The Hunter: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Boston Belles Book 1)

“A disgrace!” Da spat, his saliva spluttering over the desk between us. His pasty, Irish-freckled face was purple as he towered over me in the same attic office Baron had exited minutes ago.

The Bradys had the kind of house Gerald Fitzpatrick deemed homely and quaint, if not completely lackluster. Back in Boston, he’d knocked down an entire row of brownstones in Beacon Hill and built a mansion better suited for the extended royal family and every person they’d ever said hi to. Avebury Court Manor boasted twenty bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, an indoor pool, a tennis court, and a heated driveway—because why not be a douchebag when you can afford to be?

The mansion was architecturally inspired by Mont Saint-Michel, a looming castle on a French island—heavy on the arches, statues, and wide spaces. Truthfully, I’d take the old-fashioned Brady townhouse over that nouveau riche marbled monster any day of the fucking century.

“You stupid, embarrassing fool. You…you…goddamn…” He stopped, curling his fists tight to brace himself for the ringing scream that followed. “Epic disappointment!” He hurled the desk between us. It hit my knees with a bone-chilling thump. I pressed my mouth harder, ignoring the raw pain, my face still impassive.

It was hella tempting to curl into myself and resurface after his verbal lashing was over, but I forced myself to jerk my chin up and brave it. My sister and brother were both perfect in their own, overachieving ways, which made me my parents’ favorite source of complaint.

“Thank God you haven’t fathered any bastards.” Da looked heavenward, making the sign of the cross, as if God was in charge of my obsessive condom usage. I got no damn credit for anything these days.

“Night’s still young,” I clipped.

He shot me a dirty look, pointing at me with his stubby finger.

“Your little fling just cost me six million dollars in hush-money—more, if the others decide to jump on the bandwagon and sue. You think it’s funny? I’m done with you.” He shook his fist skyward, pacing back and forth in the small room. “I want to be done with you. Your mother, bless her heart, has a soft spot for you. Perhaps because you’re the middle child.”

Or maybe because she dumped me in a boarding school in England when I was six and tossed me around the globe when I got kicked out, never considering raising me herself.

“I, however, see you clearly for who you are, and I have news for you. You may be going to college in Boston, but Harvard is off the table. You will go to evening classes, as commoners do. And you are certainly not coming to live in my house.” His finger now dipped to his chest for emphasis.

My father towered to nearly six feet and one inch, a tad shorter than me, and was arranged in round bulks of meat. Years of indulgence had made his body soft and his personality hardened. A white shock of hair fell over his forehead, but his brows were dark and thick.

My mother, in contrast, was light and dainty, both in personality and looks.

“Boo-fucking-hoo.” I rolled my eyes provocatively. The edges of my ears turned hot, and I hated that. “Heard Boston’s got an apartment or two to offer. I’ll be glad to stay out of your way.”

As for Harvard, I didn’t think an idiot like me would survive it, anyway. I’d probably fail at finding the classes, let alone deciphering the lectures. It was just as well.

“With what money, pray tell, are you planning to rent any of those apartments?” A vein popped on his forehead. I could practically see it slithering under his skin. “Not mine, I regret to inform you.”

I stared at him wordlessly, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You’ve never finished anything in your life, Hunter.”

False. I finished analogies, beers, and orgasms on a daily basis. But even my dumb ass knew better than to point it out.

“You’re packing your things and leaving here immediately,” he continued, delivering his instructions in a cold, practiced manner that told me he’d decided what to do with me before his private plane touched Californian soil.

“Bet.” I smirked.

“No time to bid your friends goodbye,” he snapped.

My head darted up. Being popular was a lonely business, but I actually liked my friends here. “It’ll take me an hour.”

“I don’t care if it’ll take you a minute. And then,” he proceeded, his voice ricocheting off the walls like cartoon bullets chasing after a villain’s ass, “you’re going to do a six-month stint to prove to me you are not the pile of sexually transmitted diseases and bad decisions I see you as.”

“You’re asking me to go to rehab?” I choked on my morning beer.

“No. I spoke with your uncle and aunt, and they don’t think your problem is drug or alcohol abuse. Your problem is commitment and finding a sense of purpose. Taking responsibility.”

It was curious to hear about my problems from someone who’d seen me twice a year for the duration of a week or less for the past decade and a half.

“What’s it gonna be, then?” I heard myself asking.

I had this game I played with myself, since I was my only steady companion in life. I changed places and crews so often, I had to find something to anchor me. The game consisted of choosing a daily song that defined my mood. Today, it was clearly “Gimme Shelter” by The Rolling Stones. Because shit, I could use a hideaway right about now.

“You’re going to be working for me, supporting yourself while attending college, and living in an apartment in the Oval Building, where my staff can monitor your whereabouts and progress.”

My family owned the Oval Building, a high-rise that was supposed to look like an elegant lipstick tube, but in reality resembled an uncircumcised, angry cock. I’d have warned Da if he’d ever consulted me about it.

He lowered himself to catch my gaze, his fingers spread on the chipped oak desk between us. “And you’re going to be sober as a judge and celibate as a nun.”

And bored as fuck. Yeah, no thank you.

“For six months? You gotta be kidding me.” I stood up, throwing my hands in the air. My head bumped against the ceiling. I didn’t even care. He might as well kill me now. What was life without pussy and a stiff drink? Just a sequence of events nobody wanted to participate in, that’s what.

“This is non-negotiable.” My father tried to unfurl his spine and straighten to his full height, but failed. The low-ceilinged room somehow grew hotter and smaller by the second. Beads of sweat gathered at my temples. I noticed Da was sweating like a pig in his suit.

“Ain’t happening.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Then you can kiss your inheritance goodbye.” He smiled breezily, tearing a piece of paper from his breast pocket and shoving it in my face.

“I anticipated your reaction, and your mother—out of concern for you, of course—has graciously allowed me to legally remove you from our will, seeing as you have very little desire to fit into the Fitzpatrick family business and honor its values.”

I snatched the paper from his fingers, unfolding it with unsteady hands. Bastard wasn’t bullshitting. It had the stamp from the law office he kept on retainer and everything. The wrinkled paper, although still unsigned, noted that I was not to inherit a penny of the Fitzpatrick fortune unless the six-month agreement was executed to my father’s full satisfaction.

I looked back up, feeling something hot and uncomfortable spreading in my chest.

“You can’t do that,” I hissed.

“What, save you from yourself? I am doing that,” he announced, spreading his arms. “Agree to my terms, and you can have half my kingdom, Hunter. Continue to let me, your mother, and yourself down, and you have no place in our family.”

I never have. Which was why the money meant so much to me. I wasn’t going to be robbed of that, too.

“Fine,” I spat. “Whatever. Put me in your dick-shaped building. I’ll stay out of trouble, and I won’t drink or fuck for six months.”

“Of course you won’t,” my father said, yanking the piece of paper back and folding it tidily before tucking it into his breast pocket. “Because you’ll have a roommate to make sure you’re on the straight and narrow. Always accounted for.”

I threw my head back, laughing bitterly. “I’m not sharing an apartment with Cillian. He probably performs satanic rituals involving puppy blood and baby tears on the daily.”

My older brother was the definition of a cunt. He had that holier-than-thou, wunderkind attitude that had made me give up on being anything other than the family jester. Catching up with his many conquests, both academically and career-wise, seemed futile. He was the golden child, the wild promise, the ruthless emperor everyone looked up to.

Da shook his head. “Please, like mo órga would reduce himself to living under the same roof with you.” Mo órga translated, quite literally, to golden child in Gaelic.

Real subtle, Pops.

“My bad. I forgot he needs to take off his human costume after a long day and relax by himself. Who, then?”

“Well, that person is yet to be approached. You will have to convince her to agree to this. If she says no, the entire plan crumbles. But your mother and I have found the most perfect candidate.”

She. He said she. That meant she was female. That also meant I could fuck her behind his back. No matter her age and looks, I was willing to do it if it meant dipping my dick into something that wasn’t my own hand.

“Who?” I gritted out, knowing he was enjoying the exchange, having me at his mercy.

“Sailor Brennan.”

Yeah, never mind. Ain’t touching that with a condomed ten-foot pole.

Why? Let’s count:

1. Sailor was a goody two-shoes. Straight-up, straight-A, boring-good kind of girl.

2. She was a tomboy, and possibly a lesbian (not that I had any issues with that), and an archer (something I did have an issue with, because it meant she could kill me with little effort).

3. She was Troy Brennan’s daughter, and Troy Brennan was a person you didn’t want to make an enemy out of. He was Boston’s underworld’s fixer, the guy the upper society of the city had on retainer to do the dirty work for them.

4. The few times I’d met Sailor, she’d seemed annoyingly resistant to my charms (as I said, lesbian).

“Kinda out there, don’t you think?” I feigned boredom, itching to haul ass to the Southern Hemisphere and escape my verdict.

“Better the plan being out there than your penis driven into holes it has no business being in,” my father deadpanned, taking a handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbing his sweaty hands with it, focusing on the clover-green fabric.

“Six months to live and play house with a complete stranger—that’s unorthodox, Da. Some would go as far as saying prosaically medieval.”

“You were just caught having sex with five young women on top of your friend’s antique Italian furniture—which, by the way, we still have to pay for and will be deducted from your salary. You’re too far from the realms of orthodox to be concerned about your reputation.”

“What about Sailor’s reputation?”

“She has none—a clean slate. And no one is insane enough to talk badly of her, considering who her dad is.”

He is sending me to live with a girl whose father is a cold-blooded murderer. Me. With my unfiltered, filthy mouth.

“What makes you think Sailor would agree to this?” I squinted at him.

I’d met Sailor Brennan maybe three or four times in my life. Her parents had restaurants all over Boston. Her mother was a chef and had cooked for a few events my mother hosted a while back. The entire time, Sailor messed with her phone or looked at my sister curiously (more proof of the lesbian theory).

I barely remembered the chick. What I did recall was carroty hair that looked about as soft as blistered feet, more freckles than a face, and the body of a malnourished, five-year-old boy.

“I have my reasons, but she will take some persuading.”

“So, how do you see this going down? I go to her and just say, yo, let’s move in together?”

I didn’t want to lose my inheritance because my dick had the social life of the entire Kardashian clan. Living with a geek and six months of celibacy weren’t going to kill me.

Probably.

Only time would tell, honestly.

“Do whatever you see fit to make sure Sailor says yes.” Da shrugged. “I’ll throw you a hook, but you’ll be doing the fishing. Not Syllie—who, by the way, I’ve ordered never to help you again. No more screwing around. If you want something, you need to chase it. It’s your job to make Sailor cooperate. You’re on your own now, Hunter. If you fail to show me you’re the man I need you to be in the next six months, you’re out. And Sailor is just the type of person to keep you in check.”