Chapter 7
The Irony Was Tremendous,
the Role-Playing, Less So
Our treehouse was nestled deep in the woods of our lie-rents’ combined properties.
Though neither Griff nor I were dressed for a run, we both leaned into the movement, whipping along the well-worn trail.
At first, the exercise was a good way to work off the lingering rush of our lovemaking, the excruciating frustration at our first time being cut far too short.
But the more we moved, the more concern for Hunt shadowed what intimacy Griff and I were missing out on.
Hunt had never texted an SOS before. None of our crew had, though if we’d been in a position to do so during our dying and resurrecting, we probably would have.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. Hunt wasn’t prone to exaggeration or false alarms. But it wasn’t just that.
Something felt wrong. The sensation prickled along my body, urging my legs and arms to pump faster, faster.
With how insane our lives had become, I didn’t want to guess at what could be causing Hunt to call us to such an urgent meeting.
When Griffin and I charged up the porch steps and barreled through the door, we were breathing heavily, our bodies slick with sweat, our clothing sticking to us.
We were the last to arrive, and if we reeked of sex, our friends either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to comment.
With both Layla and Brady in the room, the fact that neither of them followed up on Griff’s and my “ride to Pound Town” told us as much as Hunt’s SOS.
That Hunt’s face was drawn, his eyes heavy, his mouth a strained line, told us even more. When Griff shut the door behind us, Hunt turned from where he’d apparently been pacing to simply … stare. His chest heaved as he appeared to try to catch his breath, or maybe it was to corral his thoughts.
I rushed over and threw my arms around him, pulling him tightly to me. Only when the sweat on my arms stuck to his shirt did I consider my state of dress.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” I tried to pull away.
He only pulled me closer, crooking his head so his cheek rested on my head.
“I’m sweaty and gross.” I tried again to disengage.
He shook his head atop mine and whispered, “Not yet.”
I settled into our embrace, his shirt slowly growing damp. After long moments of hugging, his breathing slowed, and finally he released a long, laden exhale.
I pulled back, searching his face. Griffin, Brady, and Layla were on their feet, surrounding us.
“What happened?” I asked.
Hunt opened his mouth, closed it. Rubbed at his jaw, his nape, the tatted skin along his collarbone peeking out from the crew neck of his shirt, before stalking toward the weight rack against one wall, spinning, and returning with hard, swift steps.
His eyes blazed as he looked around at us. His jaw clenched, his nostrils flared. Next, his nose bunched. After pressing his lips together for several moments, long enough that I wondered if I’d die right then and there from the suspense and save Magnum the trouble, he spoke.
“Zoe’s pregnant.”
The air whooshed from my lungs.
“Say what, now?” Layla said.
Hunt scowled while his brows drew low, accentuating the storm that brewed in his eyes. “Yep. She even showed me the pregnancy test. Actually, several of them.” His scowl deepened. “They even smelled like piss.” He scrunched up his nose again. “Convincing.”
“And she says you’re the father?” Brady asked.
Hunt’s jaw was so tight, so chiseled, it was as if a sculptor had just finished hammering it out.
“That’s what she says.”
“Fuck, bro,” Griffin exclaimed before running both hands through his hair.
Hunt said, switching to our telepathic connection now that we were veering off the path Magnum and the lie-rents had so purposefully and so fucking intrusively orchestrated.
Now Brady was the one breathing heavily, his anger growing until he physically bunched his fists at his sides, the muscles in his forearms bulging in long, visible cords.
he seethed into our minds.
I muttered.
Brady’s head whipped toward me.
I tutted.
Brady insisted.
Brady said, a bit too matter-of-factly. Enough so that I couldn’t help but wonder if Magnum and his cronies had broken us beyond repair. Was there a chance we’d ever recover from the trauma they’d already inflicted when it just kept coming?
Layla said.
Brady gave her a savage grin, teeth on display.
Layla shrugged.
She stepped closer to Hunt, looking up into his face.
I asked.
Brady asked.
Layla shrugged.
Hunt protested.
I patted him on the shoulder.
Griffin told Hunt.
Hunt’s eyes were still burdened. —he blinked repeatedly, as if considering what he was about to say was bonkers—
Layla’s breath hitched. She ran her tongue along her teeth.
Hunt said. He shared loaded looks with Griffin and Brady.
Brady said right away.
Hunt gave him a really think about it, dude scrunch of his brows.
Brady said, but his denial was weak, trailing at the end, as if even he knew that, as wackadoodle as this new theory was, it truly was possible.
Layla smacked him on the arm.
Griff sank to the floor to lean his back against the couch, spreading his long legs out in front of him.
Hunt insisted.
Hunt said.
His eyes glistened, like he was either about to lose his ever-loving mind or maybe cry too.
I said.
Griffin said, before extending his leg to nudge my foot with his.
I managed a somber smile and went over to sit beside him, telling Hunt,
Layla pressed.
Hunt said miserably.
Hunt corrected, just as miserably.
She frowned.
Brady said.
Brady suggested.
Layla didn’t bother denying it. Grimly, she just nodded.
Hunt gazed at us with wide, imploring eyes.
I plopped my head back onto the couch cushions, suddenly exhausted by it all.
But Brady was already nodding to himself.
For several long moments, we all seemed to consider the implications of finally following through on murder plans of our own.
Eventually, Layla said,
It truly was nothing we hadn’t discussed already.
Layla persisted,
She rolled her neck, then asked,
Griffin said, taking my hand.
I studied our entwined fingers, wishing our lives could be easy again—I could simply be enjoying finding out that the boy I’d been in love with since forever loved me back, I was his dream girl. I should’ve been lapping up that juicy stuff, gorging on it. It was literally what dreams were made of.
But no.
There never had been any avoiding it. We’d never stand for what Magnum and our lie-rents had done. Or worse: what they intended to continue doing.
The irony was tremendous: In killing us, Magnum had created killers. The man we intended to murder had forged his very own murderers.
I drew in a steeling breath, squeezed Griffin’s hand.
Griffin said.
Brady said.
Layla told him.
He ignored her, seeming to be composing mental to-do lists.
Hunt interjected.
Brady sauntered over to tap his fist to his shoulder.
His eyes on me, probably recalling the identical scene, Griff growled into our group chat,
Layla glanced at me, then to the others.
My friends’ attention shifted to me.
I shrugged.
How I’d feel about it later was an entirely different question, one I didn’t intend to ponder.
What difference would it make how I’d feel later?
This entitled prick was threatening me and my crew—my family—and he would pay the price for our freedom.
He was, after all, the one imprisoning us within invisible bars.
Brady said, taking a seat opposite the coffee table from Griffin and me.
Griffin said,
Layla said.
I told her.
So next, as if we didn’t have one of the most significant and dangerous events of our entire lives to anticipate, we put on a performance about consoling our friend with an unexpected bun cooking in the Zoe oven.