The Hunter: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance: Chapter 17

The next six weeks passed quickly.

I was drowning in work and essays, but never missed a chance to fuck my roommate, who—it was safe to admit now—had turned out to be the best roommate in the history of roommates.

Just to be on the safe side, I didn’t get my bed replaced. It made slipping into her bed every night seem more practical and less…whatever. Even after Sailor got back to training full-time and started waking up early again, I still found time to fit in a morning quickie, even if it meant waking up with her.

It really took the edge off the rest of the day.

Bonus points: Da didn’t seem to be pissed at Sailor after that bullshit dinner, so there was no immediate threat to my inheritance. While he was careful not to talk to me, and limited our already-restricted communication, Sailor told me he’d been emailing her more frequently and had even used the term of endearment “sweetheart” (insert throwing up emoji here).

“He said he respected the way I stood up for you and gave him a piece of my mind, but at the same time, he knew I was smart enough not to get involved with you,” she told me the day after that dinner, ironically minutes after I’d used her thighs as ear-warmers and eaten her out for twenty minutes.

My lips were still glistening with her juices when I laughed, throwing one arm behind my head.

“Maybe I’m not that smart.” She nuzzled her head in the crook of my arm as her fingers played with my chest hair. I fucking loved when she did that. I didn’t even know why. Sometimes she tugged at them real hard, but it was an intimate gesture no fling had ever done.

“Maybe he’s not that sharp,” I replied.

“The answer probably lies somewhere in the middle,” she mused.

I took her face in both my hands and kissed her hard. “There’s no way you are less than a genius. Takes one to know one.”

Though I didn’t feel like a genius, no matter what my IQ test indicated.

After that stupid-ass dinner, we went to visit my family or hers almost every weekend. Dinner with the Brennans was the tits.

Sparrow Brennan was a world-class cook (literally), and it was fun watching the infamous Troy Brennan getting the third degree from his spitfire wife and hell-raising daughter. I even learned how to get along with Sam. Sort of, anyway. He was a scary motherfucker.

We talked about every subject under the sun—politics and TV shows and new things to do in the city and the future, but never about money, which felt fresh. Da and Cillian only talked about money. Sometimes Aisling tagged along, which I liked, too, because she was pretty much the only family member I had that I was sure didn’t want to maim me to death with a dildo. But also didn’t like it, because she looked at Sam like he had the world clenched in his dirty-ass, violent palm. Aisling and Sam were a bad idea.

She was the princess in the ivory tower, and he was the punk who was going to steal and corrupt her on his lunch break from setting the world on fire.

He was too everything—old, experienced, and dangerous—for my baby sister.

Sometimes the Penrose sisters were there, too. I didn’t mind them all that much. I told myself they probably had no idea Sailor and I were fucking. They no doubt thought I didn’t deserve her, or worse—that I had no chance with her in the first place. Both were true, by the way.

Things didn’t go as fine and dandy when we had to visit my family, but as long as I kept my interactions with Da to a minimum, I survived. I even shared a few lukewarm words with Cillian that entailed zero profanity—mainly Patriots crap or how the new refinery in Maine was going down the shitters (my words, not his, God forbid). Still, it counted for something. One day at work, Kill even brought a cheesesteak sandwich and a large Coke to my desk when I was studying for an exam and didn’t have time to take my lunch break.

“Here, Legally Blonde.” He tossed the food onto my desk without sparing me a look.

“Fuck. Thanks, old sport.” I looked at the food in disbelief. “Juggling college and work is a bitch.”

Kill slid a piece of paper with an email on it across my desk after the food. “Have someone else write your essays for you. Have them make you summaries for the tests. Life’s too short to pretend you give a damn about business law.”

“Do you give a damn about anything?” I jested. My parents had fucked both of us up thoroughly, but in different ways. I cared too much and acted up. He didn’t care about anything at all.

“I’m sure I do, but I’ve yet to find it,” he said.

“Liar.”

“The truth is overrated—an uncreative, uninspired way of seeing things.”

I got used to the hard work and the late-night studying. I even got used to fucking just one girl. The only thing that made me frustrated as hell was Sylvester. I listened to his recordings thoroughly, almost every night, and still couldn’t find anything concrete to nail him with.

One day, Da called me into his office. I could count the times he’d done that since The Dinner on one hand, so I approached in a sour mood. Pushing the door open, I noticed Kill and Syllie already seated in front of him.

“Sit,” Da spat, barely glancing at an empty chair next to Syllie.

“I’d rather stand. What’s up?” I asked.

All eyes darted to me. I think they were as surprised as I was to hear my voice, low and sober and lacking that playful, wannabe-rapper twang my family loathed so much. I was growing a spine. The growing pains were a bitch, but I was starting to recognize that I didn’t have much choice.

“Hunter,” my father warned.

“Leave him be, Athair. There are much more pressing issues right now,” Cillian growled impatiently.

I’d have kissed him on the mouth if he wasn’t my brother and my lips weren’t partial to a little redheaded banshee.

“Well?” I jutted my chin out.

My father sat back. He looked worn out, tired as fuck.

“The three of us—you, me, and Cillian—are going on a trip to monitor the progress on the refinery. We’re giving them the opportunity to sort the machinery mess, but it is clear something needs to be done. There have been too many hiccups with the project, and I think it could raise overall morale if we show a united front and go there together,” Da said.

I was surprised to be included. At this point, I was thankful they didn’t put a pair of goddamn orange shorts and a white bra on me and call me their office Hooters waitress, but something else irked me.

“What about you, Syllie? Are you coming?” I flashed him my good-natured smile.

The man turned to me, shaking his head.

“Someone needs to make sure everything runs smoothly here. Also, my wife has that thing,” he added as an afterthought.

“What thing?” I pressed. Someone goddamn had to.

“She’s a bit under the weather. She underwent surgery a little less than two months ago.”

“What surgery?” I didn’t relent. I could see Kill in my periphery, smiling in amusement.

“Oh, I’m not sure this is a conversation she’d appreciate me having. Obviously, I regret I cannot join you.”

“Obviously,” I repeated, cocking my head, examining his face. He met my eyes with defiance.

“Weren’t you the one who brought it to Athair’s attention that we were falling behind schedule on the refinery and it would never pass health and safety inspections at this rate?”

Syllie’s smile began to fade. I knew I was pissing off more than just him. Da hated being criticized. Especially by me.

“That’s his job,” my father boomed behind his desk. “What’s your point, ceann beag?”

I shrugged. “No point. Just putting things together.”

“Your job is filing things, not gluing them into a narrative,” Da reminded me. “It’s settled then. You’re coming with us. You’re excused now.”

I saluted him, marching out. Instead of sitting back at my desk, I sauntered all the way to Syllie’s office, checking on all the BS I’d used to record him, seeing that nothing had been moved. Since that first time I’d met Knox, I’d paid him two more visits and managed to put a tracker on Syllie’s phone (he used burner phones, but even the slyest motherfuckers slipped sometimes). I’d gotten two numbers for reliable private investigators, but I knew something like that could blow up in my face if I didn’t handle it carefully.

My nights were spent as follows:

Come back home.

Fuck Sailor.

Talk about our days over takeout food—she was my Western Wall, there to listen without judgment, to hear without shoving her opinion down my throat—then listen to Syllie’s recordings after I was done with my college shit. Sometimes Sailor helped me. We would sit together on the couch, I’d massage her legs, and we’d both have our AirPods tucked in, listening to different parts of Syllie’s recordings. When one of us felt we were on to something, we’d play it for the other. So far, though, Syllie was too careful for his own good.

Finally, when we retired to bed, I’d fuck her again. Sometimes she fucked me. Sailor was a feisty one.

We didn’t talk about what we were.

What we weren’t.

We just existed: a butterfly and a man who appreciated beautiful things.

Co-existing in the eye of a storm we’d been thrown into.

Knight: Yo, asswipe. What are you doing next weekend?

Hunter: Scratching my balls. Making voodoo dolls of my dad. That kind of thing. What kind of question is that?

Knight: One I’d like a serious answer to, you little ass fucker.

Hunter: Not ass-fucking, unfortunately. Study, probs. Got dinner at my folks. You?

Knight: In Boston with bae for her book deal. We’re coming to see you.

Hunter: You’re fucking an author now? That’s the height of intellectuality you’re going to reach. I hope you realize that.

Knight: Did I say see you? I meant stay with you. Also: Ha. Ha.

Hunter: Cheap bastard.

Knight: Is that a yes?

Hunter: It’s not a no.

Knight: Would your nerdy roommate mind?

I hadn’t told Knight or Vaughn about bumping uglies with Sailor—not that I was embarrassed or anything. But I knew she was private. She hadn’t confided in her friends about us, and it felt like betraying her confidence. Especially if at some point my father found out about us and shit hit the fan. The more we kept it on the down low, the better. I wasn’t going to throw away my inheritance over a pussy—no matter how sweet and tight—and she was getting sweet-ass media coverage and hitting all her PR marks.

Sailor was recently interviewed on a local morning show, had been featured in two teen magazines, and Crystal, her agent, had said her name had been Googled more last month than a certain Kardashian sister, even though the latter allegedly remodeled her entire face and some other body parts. Keeping Sailor a secret was making sure what we had was just that—an ongoing fling with an expiration date. She wasn’t my girlfriend. But we lived under the same roof and enjoyed sucking each other’s privates.

Really, there was no reason to tell Knight about Sailor, just like there was no reason to tell him about any of the other flings I’d had over the years.

Hunter: I hardly care what she thinks.

Knight: Brutal as always.

Hunter: Catch ya next week.

Knight: Be seein’ ya.

The following morning, my new king-sized bed arrived. I got it for Knight and his fiancée, Luna. I paid a rush fee to make sure the little fuckers had somewhere to sleep. I hadn’t gotten the chance to bring Sailor up to speed about it, because the previous night, as soon as she’d walked in the door, I’d been too busy ravishing her to squeeze a sentence in.

It caught her off guard as we drank our morning coffee on Saturday morning like two grown-ups or some shit. The elevator dinged and the movers came out, holding the boxed pieces with the giant-ass print of the bed.

Sailor arched an eyebrow over the rim of her cup, feigning calm curiosity, but I knew she was pissed. Her green eyes always turned a shade darker when she was annoyed.

“I don’t remember exiling you from my bed. We have a bit more time to our arrangement.”

I grinned, dropping a kiss at the crown of her head.

“Not gonna sleep in the new bed for a second. My friend Knight and his girlfriend-slash-fiancée-slash-ballbuster Luna want to crash with us next weekend. She’s meeting with her literary agent here or some shit. That cool?”

“Sure.” She shrugged and meant it.

The tension had evaporated from her shoulders. I knew it was going to be hard on her when I gave her the boot. Honestly, I’d miss her ass, too (and her pussy, and mouth).

“But you won’t be sleeping in my bed when they’re here. No one can know about us,” she warned.

I nodded, happy she still had her head screwed on right. Some chicks lost it where a well-endowed billionaire was concerned. Not Sailor Brennan, though.

“I’ll crash on the couch when they’re here.”

She turned around, rinsed her coffee cup, and put it away. I came behind her, trapping her to the counter, massaging her shoulders. The right one was still a little sore, but she told me she’d been killing it at the range. I thought her chances of getting that Olympic spot were really good. It was going to soften the blow and give her shit to focus on when we were over. I couldn’t wait to drown in unlimited pussy and cheer on Sailor as she kicked ass and took names in the Olympics. I would even toast with a drink or six when she got that medal.

“What are we doing today?” I asked, kissing the back of her neck. “I mean, other than porking each other.”

“Not much.” She turned around, her voice flat. “I’m going shopping with Emma, Persy, and Aisling.”

She’d been doing a lot of shopping lately and looking fuck-hot in her new clothes. Her hair was bangin’, too, and I overheard one of the Penrose sisters, the mouthy one, Emmabelle, telling her she should get a Tinder account. She was coming out of her shell, and in true Sailor fashion, she’d broken that bitch in two and strutted out on ten-inch heels. I couldn’t help but feel stupidly lucky to be the guy next to her. She was going to be a man-eater soon, but I had been the first to fuck her out of her weird limbo, to introduce her to society.

“I’ll tag along.” I pinched her ass.

Despite the time that had passed, I still hadn’t acquired any friends in Boston. It was goddamn near impossible. I worked with middle-aged people all day, then took evening classes in college, mainly with single moms and older people who worked full-time jobs like me.

Sailor put her hand on my chest. It was her go-to. That, and licking her finger and cleaning shit off of my face when we were eating. Just like the chest-hair pulling, I didn’t hate it.

“Um, no, you aren’t.”

“Why not?” I frowned, surprised.

“Because we’re going to talk about girl stuff.”

“Like penises and dildos?” I was supremely hopeful that was what women talked about. Naked. Other than my sister. I’d rather die than picture my baby sister naked. Sweet Jesus, why did I let my mind wander that far? Now I couldn’t not picture Aisling having a slumber party in her lingerie, and I wanted to throw up all over the kitchen island like in that South Park episode.

Fuck my life in the ass.

Sailor cocked her head, frowning. “Try clothes and boys and petty, albeit harmless, gossip.”

“I like clothes and petty, albeit harmless, gossip.”

“Did I mention we do all this to the soundtrack of A Walk to Remember? No? Because no gathering would be complete without a few chick flicks,” she drew out.

“Pass,” I grunted, not wanting to beg for her company.

She threw her head back and laughed, rubbing my arm. Sailor (Sai-lor. Pretty name, I realized, albeit fashionably-fucking-late) was not cold or distant like I’d imagined. She touched me all the time in a non-I-wanna-get-dicked-by-you way.

“I figured you’d be looking for entertainment, so I took it upon myself to call your brother and make plans for you.” She sneaked away from my touch when I began to draw her close for a quickie.

“My brother?” I echoed, spinning on my heel. Did I have another bastard brother I wasn’t aware of? Because there was no way she was talking about Kill. “You mean the asshole who looks at me like I’m cow shit clinging to his twelve-hundred dollar Magnannis?”

“One and the same.” She zipped her North Face rucksack, throwing my bomber jacket into my hands from the back of the kitchen island stool. “You’re going horseback riding.”

“You’re shitting me.” I stared at her, jacket still in hand. “Why would I do that?”

Why wouldn’t I do that?

I wasn’t sure if I was angry or in awe of her persuasion skills. I’d been successfully avoiding any type of conversation with my mom and da because they sucked all the balls, but with Cillian, I was outwardly, full-blown beefing. My feelings for him weren’t complicated or convoluted. I simply wished him a slow, painful death. My heart couldn’t be bought with a cheesesteak and the email of some TA at Harvard who overcharged for essays I could download online.

“You can’t hate your entire family,” Sailor pointed out, shouldering into her jacket. It had been pissing since that first night of rain when I wrecked her uterus. “You have to make some allies if you want to survive being a Fitzpatrick. He’s going to be your first.”

“Sounds ambitious. Also, unlikely.”

“Also, happening,” she countered calmly, shoving me toward the door with surprising strength.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I bared my teeth, dragging my heels along the floor like a toddler.

“Look at it as my parting gift to you. I don’t want to say goodbye without knowing you have a few people to rely on. Figured your mom and Cillian are your best bet.”

“Why not Aisling?” I tried to dodge her touch at the same time I tried to pinch her ass. We tango-ed like a pair of aggressive peacocks for a few seconds.

“Oh, you have Aisling’s vote, for sure. But you need the swing states’ support. Think of Cillian as Virginia.”

To put his name with anything virginal would be a crime, but I saved her my smart-ass comment.

I wanted to be mad at her, but for the life of me, couldn’t. Leave it to this crazy bitch—and I used the term endearingly—to call the other craziest motherfucker I’d ever known and negotiate the terms of my relationship with him.

“I don’t have any riding shit,” I gritted, stalling.

“Figured as much. Cillian said he’ll let you borrow some,” Sailor sing-songed.

I turned around to face her as she swung the door open. The movers were marching back from my room, dusting off their hands.

“I hate you.” I double-tipped them, waving them goodbye. Because I could be both a cunt and a great person at the same time.

“I’ll find a way to carry on.” She flashed me a smile I wanted to wipe off with a kiss.

“Don’t be so sure. It’ll be a struggle when I hate-fuck you and put a hole with your shape through your mattress.”

Sailor gave me another shove. “Then I truly hope your friends won’t mind sleeping on a Sailor-shaped mattress, because I’ll definitely be taking the new bed. Good luck and goodbye!”

The door slammed in my face, and all I could do was laugh.

Goddammit, Sailor.

Downstairs, Kill picked me up to go to the equestrian center. I spent the ride fiddling with the Dala horse on my neck while Cillian sneered at numerous things we passed along the way: a bed of wilting flowers, a broken tree on the side of the road, general litter. Everything pissed the asshole off. He was going to be dead by age thirty-three of a heart attack. He gave me such rotten-ass juju I’d need to lock myself in a Hindu holy site on an Indian mountain for a decade just to get rid of his negativity.

When we got there, I found out Cillian had a few horses that legit belonged to him. Apparently, he hadn’t limited his riding hobby to my ass alone. I knew Kill had played polo in his youth, too, and was more accomplished than I (insert shocked emoji here), but when we hurled our tall frames onto two twin, black Arabian horses and began riding, it was pretty clear we were both skilled.

Cillian handed me a helmet, a saddle, and a pair of boots. He looked like an eighteenth-century aristocrat in his gear, and I wondered if he enjoyed being so perfect twenty-four-fucking-seven. From the outside, it looked exhausting.

We headed to the neck of the woods, the saddle—made of rich leather that’d been broken in by my brother—tinged my nostrils with an earthy scent. I’d missed riding. There were signs scattered across the woods warning riders about hunters (ironic). When Cillian shot me a sidelong glance to see if I cared, I shrugged, aided my horse, and galloped forward. Straying far on a horse I wasn’t familiar with in woods I didn’t know was supremely stupid, but I knew my brother was responsible enough to keep us both alive.

Kill caught up with me quickly.

“So, are you still playing the part of Auguste Dupin and scheming Sylvester’s downfall?”

Of course he’d reference an Edgar Allan Poe character before Sherlock Holmes. Kill thrived on being different. He probably thought I was under the impression Auguste Dupin was some sophisticated French dessert. I rode faster, making him sweat for the conversation.

“He’s cooking something up,” I clipped. “Years of being an asshole make me an expert at recognizing shitheads when I see them.”

“I trust your instincts,” Kill drawled with his usual, grave politeness, ignoring the pack of blonde stable girls who burst out of a corner of the woods, giggling and pointing at us. Cillian didn’t even spare the groupies a look. I realized, with some annoyance, that I wasn’t particularly interested in sampling their goods, either.

“Then why aren’t you backing me up on this?” I seethed.

Did Kill’s hatred for me trump his love for Royal Pipelines? I tried to remain calm. Cillian loathed emotions. I wondered how, exactly, he was going to give Da the precious heirs he was obviously waiting for when my older brother was appalled by any type of emotion, lust included.

“You started this, put things in motion. Now it’s your job to finish it,” Cillian explained, aiding his horse and quickening its pace, his back straight as an arrow. We kept chasing each other, changing paces. I remembered his words: “Everything is a pissing contest.”

I launched forward, catching up with him.

Song of the day: “Wild Horses” by The Rolling Stones.

“I don’t like tests,” I hissed.

“I don’t like taxes,” he deadpanned. “But guess what I’m doing every April fifteenth? Let me give you a hint, not five Californian cheerleaders on my friend’s fourteen-thousand-dollar carpet.”

I almost laughed. For all his shittiness, my brother was cooler than a Trader Joe’s cashier.

“That sucks,” I groaned, referring to Syllie. I still couldn’t remember the orgy.

“Welcome to adulthood. Leave your joy and creativity at the door.”

“What if I can’t nail him?” I dug my nails into his horse’s coat. I’d noticed Kill was warming up his black Arabian, aiding him frequently, like he wanted to jump him. I found it typical that he hadn’t even given his two favorite horses names. He was impersonal, even to the things he was fond of.

“Shame for Royal Pipelines, but we had a good run,” he said dispassionately, staring ahead.

The horses lunged like a dream and took to the saddles well. They were young but calm and good-natured. We rode into the thick of the woods, surrounded by trees and moss. There was a clear path leading hell-knows-where, the sun seeping through the needled pines, the fresh scent of earth surrounding us.

Cillian was just as suspicious of Syllie as I was. That’s why Syllie loathed him. And it was why Kill hadn’t ridiculed me when I presented my theory.

“You want to see if I fuck it up.” I snapped my fingers, finally getting it.

My brother removed an invisible piece of lint from his riding coat. “You need a good challenge. Just make sure to hang the rebel in the town square instead of humping his leg when you’re done.”

“Fuck you.”

“Language is a powerful tool, ceann beag. You better stop abusing it.”

“Meaning?” I gave him the stink eye.

I loathed his self-control. It freaked me out. I imagined he was one of those sociopaths who could fuck someone for hours without coming just to punish them. He was that disciplined.

“Priceless and worthless are the same sum, presented in different manners. Words make you or break you. By cursing, you reduce yourself to someone who cannot convey their feelings sufficiently.”

“Okay, Geoffrey Chaucer Jr., back to Sylvester. What do you think he’s planning?”

“Considering he asked for more shares and a substantial raise a few months back and got turned down for both, I imagine he knows he’s on his way out and wants to stick his hand in the honey pot before it’s too late. He could skim millions from the company. Billions, if he’s ambitious and feeling extra vindictive.”

He said billions in the same tone I said pennies. That sum was utterly disposable to him.

Kill took a sharp turn. I followed. We were riding around what looked like an archery range—not Sailor’s, which was in the heart of the city. This one looked like some sort of a camp. I wondered if she’d ever been here, before remembering I didn’t give two shits if she had.

Cillian asked me about college, and then about Sailor (“the feisty redhead,” to be exact), then proceeded to say the most shocking thing that had ever come out of his mouth.

“The Fitzpatricks take care of their own, Hunter. Even so, I don’t need to tell you we have a strict eat-your-young policy. But Da doesn’t hate you.”

“Which one?” I inquired when we began to make our way from the woods back to the stables. “Yours, or the Eastern European fucker who porked our mom?”

“The one that matters,” he quipped. “The one that’s putting you through hell so you can walk away with the skills it takes to run one of the largest corporations in the world alongside me.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe, anyway. We all have scars,” Cillian said icily. “Some of us choose to wear them like fine jewels; others hide them. You simply try to ignore them. Face your problems, ceann beag. Because guess what? They’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m glad you managed living away from your parents—from your family—from age six unscathed. But I’m not you. And let me tell you something else that might rock your world: I don’t want to be you, either. I wanted a father. A mother. A goddamn brother and a baby sister. The whole package. I didn’t want the private schools and the horses and the wealth. I just wanted a family.”

“A family was never in the cards for either of us,” Kill hissed, ramming his feet into the stirrups like a beginner. His horse bucked, unused to its owner raising his voice.

I slowed my pace, eyeing him.

“Mother has been on antidepressants since Aisling was born and was unfit to take care of a hamster, let alone three kids. Da was rarely home. He slept in the office more than half the week. The nannies were not allowed to live on Avebury Court grounds, because Mom feared Da would have sex with them, a fear that was not unwarranted. In the time you were away, she went to rehab twice. Aisling has been tossed around between nannies like a tennis ball. Calling them a mess would be the understatement of the century. They sent us away because they knew our best chance at surviving this family was having minimal contact with it. The truth is, I was born to inherit the Fitzpatrick mess and shoulder all the family issues, you were born to avenge Athair’s infidelity, and poor Aisling was born to try to patch up the chaos they’d created.”

I didn’t know my mother suffered from depression and dependency, but I was too poisoned by loneliness and neglect to find compassion for her.

“Yeah, well, worked for you.” I gathered phlegm, spitting it to the ground. I didn’t know that about Aisling, but it didn’t surprise me. My baby sister was a cactus: adaptable, easy to keep alive, and thrived on next to nothing. Kill and I were different creatures—athletic and spirited, wild and unrestrained.

“Quite,” he said, robot-like.

“You didn’t care that they tossed you aside because you think you’re above love, don’t you?” I didn’t think he was capable of feeling it. I didn’t think I could, either, but that’s because I was below love, undeserving of it.

“Love is a great marketing strategy. Sells a lot of books, movies, and diamonds. Aside from that, I do not consider myself a big fan of it.”

“No marriage for you, then?” I asked. Kill was thirty, and about as likely to settle down as a wild fucking boar.

“I will, to someone who is fit to sire my heirs and feels comfortable raising them away from the city—from me.”

“Are you going to time-travel to a century where an idea like this wouldn’t earn you a slap in the face?” I wondered aloud. He laughed, actually laughed and shook his head, muttering, “Little Naïve, so naïve. Money’s a great incentive to be anything, even a glorified slave.”

“Chauvinist much?”

“Hardly. I didn’t limit this statement to women. I could tame any man for the right price, too.”

We poured back onto the track, entangled in our own thoughts. I wanted to get away from here, but also stay longer. I hadn’t spent quality time with Cillian in years. Maybe ever. And I didn’t want to go back to a Sailor-less apartment. It always felt cold and hollow without another person there.

We got to the stables and dismounted. I thanked my brother politely.

“Their names are Washington and Hamilton,” my brother huffed out of nowhere, stroking his horse’s nose. The horse nudged his shoulder, asking for more, but Kill had already turned and looked at me. He had the rare talent of giving you just enough for you to want more, but never to bring you to satisfaction.

“Where are Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, and Jay?” A sarcastic smirk curved on my face.

“In the stables, resting,” he replied, dead-ass serious. He stood straight and looked grim, and I realized maybe Cillian Fitzpatrick didn’t always want to be Cillian Fitzpatrick, after all. It was probably daunting to be above everyone twenty-four-fucking-seven.

Fuck, I’d die without cursing alone.

I shook my head, throwing my arm over his shoulder. He didn’t swat it away like I’d expected him to, just stared at me with a mixture of confusion and disdain.

“Let me buy you a burger,” I offered, internally sweating my balls. A rejection would crush me.

“I don’t eat garbage,” he drawled. “But I’ll treat you to the best meat you’ll ever have.”

I very much doubted he could offer me any meat better than what I was pounding into these days, but agreed anyway. When we walked back to his car, Cillian said, “The Brennan girl is going to have you by the balls if you touch her. Do not touch her.”

“I could handle her if I wanted her.” My mood turned sour as I threw the passenger door open.

We both buckled at the same time.

“No, you can’t,” he countered.

“So who can?” I hissed, turning to face him as he revved up the engine. “You, I suppose?”

He backed out of the graveled parking lot, taking his hands off the steering wheel to attend to the task of PUTTING HIS FUCKING GLOVES ON. I couldn’t believe I was going to get killed in the name of my brother’s supreme fashion sense.

“If I thought she was worth the effort, yes.”

“Who is worthy of the efforts of the great Cillian Fitzpatrick?” I leaned into my seat, grinning venomously. “Heir to a Western oil empire, with a master’s from Harvard Business School, the face of a deity, the body of Adonis, and the wit of a thousand white-shoe lawyers?” I quoted what had been written about him in a tabloid a couple years ago, verbatim.

“No one,” he said easily. “None that I’ve encountered, at any rate.”

“You did date that princess from Monaco,” I noted.

His longest relationship had lasted six months. I suspected it was because she wasn’t close enough for him to find flaws in her in a timely manner. He finally put his hands on the goddamn wheel, two seconds before taking a sharp turn. “Your point?”

“You date, you fuck, you live—just like I do. You just hide it better.”

“We’re only as bad as the crimes we get caught perpetrating. Learn from the best, and make sure to stay away from Brennan and her friends while you’re at it—especially the two sisters with garbage for manners. Aisling has been parading them at Avebury Court like wild bobcats she caught in the hills.”

I thought it was odd that he mentioned Emmabelle and Persy specifically, but I was too riled up about the Sailor comment to care.

“Sure thing, asshole.”

“And stop cursing.”

“Fucking fine.”