Home > The Best Chance (The Amherst Sinners Series Book 4)

The Best Chance (The Amherst Sinners Series Book 4)
Author: Elena Monroe

Hunter


Florida

 

The blistering humidity of Florida should have derailed any mischief brewing in me, but for some reason my temper was only inflated.

I hated the heat.

I hated this destination spot of a home.

I hated the people I went to school with.

I hated how I felt here, like a lion in a cage on a platform meant to dance for dollars, when all I wanted to do was rip everyone to shreds for feeling privileged enough to make demands of me.

I poured out of bed, barely opening my eyes and still managing to pull up my jeans with one hard yank to the belt loops. I also hated mornings, if we are keeping a record.

I trotted downstairs to the kitchen in hopes of finding something satisfying – coffee, a muffin, anything to give me the strength to open my eyes all the way, before I got behind the wheel of Camille.

Camille had too much horsepower and could hurdle at a speed that even I hadn’t yet tested out on the open road. She was all Mustang.

The kitchen wasn’t silent, like it used to be when I was first sentenced to living with my dad. Now it was filled with the noise of high pitched giggles and the sound of her heels against the hardwood floors. Her dark auburn hair was rivaling her personality for which one would get noticed first. She was only three years older than me, which made calling her “Stepmom” pretty awkward; that’s why I didn’t.

“Hunter! You look so handsome for the first day! I made pancakes.”

I looked down at the counter and saw the misshapen and burnt circles that she was trying to pass off as pancakes. I wasn’t fooled; nothing about those seemed edible.

“I’m straight.”

Her personality floating above us deflated instantly, dragging her smile down into as frown. She was always trying so hard to fill the shoes of someone I respected, liked, cared for… but it was pointless. I forced myself to not care about anyone, anywhere, ever. I was a shell of someone who used to be driven by desire and hope—both of them proving how disloyal those twin bitches could be.

Out of no nowhere, my dad showed up, for once. “Be nice to your stepmom,” he said absently.

If he only knew how nice I could be to my new stepmom… She was the perfect proportions of tits and ass, enough to make hugging off limits completely. I wasn’t an animal, but in comparison to my dad, I was better, younger version of him that was more willing to do the nasty his credit card couldn’t.

 

I had to drag myself out of my car in the parking lot. The only reason was to keep an eye on Layla. She was dead center in a crowd that villainized me and treated her like shit. B, her best friend, and all around attention seeker used Layla as a shield against looking too easy. While her other “friend,” Adrian, wore no shield, but he certainly kept a sword in his back pocket under his looks.

Everyone worshipped him like the teen heartthrob he was. The heartthrob that wasn't going to survive in a bigger pond against other athletic assholes.

I knew the truth about Adrian—always playing dumb and pawning off his guilt onto everyone else… the parties, the alcohol, the drugs… all under the charm and none of the accountability.

B was happy to play the bad guy. It was her way of luring people in—the on-the-curb kind of dangerous—nothing dangerous enough to set foot off the curb.

Layla wasn't like either of them. She was gracing us with her presence and acting like she was invisible. I watched her sip her coffee, while sitting on the hood of Adrian’s car, like she did every morning. They were right in the center of the parking lot, like they owned it and they simply allowed us to take up space.

Opening the glove compartment, I pulled out a pre-rolled joint—one of many I stashed in all my favorite places. I was seldom without a joint or already high. It was how I chose to dull the hate… one puff at a time.

My shit was imported from islands off the handle of Florida and distributed by a guy I would never cross. He had loyalty in me, which was hard to exude. Guess it only took some high grade pot and my talent for selling to turn me loyal to anyone.

I got out of my car with the joint tucked between my lips, while I pushed my arms into my jean jacket. I didn't care who saw. I wasn't hiding who I was or apologizing when I was caught. I strutted over to the rejects I found myself falling in with without trying. The whole time my eyes focused on Layla, protecting her from a distance.

Unrequited love was a bitch too. It was related to desire, trust, and hope—all one big happy family of false hope.

I didn't realize how much her innocence begged everyone to corrupt her, until one of his infamous house parties. Everyone was trashed, even Layla. I was watching Miguel, Adrian’s favorite fall guy, follow her around the whole night and feed her drinks. Her movements and sentences became sloppy, too sloppy, too quickly.

I was only there to sell pot, but nothing was adding up.

Not Miguel’s arm around her neck.

Not how drunk she was.

Not a single friend having her back.

Flirting wasn't hard, not when someone was as drunk as Layla. I didn't expect a relaxed version of her to actually like me. Not this much.

She straddled my lap with ease, comfort even, when she bit her lip and looked down into my lap. Even drunk, she managed to perfect shy. I indulged her by cupping her ass in my hands and pushing her further into me catching her unsteady motions with my lips. She tasted like candy, and her hands pressed against my chest, trying to catch herself when she had stopped falling a long time ago.

Was there ever falling for me?

I got my answer when she pulled away enough to whisper into me, “Can we go somewhere? Private?”

Before you think I'm a piece of shit, let's take the facts into consideration—something I'm used to with the judicial system and my criminal record.

I smirked, giving her no syllables or vowels. I gave her nothing. I couldn't force my voice to say no when my hard cock pushing into her crotch said otherwise. If it wasn't me, then Miguel, the Solo cup pusher, was going to take advantage, and I wasn't allowing that.

I let Layla take me by the hand and drag me behind her up to Adrian’s room. The irony of fucking on his perfect bed made me chuckle for a second. He could afford new sheets.

She stopped before crossing the threshold, arms around my neck, finally giving into me, finally noticing how much I loved her from afar. She tugged me down into her lips again, and our tongues danced inside her mouth this time. She smiled in a way I wanted to bottle up, only for me, because of me—mine.

Her small, intoxicated voice made me want to kiss her again so she couldn't change her mind. She let her head fall to one side and my lips caught the sensitive skin between her shoulder and ear. She giggled before melting into my lips with a soft moan.

“Hunter, I'm… I'm a virgin.”

I didn't expect any less, but a small part of me hoped she had been dumb enough to let someone like Miguel do the honors. I was brash and all around criminal. If I took her virginity, it could lead to more problems. I was trying to solve the problem of loving her for four years and being too pussy to act on it.

The family of false hope kept me from wanting anything I couldn't control. Unrequited was as uncontrolled as they came.

 

 

Hunter


I have a history of priors—prior mistakes, prior bouts with danger, prior time behind a heavy door for juvenile youth who can’t pray the trouble away, and prior losses that resulted in sharing, until it ate my desire for love alive.

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