5. Hunter
CHAPTER FIVE
HUNTER
T he music blasting through the speaker behind me pauses right when the beat drops, a text notification making me lose my focus completely. “Message from Dad,” Kiri’s robotic voice echoes across my apartment.
Motherfucker . Forgot to set Do Not Disturb again .
Leaning away from my computer, I grab my phone off the filing cabinet against the wall. I keep it up there to help me focus while working, which is only effective about half of the time. The impulse to scroll is always at the back of my mind. Hitting play, I bob my head to the beat as I lounge back in my office chair and check the notification.
Dad
Hey, still good to grab Artie from practice? Tied up at work.
Shit. Totally spaced it.
Me
Remind me what time…
Dad
5:30
An hour ? Looking back at my L-shaped desk, I contemplate whether I’ve made enough progress to deem myself productive for a Tuesday. I’ll have data reports to present in the office tomorrow. Since I’m a remote employee, I need to keep on top of my game, but especially now. After several years at EdTechU, I’m gunning for the remote data analyst supervisor position. My performance review is in a few months, and even with my accuracy rate in the top 5 percent, I don’t want a careless mistake fucking up my chances. I double-check my report, cross-referencing a few more numbers before feeling satisfied enough to call it a day.
My home office spans the entire loft of my revamped industrial apartment. Two bedrooms downstairs, a wide-open first floor, and this nook upstairs. Natural light filters in through the two-story paned windows, making it so I rarely need to turn on the overhead light during the day. Exposed brick walls, painted white, offset the black trim and espresso hardwood throughout. It’s perfect. Sometimes a little too perfect, leading to midday naps in the beanbag under the window. But it beats having to deal with daily workplace distractions. I get sidetracked easily, and the idea of being distracted at corporate every day sounds like literal torture. Going in only once a week has panned out nicely. The dip in my productivity on Wednesdays is proof of that.
Me
Yep, on my way.
Dad
Stay for dinner? Need to run something past you.
Me
Stretching as I stand, relief shoots through the stagnant muscles in my back. I’ve been sitting for so long, pins and needles tingle in my feet as my eyes readjust from staring at the screen. I slip off my scratched-up prescription glasses and toss them in my computer bag for work tomorrow. I probably should wear them all day, but I’ve always hated the way glasses look on me. Can’t even remember the last time I went in for new ones. The eye doc stopped sending reminders sometime last year after I unintentionally missed a handful of rescheduled appointments. I just had other things going on, and it’s not like my eyes are that bad anyway. They get a little fatigued when I’m on the computer or driving at night. The TV is fuzzier too, but getting a bigger one solved that issue. It beats the alternative. Contacts freak me the fuck out. I panic having an eyelash in my eye; why the hell would I purposely stick something in?—
“Goddammit…” I grumble, glaring at the stack of papers my elbow just knocked to the floor. Always when I’m in a rush . The thought of reorganizing it pisses me off, so after a halfhearted shuffle, I give up and toss it all on the filing cabinet. A problem for future me . I triple check that I saved everything before powering down the computer.
After a quick shower, I make the long drive through LA traffic, pulling into the loading lane at Mainway Academy forty-five minutes later. Framed by pillars, the white facade is trimmed in black, matching the bulldog logo on the brand-new marquee. Palm trees line the sidewalk of the overpriced private STEAM high school. I spot my baby sister, Artemis, standing under one. She’s too close to some scrawny kid with a football helmet in one hand and her cheek in the other. They haven’t seen me yet, so I watch their interaction, scrutinizing everything from his pretty boy haircut to how close his face is to hers. She’s fifteen—a sophomore—and I know better than anyone that these little high school jocks mean nothing but trouble. I used to be one.
Football Boy takes a step closer, and I honk twice, making them both jump and look in my direction. I roll down the passenger window as she walks to my car, her volleyball bag slung over her shoulder.
“Jeez, Hunt. You didn’t have to honk!” She sticks her head through the window, redness still tinting her sienna cheeks. Her long, curly brown hair is tied back into a fluffy ponytail, frizzy where it’s been rubbing against her black practice uniform. Artemis throws her bag in the trunk before popping her head back through the window with hope in her eyes. “Can I drive?”
Squinting, I pretend to look past her, then twist to check the backseat.
“What are you looking for?” she asks.
“Whoever you’re talking to, ’cuz I know you’re not asking to drive my car.”
“Please, Hunter,” she pleads, hands clasped under her chin.
“Hell no.” I glare at her puppy dog eyes until her face falls. She flings the door open in a huff, and my head pounds at the thought of her scraping up my midnight blue Torche. This car was a graduation gift from Dad a few years ago. I didn’t go through the hassle of having it imported just for her to leave the paint job on every curb in West LA. No one drives it except for me. When she settles into the cream leather seat, I nod back to the tree. “He ever heard of personal space?”
Her head falls to the side like I’m stupid. “What makes you think I want him to give me personal space?”
“You better find the motivation, Artie, or I’m telling Dad you two were sucking face.”
“No! Hunter, don’t you dare.”
My phone buzzes, with a message from Ashlie flashing across the display on the natural wood dashboard.
“ Ooh , Ashlie’s texting.” Artie’s eyebrows dance, her light green eyes sparkling with mischief as she snatches my phone out of the cup holder. I watch in horror while she taps in my password. “Is she your girlfriend yet?”
“Hey!” I reach for my phone right as she leans back against the door. “How do you know my passcode?”
“Because I’m good at snooping, and it’s not like Ashlie’s birthday was hard to guess.” That sly smile on her face while my phone is in her hands makes my palms itch. “Dear Ashlie”—she teases with a deep voice—“we should make this official. Let’s go steady.”
“Oh, is that supposed to be me? Who talks like that?” I grab for my phone again, and she giggles while some boy band song fills the car. I’m only a little relieved when she finally puts it back in the cup holder. With Artemis, you never really know if she’s messing with you or making moves in stealth mode. One minute, she’s quiet, and the next, she’s showing everyone at the dinner table the “weird water balloons” she found in your nightstand.
I check Ashlie’s message, replying to her meme with a laughing GIF. Before I put it down, a text from Ava flashes across the screen, and I open it just to clear the notification. She’s fucking relentless. I have no interest in seeing Ava again, but my casual strategy of ignoring all her messages isn’t doing a damn thing. Hopefully she gets the picture soon. I don’t keep women as friends; Ashlie is the one exception.
“You looove her,” she taunts.
“You done? ’Cuz I can still tell Dad about Football Boy…”
Her eyes narrow. “And then I’ll tell Ashlie that you still have a little bottle of her perfume from five years ago.”
“What are you even talking about?” Feigning ignorance is the easiest way for me to call her bluff. I have that perfume so well hidden, even I forgot about it. When I found it, I kept it as a memento of something that happened so long ago, I’m not sure it even matters anymore. Still, there’s no way in hell I’m letting Artie spread that rumor.
A condescending scowl falls on her face as her arms cross. “In your old room, under that floorboard you ripped up, right on top of your picture collection of girls who?—”
“Okay, I got it! Goddamn .” I put the car in drive, continuing to cuss under my breath as I pull out of the school grounds. I shouldn’t be surprised. Artie’s had this idea of being an international super spy since she was little. The older she gets, the better she is at sneaking around. She’s a good kid who doesn’t get into trouble, but she stays in everyone’s business, whether they know it or not.
When we pull into the circular drive of my childhood home—an expansive, white-brick two-story Tudor—Artemis takes off for the shower. I head to the fridge for a snack, stopping to admire the sun gleaming off the pool in the backyard as I crack the lid on my sparkling water. The Tuscan style kitchen is exactly like it was when my parents bought the house fifteen years ago, down to the distressed beige cabinetry and arched stonework over the stovetop.
I grab an apple from the fruit bowl on the gold-veined marble island and head to the TV lounge. Sinking into the plush sectional, I turn on the sports network and pull out my phone as a distraction. I don’t plan to focus on the TV, but the sound has a way of calming the rapid-fire thoughts that constantly buzz through my consciousness. My mind is a vast wasteland of noise: never quiet and always chasing stimulation.
I don’t know how long I’ve been scrolling, but the sun is dipping below the skyline when I hear the garage door open. Draping my arm across the back of the sofa, I wave at Dad when he walks in with a few boxes of Chinese takeout—his bad news meal. He looks exhausted from a long day at the office, with worry lines creasing his deep umber skin.
“Uh-oh.” I nod to the boxes he’s arranging on the kitchen island. “The company’s going under? We’re about to lose it all?” I tease.
“Funny,” he mumbles, pulling plates and utensils out. Dad is the co-founder of EdTechU, one of the top educational technology companies in the country. They just expanded overseas. There’s no way the company is going anywhere anytime soon.
“So, what’s with the Doom Dinner?” I walk to the kitchen and sit on one of the barstools.
“Hey, Dad,” Artemis says, coming down the stairs. She wraps her arms around him, and he kisses the top of her head.
“How was practice, Artie-girl?”
“Good. Coach was on us for losing the last game though. My legs still feel like jelly.”
“So, what’s with the Doom Dinner?” I ask again, not interested in listening to them go back and forth about improving her game and being a team player. I’m bored already and itching to get out of here.
Dad rubs his chin, his green eyes staring at me longer than is necessary. That recessive gene of his staked its claim in all of his kids—me, Kayla, and Artemis. I tap my foot on the stool, feeling antsy holding his gaze. Judging by his delayed response, he knows I won’t be happy about whatever he has to share. He finally glances at Artemis before looking down at his plate. “Your mother is coming for the holidays this year…”
“ Ugh ,” I groan.
“Yay!” Artie shouts at the same time.
I don’t deal with my mom any more than I have to, which usually means a phone call from her on my birthday and a short text exchange from me on hers. Even though it’s been a decade, I still blame her for the divorce. It’s childish as hell, but I can’t stand to look at her.
Dad’s still staring at his plate, mulling something over.
“Is that it?” I press.
“She’ll be staying with Theron in the guest house for the six weeks she’s here.”
“ Here ?” I ask, not even trying to hide the disgust in my voice. The thought of being in the same vicinity of Mom zaps any excitement I could feel about seeing my younger half brother again. “Did you open up a bed-and-breakfast back there I don’t know about?”
“Hunter—”
“Nils agreed to that?” My mother’s husband and Theron’s dad, Nils Johansson, is a Swedish Olympic skier who has been known to rent out entire hotel floors in the past. Why do they need to spend six weeks holed up in the backyard ?
“She and Nils have separated…”
I don’t miss what he said, but I steamroll past it, letting the festering anger over my mother propel me. Standing, I grip the cool edge of the island until I feel it digging into my palms. “How are you okay with this, Dad? Have you forgotten how bad it was? I can’t believe?—”
“Lower your voice, and sit back down, son,” he says with a level voice. Kendall Jackson doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. His presence can go from friendly to intimidating with just the look in his eye and a whispered bass tone. I sit, swallowing the rest of my rant as I look past him, out the window to the guest house in the backyard. Even at the age of twenty-six, I know not to press him. “Of course I remember, but our marriage was over long before she left. It’s been ten years, Hunter. Staying angry about it has no benefit, and she’s still your mother.”
“Naw, not mine. Artie and Theron can have her.” I shake my head, reaching for the carton of orange chicken.
“When are they coming?” Artemis asks, bouncing in her seat.
“In a few weeks. From Thanksgiving to New Year’s.”
“Way to ruin the holidays, Charlotte,” I say to no one but myself.
Dad clears his throat. One glance and I take the hint, drop my head, and eat.