“No.”
He gave me an exaggeratedly sweet look, batting his lashes.
“Stop pretending to be innocent. Your innocence died a long time ago.”
“That it did, bloodied and screaming. All the same, it could be Knox’s lingerie. He is a fine-looking specimen.”
I snorted. “I’m pulling it out.”
“Hey, that’s supposed to be my line.”
I tugged at the fabric. My fingers shook around it.
Yellow.
With red spots.
Did I have red and yellow underwear? I racked my brain trying to remember. But it wasn’t my underwear. It was a bloodied piece of cloth. It looked like part of a shirt. I realized it was a piece of the shirt the guy he’d fought with at the pub was wearing. Hunter had kept it. Shame, excitement, disappointment, and every single other feeling in my emotion basket slammed into me all at once. My eyes darted up.
He curled his fist around mine, so we were both holding the fabric. He leaned down. His lips brushed mine.
“Fuck, you are easy to rattle. Your ass is so mine for the next five months.”
“Get away from me.” But my words lacked conviction. They were empty, hollow, wispy.
“Submit, prey,” he growled darkly.
“Fight harder for it, Hunter.”
“I’ll swallow you whole.” His breath caressed my cheek and ear, sending my hair flying with warmth. “You don’t know my kind. Arrow-proof.”
A dark, delicious quiver ran down my spine as he whispered that.
Knox came back when we were a fraction of an inch from a kiss, with me hanging on to the remainder of my self-control with bloody fingers.
He stood in front of us with a cardboard box full of equipment, cutting the charged moment with a metaphorical knife. “Ready to play?”
Hunter looked back at him, completely poised, calm, and in control, smiling devilishly.
“Always.”
I replaced the clock in Syllie’s office after everyone had left.
It was just the cleaning ladies and me, vacuuming, gossiping, ohh-ing and ahh-ing to the distorted Filipino station they blasted from a radio.
The clock was the easy part. Earlier today, I’d gone down to the parking lot and put a tracker on Syllie’s car. One of Da’s accountants had stepped out of his Model X Tesla when he saw me on all fours, fingering the bottom of Syllie’s Mercedes like some auto-fetish creeper.
“What on Earth are you doing?” he’d demanded, looking down his nose at me—testament to the fact that Da hadn’t claimed me as anything other than a glorified PA, minus the generous rack.
I had to think fast. “Getting high on fumes,” I said without missing a beat.
Yeah. That was the best I could come up with. Shut up.
“Is that a thing?” His saucer eyes widened.
Considering he was approximately a thousand years old, I figured he’d buy it. I pretended to wipe my nose with the sleeve of my blazer, grinning.
“Gives the best high. If you haven’t tried it yet, are you even living?”
“Will you teach me how to do it?” His plump face twisted in question.
Being the cool kid sucked balls in Boston. Plus, this particular cool kid didn’t even have any friends—other than Sailor, who was a potential fuck buddy, so I couldn’t get attached.
“Bet.” I stood up. “Sometime soon. Not now.”
What I really meant was when hell froze over.
Yeah, that seemed like a good fucking time to spend time with the old sod.
The day after the clock and the car came the real pickle: the glasses. Syllie rarely took them off. He was blind as a bat. When he finally parted ways with them, he put them on his desk and rushed out of his office. I may have asked the stuttering receptionist to call him urgently regarding some papers that had come about the new refinery in Maine. It was a dumb excuse, so I knew I had five minutes, max.
I bolted into his room, pocketed the original glasses, and placed an identical pair with the recording device in their place. It was some magic-ass wireless shit that streamed the recordings live. I rounded Syllie’s desk as he walked back in.
My heart dropped to my asshole. Maybe literally. There was a moment when I wondered if I was going to survive. If not, I dreaded the headline. “Young Heir Leaves Reluctant, Semi-Loving Family and Hot Roommate Behind.”
At least I’d always be remembered for my contributions to society: orgasms, one-liners I borrowed from George Carlin, and starting the bomber-jacket-over-tux-shirt trend at All Saints High.
Song of the day: “Hey, Look, Ma I Made It” by Panic! At the Disco.
“Sonny-boy,” Sylvester greeted me. “What are you doing in my office?”
He sounded chill as fuck. This was how much I didn’t chart as a threat to him. I’d been caught red-handed in his office, and he didn’t even raise an eyebrow. I grabbed the first thing within reach on his desk, a stapler, and started for the door.
“Just wanted to borrow your stapler.” I waved it in my hand for good measure. Oscar-worthy performance, I tell ya.
“Why?” He shoved his hands into his pockets. His face had random features that didn’t really gel. He was lanky and looked like the Caucasian version of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.
I improvised some more. “Got a little carried away with one of the interns. Ruined her virtue. Also, her pencil skirt.” I exposed my white fangs, hooding my eyes. Syllie grinned back. Wide. After all, I was a “literal fucking joke,” always up for a tumble in the supply closet.
“That’s my boy.” He clapped my back, letting his hand linger there for a second too long. “I won’t tell on you,” he promised earnestly, his hand clutching his heart. “For what it’s worth, I’ve always thought your da was too harsh on you. You should live a little. Have fun.”
I raised my fist to his. We pounded it. He felt cool. My job here was done.
“Yo, if you wanna get high on gas fumes later, let me know,” I offered out of nowhere, turning to him while still walking out of his office. I thought about that idiot accountant from yesterday.
Syllie laughed. “Maybe, son. Maybe.”
Adults were trash.
Later that day, I was invited to a meeting about the Maine-based refinery Royal Pipelines was supposed to open this year, which was still under construction. Syllie rallied for Da, Cillian, yours truly, and himself to take a quick trip there in the next few months to examine it up close.
“We need to keep our finger on the pulse, get a better understanding of what’s not working. It’ll also give Hunter a chance to feel included.” Syllie spoke brightly, looking around Da’s desk.
My father, who still couldn’t look at the hedonist monster he’d created, said nothing, probably his way of trying to figure out if I was worth the hassle. I took minutes during that meeting, then mailed them to Da and Cillian, knowing there was a one-hundred-percent chance they weren’t opening my goddamn emails.
Hours later, I decided to take my lunch to the public library and cram in some studying time. Eating at the library was prohibited, so I concealed myself behind the autobiography shelves. Nobody fucking cared—not about what dead people did, and not about me.