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

That week, my face was plastered on every bus in Boston. It was an old picture of me smiling to the camera while clutching my bow to my chest. It read:

Boston’s Sailor Brennan for the Olympics!

Gerald Fitzpatrick’s doing. He was making good on his promise to grant me more exposure. He’d hired a team to maintain my neglected (read: nonexistent) social media accounts, including Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. He’d also assigned a PR manager for me. Her name was Crystal, and she had a thick, Long Island accent that rattled like she chained-smoked five packs of cigarettes a day.

I wanted to curl in on myself until I was the size of an apple every time I saw my face grinning maniacally on a bus, but I didn’t complain.

Then there was Hunter.

He’d spent the last five days ignoring my existence. At least he was being tidy and polite while doing so.

To be fair, there wasn’t much time for socializing for either of us. I left the house at six o’clock every morning to hit the gym, then headed to the archery club until nighttime, practicing or giving lessons. Hunter worked and studied from nine to eight.

When he got home, he took two plates of whatever the cook, Nora, had left on the stovetop to his room, armed with textbooks for his college courses, and slammed the door behind him with his foot. In the mornings, I’d find the plates washed and his bedroom door slightly ajar, the sound of him snoring softly seeping into the hallway.

It worried me that he didn’t take a break. Not that it should. Hunter wasn’t my business.

…only he kind of was.

Part of my job was to make sure he was okay. I wondered if I should email Gerald about Hunter’s mood. I was supposed to give the Fitzpatrick patriarch detailed, weekly updates, but they were of a technical nature, and he hadn’t mentioned anything about Hunter’s mental health.

I hadn’t talked to my parents about Hunter. I ignored all questions regarding him and focused on telling them about Junsu and my training, which was becoming more grueling by the day. My saving grace was knowing that come Saturday, Hunter and I were attending a Royal Pipelines fundraising event together. I could check on him then.

The Fitzpatricks had thought it best if we met them somewhere neutral so we could familiarize ourselves with each other before we started coming over for dinners. Little did they know, I had no qualms about meeting them in Antarctica or a filthy alleyway as long as I could show up in ripped jeans, sneakers, and a DriFit shirt. Since that was off the table at a 5k-per-head dinner party in the glitzy Roosevelt Hotel, I had to acquire an actual dress.

I owned exactly zero dresses. Belle and Persy, who were both much more voluptuous than me and therefore couldn’t lend me anything, jumped to my rescue. I thought they’d be dragging me through shops at the mall—my idea of torture—and had already braced myself for an afternoon from hell.

On Friday, right after they finished their college classes and Junsu dismissed me from training, Emmabelle sent me a message to meet them at a South End address. When I Google Mapped it, I found out it was a butcher. I decided asking questions would seem ungrateful, and I trusted they knew I wasn’t the kind of chick to make a weird fashion statement a la Lady Gaga’s meat dress.

I parked my car in front of a row of red-bricked buildings. One of them had a black metal door that obviously led to the butcher. I waited in my car, engine running, nibbling on the dead skin around my nails. “There’s No Home for You Here” by The White Stripes blared from the Bluetooth. It made me think of Hunter.

I considered bailing on the fundraiser. I hated parties, had never danced in my life, and there was a reason I never went shopping—I felt like a glorified coat hanger when I tried on fancy clothes. I could always see my ribcage poking through the fabric, the corpse-like outline of my sternum.

Still, the fighter in me had to see this through. Hunter’s family was counting on me, I needed his father’s endorsement, and besides—I owed it to Hunter, even if I disliked him.

A knock on my car window made me jump in surprise. For some stupid reason, I thought it’d be him. But no. Behind the glass, Belle flashed me a row of white, pearly teeth. She wiggled her light eyebrows, opening the door for me and offering me a little bow. Persephone was behind her, jumping up and down and squeaking in delight. I stepped out of the car, eyeing them with suspicion.

“A butcher, huh?” I yanked my brown leather satchel and hoisted it over my shoulder, frowning at their collective excitement.

“Keep an open mind, ho.” Belle grinned. “Bastard’s not going to know what hit him when he sees what a knockout you are under these rags.”

“Seriously, Hunter is going to die after we’re done with you.” Persy practically shoved me across the street to the mysterious black door.

“Is that a promise?” I mumbled.

I would actually have to talk to Hunter tomorrow, after five days of radio silence. To my surprise, my hatred toward him had somewhat dissipated, fizzling to a small flicker of dislike.

“Persy and I have reached the conclusion that for Hunter to grow up and take responsibility, and for you to…well, get a life and a clue, you guys need to fall in love,” Belle explained, knocking on the metal door that rattled against her ring-filled fingers.

If Persephone was conventionally beautiful, Emmabelle was a risqué pinup girl who’d never be tamed. Persy wore a red polka-dot dress, while Emmabelle wore condom-tight leather pants and a holey white designer shirt that probably cost a fortune. Her lips were big, pouty, and infinitely red, her eyes dark blue, like the ocean on a stormy day. If Hunter thought I had a mouth on me, Belle would demolish him completely, all while looking like a long-lost Hadid sister.

“The only person Hunter Fitzpatrick is capable of loving is himself. Even then, he does a shitty job. Look at all the mess he got himself into,” I pointed out.

Belle and Percy were the only people I had told about my agreement with Hunter other than my family. I knew they would never tell a soul and trusted them with my life.

The door whined, straining against its own rust as it was yanked open. An old, wrinkly man with white hair wearing a heavy-duty vinyl butcher apron nodded hello, leading us to his backyard silently. He smelled of raw meat and sweat, not exactly like Macy’s. We followed him as he stomped toward a shed. I was about to ask my friends if this was a spontaneous escape room when he unlocked it, opened the door, and motioned us inside without coming in.

“Everything is seventy percent off retail. No receipts. No returns,” he said sternly, turned around, and tramped away.

I stared at my two friends, bewildered.

Belle shrugged, tearing her sunhat off her head and boomeranging it to her sister. “Retail is just another word for devil, and the devil wears Prada. Coincidentally, I cannot afford Prada. But I can afford this.”

“How does he get his hands on these clothes?” My eyes flared, not that I had the right to be preachy. My father ran a less-than-clean shop, and Sam followed his footsteps. The difference was, I had nothing to do with their affairs.

“He’s got guys who raid vessels before they reach the port. Super Wild West. They know where to look, what to…extract.” Emmabelle snickered, flipping the light switch on with a familiarity that suggested she was a regular visitor, and sauntered deeper into the room. The place was full of racks. Rows and rows of wedding dresses, ballroom gowns, and upmarket frocks I’d only seen Hollywood starlets wearing. I opened my mouth, about to tell them this wasn’t a good idea, when Persy pressed a finger to my lips, shutting me up.

“Look, I’m not a huge fan of this, either. But you hate shopping malls and busy streets and…you know, people. This is our best shot.”

“This is wrong,” I whispered.

I always turned a blind eye to what my dad and Sam did. It helped me love them wholly. But that didn’t mean I agreed with how they chose to make money.

“C’mon, Sailor.” Emmabelle chuckled, her upper body already obscured by lush fabrics as she sifted through the dresses. “The only people who get screwed over are top designers who charge two grand for a dress that costs fifty bucks to make. The US economy will not collapse if you buy one evening dress.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath.

“Okay, just choose whatever you think won’t make me look like a fancy dessert.”

Persy clapped her hands, making her way past her sister to the XXS rack and browsing through it. I gnawed at the dead skin around my thumbnail as they plucked garment after garment they wanted me to try on, hanging them on their forearms.

My phone pinged in my back pocket. I took it out and read the text message.

HHH: Don’t forget about Saturday’s fundraiser.

Sailor: Who is this?

HHH: How many people are you planning on going to a fundraiser with?

Sailor: Hunter? You added yourself to my contacts?

HHH: The fact that I’m there is pretty self-explanatory.

Sailor: How dare you touch my things!

HHH: Easy, killer. I didn’t touch your phone.

Sailor: Then how did you get here?

HHH: I asked a hacker friend to add me into your contacts.

Sailor: WHAT?

HHH: You’re more easily scandalized than a 16th century British duchess. Calm your tits, Carrot Top. I didn’t look through your shit.

HHH: (not that I would find anything interesting there)

Sailor: Do you realize how illegal that is?

HHH: Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t remember your daddy being one of the nine justices of the Supreme Court.

HHH: Older bro doesn’t seem to be working toward a law degree, either.

Sailor: I’m going to kill you.

HHH: Stand in line, sweetheart. You’re not even one of the first twenty people waiting.

HHH: And you still haven’t answered me about Saturday. Btw, you can’t wear yoga pants and a hoodie there. Especially on my arm.

Sailor: Let’s take a little detour—what does HHH stand for?

HHH: Hot, Handsome Hunter, naturally.

Sailor: I’m speechless right now.

HHH: A picture is said to be worth a thousand words. Send nudes.

Sailor: I don’t think I’ll be able to stand you for consecutive hours.

Persy and Belle burst out laughing from the corner of the room, drawing my attention. I looked up from my phone, having a light bulb moment. This could alleviate some of the fundraiser problem. I started typing before Hunter had the chance to send me another snide comment, the three dots next to his name already dancing.

Sailor: I want to invite two of my friends to the charity event, but you’ll have to foot the bill.

HHH: I smell a negotiation.

Sailor: I’m not letting you drink or hook up with someone in our apartment.

HHH: You’re not exactly selling this arrangement to me, CT.

CT? Carrot Top. Goddammit.

Sailor: What do you want?

HHH: What are you offering? ; )

I thought about it. Belle and Persy were talking about how they’d do my hair and makeup in the background. Yes. Having them there would take the pressure off, and I’d have someone to hold me back when I was ready to pounce on Hunter and kill him. Plus, they loved fancy events. They’d have so much fun.

Sailor: You can have one beer.

HHH: I’m sorry, do I look twelve?

Fair point, but I really didn’t want to bend the rules too much.

Sailor: My friends are hot. Hanging out with them alone will be a good time.

HHH: Nothing like shooting the shit with hot girls when you’re fucking celibate. Up your game, CT.

Sailor: Stop calling me that!

HHH: Stop looking like him!

Sailor: Why don’t you just tell me what you want?

HHH: Why, I thought you’d never ask. A kiss.

Sailor: From who?

HHH: A flame-haired banshee.

There was a fluttery, warm thing struggling to break free behind my sternum, and I sucked in a breath, feeling my entire body tingle. I hoped it was the heart attack I clearly deserved for considering kissing him.

Sailor: Why? You call me Carrot Top and think I’m obnoxious.

I felt my fingertips growing sweaty as I typed.

HHH: Carrot Top is not obnoxious. He’s actually pretty funny for a thousand year old. Yes or no?

Sailor: That’s cheating. You’re supposed to be celibate.

HHH: There’s an ocean between kissing and fucking. More specifically, the visual offense you refer to as clothes.

Sailor: You’re disgusting.

HHH: And you’re tempted. You want to try me for a ride. See what the fuss is all about.

Sailor: Don’t put words into my mouth.

Hunter: What about other things? ; )

Sailor: You can’t even stand to look at me. It’s been five days since you acknowledged my existence.

HHH: It’s been five days since I looked in the mirror, old sport. Shit’s been intense. YES OR NO?

Sailor: When?

HHH: Whenever the right moment presents itself. My call.

Sailor: No tongue.

HHH: Yes tongue, no fondling.

Sailor: YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE ME.

HHH: Jesus, what does liking you have to do with this? You’re the only available female in my radius.

Sailor: Thanks.

HHH: Welcs.

Sailor: The kiss will mean nothing.

HHH: Should’ve said that before I printed out our wedding invitations. Wear a dress.

“We found it!” Persy shrieked, waving one of the gowns by its hanger.

I looked up, my cheeks so hot, I was sure I looked like I was going to explode.

“Whoa.” Emmabelle dropped a heap of clothes to the floor, her eyes zoning in on my face. “Why do you look like you just got invited to your own funeral, Sailor?”

“Because…” I tore another, final piece of dead skin from the corner of my thumb with my teeth. “I think I just did.”