18. Discussing Exit Strategies
DISCUSSING EXIT STRATEGIES
Hunter
It starts with the tick of a second hand, a clock on the wall no one can see but everyone hears.
The apartment is small and hard-surfaced, a box in the church’s outbuilding meant for visiting clergy or emergency crash-pads.
The kind of place where nothing is meant to last. The table is battered wood, scored with knife marks, the chairs solid but not comfortable.
I sit at the short end, back to the galley kitchen, my elbows on the splintered edge.
The pot of risotto—what’s left of it—sits dead-center in the middle, sweating a film of butter on the cooling plate, steam gone.
There’s wine, but not much, and the last inch in my glass is already room temperature, smudged with a trace of Stella’s lipstick because she grabbed my glass when hers ran dry.
Stella sits across, hands flat on the table, her gaze fixed on the knot in the wood between us.
She shifts, slow, like she’s testing every muscle for weakness before she moves.
There’s a faint crease between her brows, the kind that means she’s rehearsed the coming argument a hundred times and knows exactly where she’ll lose.
I’m pretty sure she’s already lost, and now she’s just waiting for confirmation.
She’s obviously stressed, and when she speaks, it’s with a broken edge.
“He knows.” Her voice is tight, bright with that pre-cry tension. “Thomas knows.”
I don’t bother with the pretense. “Yeah. He knows.”
Lachlan is off to the side, his chair angled toward the window, his back straight, posture all Marine at attention even when the only audience is the dark outside and the crucifix above the door.
He’s cleaned up: shaved, hair wet, shirt black and plain, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
He doesn’t touch his food. His eyes are on the rim of his wineglass, which he turns in slow quarter turns between his thumb and two fingers.
No one speaks for the longest time. There’s just the tick of the invisible clock and the hush of the street outside. Every once in a while, the baseboard heater kicks on and shudders the table with its effort.
Stella breaks first. She looks up, blue eyes watery, as if she’s daring me to correct her.
“I don’t even go to church,” she says, almost a whine. “Why would I be doing Bible study with you? Why would I bring the pastor home?” The questions are meant for herself, but she throws them at me anyway. “I didn’t even bother to hide the fucking hickeys, Hunter. I just… I froze.”
Lachlan speaks then, the edge of command in his voice. “You did fine. There was no time to prepare. We barely made it ourselves.” His eyes flick from her to me, a silent plea for backup.
I don’t give it. “Doesn’t matter. It was inevitable. My brother’s not an idiot and the dude has 20/20 vision. He can put things together for himself.” I swirl the wine, then drink. It’s sour.
Stella’s hands curl in, nails pressing half-moons into the pads of her fingers. She looks like she’s about to bolt, but there’s nowhere to go in this apartment, except maybe the tiny bathroom with the cracked tile. She doesn’t move. “He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me—”
“And he catalogued everything in the room,” I say. “It’s what he does. He’s always been sharp on details and even if he weren’t, he’d figure it out before the week’s over.”
She makes a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh. “Oh my god, I’m going to die.”
“No, you’re not.” I lean back, stretching until the chair pops in protest. “You’re going to tell him. Or I will. Doesn’t matter to me.”
Her face twists, and I know what she’s thinking before she says it. “You don’t care what your brother thinks of you, do you?”
I think about it. “With respect to my sex life? No. Not really.”
Lachlan sets his wineglass down, gentle, but the muscles in his jaw bunch up. “That’s not fair to Stella. Or to Thomas.”
I grunt, not conceding but not arguing either. I reach for the wine, refill my glass with the dregs from the bottle, then pour a little into Stella’s even though she hasn’t finished what’s in front of her. She grabs the glass and gulps, not even tasting.
The tick of the clock is louder now, and for a moment, I want to smash it, but there’s no clock in the room. Just the sense of time running out.
Stella looks at me over the rim, her voice softer but still edged. “I can’t lose his respect, Hunter. I can’t.”
It hangs there. The unspoken: I can’t lose his money, either.
She doesn’t say it. But the words linger in the air, a phantom at the table.
I decide to force it. “You don’t need to worry about finances, Stella. You know what I do for a living. I’m a billionaire. You don’t need him when you have me.”
She stiffens, like I’d slapped her. “I didn’t mean—”
I cut her off, not unkind. “I know you didn’t. But I meant what I said. If you need to walk away, I’ll handle it. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart. In fact, I want to.”
Her eyes flicker, quick and fragile. “You mean it.”
“I do.”
She blinks twice, and I know she’s fighting tears. I almost reach for her hand, but she has her arms folded tight, elbows sharp as fence posts.
Lachlan clears his throat. His hands are steady now, folded on the table. “Before anyone tells anyone anything, we need to have a plan for whatever happens next. Otherwise we’re just inviting disaster.”
I snort. “You’re afraid of Thomas?”
He looks at me, dead-on. “No. I’m afraid of what happens if he tells Pastor Pam.” The name is a missile, and he fires it straight at me.
I hadn’t considered it. I let that hang, then nod once. “You’d be out.”
He shrugs, but it’s not casual. “I’m out anyway if this keeps up.”
Stella’s voice is small, but she jumps in. “We can stop. If you want.”
He doesn’t smile. “No, that’s not what I want. And no, you won’t.”
“No, I won’t stop,” she echoes, and this time she almost laughs. “I’m so addicted to the two of you. To us. God, I’m pathetic.”
“No, you’re not,” Lachlan says, but it’s rote, and he doesn’t push. “But we need a story. Or at least a fallback position.”
I look at him, then at Stella, then back. “Here’s the story: we’re adults. We’re in a consensual relationship. There’s no shared DNA. The only people who would care are already sitting here.”
Lachlan lifts his chin, as if weighing the option. “That doesn’t protect me.”
“Then quit the church,” I grunt. “Or find another one. You have a degree. You can get a job.”
The silence after that is thick and brittle, as if we’re all waiting for someone to break a glass.
Stella is the one. “What about me?” Her voice is hoarse, and I realize she’s clutching the wineglass hard enough that the stem could snap. “I can’t go to my dad. I can’t go to the church. I can’t—” she stops, breathing fast. “You both have somewhere to go if this blows up. But what about me?”
I look at her, and for the first time all night, I feel the bite of something real: fear, maybe, or guilt. “You have me, and that’s all you need, sweetheart,” I say, which is true, but not what she wants to hear.
She shakes her head. “That’s not enough.”
I don’t know what is.
Lachlan sits up, wipes his mouth with a napkin he hasn’t used all night. “We can stall. Say it’s nothing. That you were just friends, or planning a surprise birthday party for someone, or whatever. But the next time he comes home early—”
“There’s not going to be a next time,” Stella says, voice gone glassy and hard. “I’m done. I can’t keep doing this.”
The words shock me. Even Lachlan flinches, just a little.
She stands up, abrupt, chair scraping the floor. “I need to go. I can’t—” She grabs her purse, jacket, then stops at the door, hand braced on the frame beneath the crucifix.
I watch her, waiting for the breakdown, the reversal, the quick apology.
Instead, she leaves. The door closes so soft it doesn’t even click.
For a full minute, neither of us moves.
Lachlan is first to speak. “You pushed her too hard.”
I stare at the empty seat, the glass still marked with her mouth. “No. She just finally saw it coming.”
He doesn’t argue. He stands, clears the table, stacks the plates in the sink, runs the water. The sound is gentle, almost a lullaby.
I sit there, fingers drumming on the table, the taste of wine sour in my throat. There’s a heat in my chest, a pressure I can’t name.
“You want another glass?” he asks, voice a little softer now, a little human.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I do.”
He pours, and we drink in silence, just the two of us in the shitty church apartment, the ghost of our girl’s perfume hanging in the air.
Neither of us says it, but we both know: This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Above us, the crucifix gleams in the faint light, and I swear to god, the face on it is smirking at us.