17. Weston
Let’s have drinks.
Hunter’s invites always sound simple like that. So innocuous and harmless.
What he probably should’ve said is, Let’s get you so fucked up you can’t see straight for a week, because that’s what happened. At this point, I’m wishing for nothing but the sweet release of death.
6:00 A.M. on a game day is a bad time to be hanging over so far my chin is scraping the ground. But this is the day I’m having.
After a shower that has no restorative value whatsoever, I drag my sorry ass to the kitchen and look over at the sofa in time to see Hunter spread out naked. I pick a fake orange from the bowl of fake fruit some decorator put on my counter and chuck it at him.
“Get your greasy dick off my furniture, you jackass.”
He moans and turns so that now it’s his ass touching the leather. I make a mental note to buy a new couch and burn this one. Then he sits up, holds his head in his hands, and moans again. “What the fuck did we drink?”
“Everything.”
It isn’t his fault. Well, not wholly his fault. After I saw Renee kiss Orion on the cheek, I lost my shit. Hunter was the one who coaxed me out, but I was the one who kept ordering shots. And, I’m realizing as I check my bank account, I was the one paying for them, too.
Working in finance is turning Hunter into a cheap bastard.
“I told you not to let me drink tequila,” he groans.
“Get some pants on and I’ll pour you a coffee.” I go over to my spaceship-looking coffee maker and start pressing buttons to boot it up.
He stands up and pulls on his pants with enough wobble that I’m concerned he’s going to faceplant onto the hardwood, but finally, he zips up. I’m tempted to applaud.
“Ten out of ten from the Russian judge,” I tell him.
He gives me a middle finger. “Shove ten of these up your ass. And don’t bother with that toilet water coffee maker of yours. I want the real stuff. I gotta go, anyway. I got shit going on today.” He manages to poke his head through his shirt then picks up his shoes and struggles into those.
It’s six in the morning. I can’t imagine what he has going on, but who knows with him? The man is a mystery. “You coming to the game tonight?”
He’s picked up his bag and is walking toward the door. “Nah. It’s still preseason. Call me when the games matter.”
He has a point. Preseason games aren’t much more than a practice against another team. It’s a chance for us to work out the bugs, and no one knows better than Hunter that preseason games can be tedious. Even in college, I don’t think he made it to a single one. The hockey gods rewarded his disdain with a skate blade to the knee that ended his career.
Karma on the ice is a cruel bitch.
“If you change your mind, I’ll leave a ticket at will call.”
He waves a hand behind him and closes the door. I don’t have time to wonder what the hell his problem is. I’m already late.
Thankfully, a second after I look at exactly how late I am—ten minutes if I was walking into the stadium right now, which I most definitely am not—a text comes in from Coach.
HUD: Skatearound moved back to 1.
I send back a thumbs up, then look up as Hunter comes back in the door. “I don’t know where I left my car.”
I chuckle. “Where did you see it last?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Damn. You got GPS on that thing? OnStar? Some kind of car tracking app?”
He shakes his head. “Nope, nope, and nope. Not that I know how to use, at least.”
“Damn. You pay all that money for a Maserati and can’t even keep track of it. They just don’t make high-end luxury cars the way they used to.”
“I’m driving it, not marrying it.” He frowns, purses his lips then chuckles. “Fuck. You know what, I think I lost it in a poker game.”
My eyes bug out. “Jesus, dude, are you for real?”
He’s always had a yen for gambling. Spring break sophomore year, I think he spent so much time at a craps table at the Mirage that they named it after him.
His mouth twists to one side as he shakes his head. “Actually, no. That was my watch. I left my car with the valet at the bar.”
“The bar didn’t have a valet.” His frown deepens and I laugh again. “It’s early, man. Go back to sleep. You’ll remember when you wake up.”
I walk into the bedroom, faceplant onto my mattress, and sleep the sleep of the dead for a few hours.
It’s like Groundhog Day when I wake up. Hunter is right back where he was the first time around. At least he had the decency to keep his pants on for take number two.
But something else seems out of place also.
Either I’m still a little drunk, or there’s something wrong in the house. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“I’ll figure it out later,” I mutter under my breath. Right now, I need coffee.
But when I get to my kitchen, my coffee maker is… gone. I’m talking the whole damn thing—frother, whipper, the little metal pitcher for milk—straight-up vanished into thin air. The space where it normally sits is empty.
I check the cabinets and the pantry. Maybe the housekeeper moved it and forgot to put it back? But I could swear Hunter was literally just saying he didn’t want my toilet water coffee…
And then I know.
It’s happening again.
As I look around, I see more spaces where my things ought to be. A pair of Italian loafers is no longer sitting by the door. Framed art from the bookshelf is missing. A signed puck that used to hang on the wall no longer does.
“Son of a bitch!”
Hunter bolts straight up. “What? What’s wrong?” He’s panicked and has his fists balled in front of him like he’s ready for a fight.
“I got fucking robbed.”