle in. Cooking shows aren't my thing, but Hunter relaxes when he watches them. I'd sit through twelve hours of someone chopping carrots if it meant he stayed like this.
Just as I reach for my half-eaten slice from earlier, there’s a loud bang at the door. Not a knock. A bang, hard enough to rattle the frame.
Hunter is on his feet, positioning himself between me and the door. “Get in your room. Take the dog.”
My mouth goes dry, heart hammering in my chest as I get to my feet. “Hunt?”
“Go.”
“No, I’m not leaving you.”
Bang!
“You psycho pieces of shit! Give me back my dog!”
Bang!
I turn to Mr. Smooshy, my lips curling up into a smirk. “Uh, oh. Daddy’s here.”