24. TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FOUR
Now that I understand where this silent rage is being placed, I slump into the leather seat.
It’s been a long time since anyone has cared about my well-being like Hunter appears to. Not that he didn’t give off those vibes last time we were together, but it’s more now.
I’m scared to admit that it feels good.
The urge to drop my guard entirely is stronger, too.
Maybe his disheveled appearance or the bags under his eyes make me believe he was genuinely worried about me.
The guy came here with the stuff he bought me, determined to pull me back off the street.
Having hope is a fickle thing, a delusion, even.
That deceptive ideology is damn near addictive in the way that it fills you up with seductive anticipation, joy, and even pleasure.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t falling into temptation.
Someone actually gives a fuck about me, and I’m losing the battle against it’s pull.
I want to ask what made him snap. Why now, when I’ve been gone for two and a half weeks?
People say the universe only gives you as much as you can handle, so maybe that’s why. I almost snort at the ridiculous idea that some mystical, invisible overlord decided to cut me a break tonight.
I doubt it has anything to do with this. I think it’s just Hunter.
“You never answered me before,” he says while flicking the turn signal, “are you hungry?”
“I could eat.” Up until now, I hadn’t even registered my hunger.
“We’ll pick something up.”
“Where are we going?” Unlike last time, I’m not panicked about leaving town.
I don’t like to admit things that might make me appear weak or vulnerable.
Relying on Hunter to do more for me is just fucking stupid, but there’s a rapidly growing part of me that wants to see everything he wants to show me.
Maybe I’m finally accepting I’m not wanted anywhere else but inside this car.
“I booked us a room—locally,” he adds quickly. “Is that alright?”
I nod, only slightly disappointed. “That’s fine.” But then it registers what he said. “Us?” My head pivots, a soft flutter forming in my stomach.
“I finished the movie, you know,” he says, ignoring my question. Hazel eyes find mine when we come to a red light. “He pays her for her time, not her body. It’s only after they share a connection and mutual respect that sex comes into the picture.”
“Um…”
“Edward didn’t like the idea of something bad happening to Vivian when he could prevent it.”
“Okay,” I draw out the word. “You lost me.”
“My point is, you mentioned before that what we are doing isn’t what they did in the movie. And I agree. I don’t want to pay you, Gray. I want to help you get on your feet and make your own way. You don’t need a sugar daddy.”
The urge to blurt out that I have a felony is strong, but that might be a deal breaker, so I keep it to myself. “So we are going to share a hotel room because you ‘aren’t my sugar daddy’?” I use air quotes.
“Correct. I’m your friend.”
My eyes narrow into slits.
Friend.
Somehow, that feels far more intimidating than a would-be-lover.
After picking up some food at the Italian place we got that first night and reaching the even fancier hotel, I couldn’t stop the question in my head.
Do you have any friends?
From the way he’s given me little peeks into his life, I doubt Hunter has many, if at all. I have…acquaintances. I know people decent enough not to backstab me, but I wouldn’t call them my friends.
Tammy certainly isn’t my friend.
One Tooth Ray is even farther from that category.
I take my time in the luxurious shower, the fixtures so shiny I can see my warped reflection.
The unease I felt the first time Hunter paid for a night in a hotel is gone.
I don’t have the fear that he’ll try something or fuck with me.
But I do wonder why he wants to be so close.
I brush my teeth, scrubbing the pasta sauce and garlic from them, then I get dressed.
The clothes I left behind are clean. It’s obvious Hunter really thought this all out, down to picking up my pain pills from the pharmacy.
I popped one as soon as I had food in my guts.
Loosened up by the Norcos and full, I go to open the door, but his voice comes through. Even though it's in a hush, his tone is serious. His commanding voice easily comes through the door.
“—don’t care. After what was done to him?”
There’s a pause, and I wonder if the name I coughed up—Ray’s—is the subject matter of his conversation.
I fucking hope it is. While I inhaled my spaghetti, I almost ratted out Dan, but his inner circle goes higher than I could ever dare to reach, including Xavier.
I don’t want either of them coming for Hunter. I can spare him that heat.
“Whatever has to happen,” he orders. “Get it taken care of. Discreetly. ”
I open the door, pop my head out, and peer over to where he’s standing, cell phone held to his ear. A hand claws through his hair. “Call me when it’s done.”
Just as I enter the space fully, Hunter hangs up, spins, and spots me. “What was that?” I ask, nodding to the phone in his fist.
He stuffs the phone in his pocket and stiffly walks to where he stashed his laptop carrier. “ Raymond Davis won’t be a problem anymore,” is all he says.
“How the fuck did you find out his real name?” Because I didn’t even know it before this second.
“He has a record and doesn’t shy away from his street name. It also helps that he has it tattooed on his chest.”
I blink.
Fuck, he works fast.
“I have to get some work done. My company is bringing in a smaller airline, and I have—” He pauses, realizing I’m gaping at him. “What?”
“Did you put a hit out on him?”
“Of course not,” he scoffs.
“Then what did you do?” I push, needing to know the lengths he’s gone for me.
Sighing, he sets the carrier on the bed and slides his hands into his pockets. “I called in a favor, Gray. That’s all.”
“Because he jacked my shit? That’s hardly a reason to—”
“It is,” he cuts in, crossing the space with speed. “Thievery is illegal . And even if it weren’t, he did it to you , which is unacceptable.”
My jaw hangs open again. “Why do you even care?” It’s not meant to be rude or abrasive. I’m genuinely curious. “What would your—I mean, what would Brent think about all this? That you’re here with me and calling in favors ?”
Well, that shifted gears fast. I think I want the answer to that question more than any other.
His hazel eyes search my face, jaw ticking slightly. “Brent?”
“Yeah…” I shrug and stuff my thumb in my mouth. My teeth find the microscopic strip of new nail growth and tear at it.
“Do you want to know what he thinks or if I’m still seeing him, Gray?”
I chew on the digit for a few beats, my heart thumping harder the longer he waits for my answer. Steeling myself, I pop my thumb free and ask, “Are you still seeing him?”
“No.” It’s immediate. “I ended things.”
“Why?”
His answer this time isn’t as quick. “Because it was always a temporary arrangement.”
“But this isn’t,” I argue, scanning his features for any signs of deception.
“I don’t want it to be,” he admits, shoulders rising slightly. “I want to see this through 'til the end. However long that needs to be.”
“So, is he…alright, then? Like, did he take the news well?” What the fuck am I on about? This doesn’t concern me whatsoever, but I can’t stop prying for more.
“Well,” he swallows, “there was some disappointment on his end. But I think he’ll get over it.”
Something… dark gnarls at my insides.
A giddy, dangerous sensation makes my pulse skip a beat.
I am happy another man’s heart is broken.
The relief shooting through my body and tickling my fingertips should terrify me.
Only it doesn’t.
Tumultuous energy clings to every inch while I fight a very dangerous line of thinking.
Somewhere along the way, some fucking how I’ve grown attached to Hunter.
I didn’t think it was that serious, but if these wayward emotions rushing to the surface of my psyche are any indicator of how fucking screwed I am, then I’m well and truly screwed.
Hunter ending things with Brent means—hopefully—that there is no one else.
If there is no one else, it only leaves space for me.
For this.
Fuck—for us.
“Are you…disappointed?” I ask, cocking my head.
With his full attention on me, eyes never leaving mine, his instant response sends chills down my spine. “No.”
The soft clicking from Hunter’s keyboard isn’t keeping me awake, nor is the lamp light illuminating his side of the room.
I’m on my back, hands clasped over my stomach with the heavy blanket up to my chin.
By all means, I should be unconscious. This mattress is almost as soft as the couch in Hunter’s summer cabin.
Usually, my environment makes it tough to find some shut-eye. I’m on high alert constantly.
I still am, in a way.
There’s this hyper-awareness of his soft breaths and the occasional hum. A few times, he grunted in frustration before typing faster. Since he came prepared this time, he also showered after our little talk, and I could smell his potent body wash all the way over in this bed.
My heart won’t stop sucker punching my rib cage, my body is wound tight, and I’m itching to turn my head and watch him.
I’ve tried to pretend I don’t notice just how attractive Hunter is this whole time. After all, I’m the one who drew the thick, obvious line in the sand.
Deep in the recesses of my mind, I know I’m probably not well enough to acknowledge something as ridiculous as a physical attraction. Not that I could ever forget what was done to me, but I’m compartmentalizing. Eventually, I’ll deal with whatever fuckery that is bound to surface.
Tonight, though, I want to watch him.
I flip onto my side as casually and quietly as I can.
Pretending to fluff my pillow, I get resituated and peek over.
Lost in his laptop screen, Hunter doesn’t seem to notice while I skim over him.
I trace the sharp lines of his jaw and let my eyes roam over his profile.
He trimmed his beard in the shower, leaving just enough hair to cover his skin and accentuate his mouth.
I have seen fuller, more pronounced, and plump lips, but I’m fascinated by the sight nonetheless.
They're…nice.
That straight nose, defined brow, and thick, silky hair isn't too bad either.
I swallow hard.
Wearing similar pajamas to the night we spent together, the loose t-shirt is dark blue this time, hiding his body. His long legs are also obscured by the red and black plaid sleep pants, but his toes wiggle when he types. I’m not a feet dude, but his are cute.
He scratches at his beard with a heavy sigh, then spots me creeping on him. “Did I wake you up?”
“I never really fell asleep,” I admit, those stomach flutters intensifying when he shuts the laptop.
“I was going to step out for a smoke. Do you want one?”
“Sure.”
He offers me a small smile and then gets up. I follow suit, resisting the urge to inhale when we maneuver around each other in the small space between our beds. I laugh when we both move simultaneously, bumping our arms. “Sorry,” I mumble.
“It’s okay,” he gestures for me to move first, so I do, “tight squeeze.”
“Yeah.”
We head out onto the balcony because this hotel has balconies , and he offers me a cigarette first. I take it, pop it between my lips, and just like every other time, he sparks his lighter, cupping the tip with one hand while I puff the ember to life.
It’s…thoughtful. Maybe something else.
Does he always light people’s cigarettes? Or is it just mine?
Once his smoke is sparked, he leans forward on the railing, unphased by the residual rain clinging to the metal.
That question nagging at my brain gets louder, so I ask, “Do you have friends?”
Catching him off guard, he reels back, straightening and eyeing me oddly. “What?”
“Did you not hear me or—”
“I did,” he clarifies, repositioning to lean and face me.
When he does, his body effortlessly embodies so many movie men .
You know the type. The ones that are effortlessly good-looking while doing something as simple as smoking.
With his ankles crossed and cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, my mind blanks as my mouth dries. “I have friends.”
“Oh.”
“Do you?” I follow the cigarette’s path from the railing to his lips.
“No. Not in—well, I can’t say they were really my friends either.” I shrug and take a drag.
“Not in…what?” he prompts.
“Back in the group home—when I was a teenager—those guys weren’t my friends.”
“You’re an orphan?” This seems to startle him because the relaxed posture vanishes as he unhooks his ankles and inches closer. “Or…?”
“Technically, yeah. I guess I am.” His concern and longing for more swirling in those pretty hazel eyes keep me talking.
It just comes out. “My parents died when I was twelve. Car accident. Since I don’t have any other family, I was put in the system.
At first, I bounced between foster homes, but I didn’t…
handle it well.” I swallow hard, take a puff, and continue, “Eventually, I ended up in the group home with other troubled teens. I liked feeling included for once; I thought that we were like…some gang. It was the closest thing I had to a family, so I latched on pretty fast—needed it, you know?”
When he doesn’t respond, I sneak a glance at him. There’s that stoic anger brewing. It’s so palpable now that I know what to look for.
“Keep going,” he whispers.
“We all started doing stupid shit. Bunch of poor kids with no real authority, you can guess how that panned out.” I shrug. “But I didn’t think anything bad would happen. Didn’t think they’d fuck me over like they did and—”
He’s even closer to me, mere inches.
“Anyway. I learned fast not to trust people, even if they seemed to have earned it. That’s why I don’t have friends. I don’t want to risk it.”
“But you are with me.”
Our eyes meet, and my breath catches.
Shadows play over his face, the light from inside our room dancing over his skin. His right eye is bright, more green than brown. I’m struggling to form words.
My instincts are screaming to turn away, not trusting that easy empathy riddling his features.
I find the mental remote and mute them.
“Yeah, I guess I am,” I whisper.
“Thank you for risking it.”
I close my eyes momentarily, needing to separate the strange link between us. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t."