Page 10 of Hunted: Season Two

“Fuck, alright,” he caves and consumes the egg piece. “How about blue?”

“Blue isn’t atypeof cake, Kid. It’s acolor.”

“I’m not hearing a difference.”

“Yet you have no problem being able to differentiate the sounds of a Porsche and Ferrari.”

“Those are two different fucking languages!”

More giggles seep free as I swipe another bite of the first real meal I’ve had since learning about the inevitable.

I never truly doubted that he would find me.

I mean Ihopedfor something different.

Afterall, being with themisdifferent.

I feel seen.

And wanted.

And adored.

And safe.

Iwantedto be wrong.

Iwantedhim to have lost my trail, but I knew better.

I’ve always known better.

That’s what’s kept me moving.

That’s what’s got me wanting to move now in spite of lecturing myself about that being the wrong call.

Nolan swears the SOB is back in Florida and that we have nothing to worry about and that we have time as well as space to get out of the red and into the black, but my history with him tells me otherwise.

My history with him tells me that it’s a mistake to havehope.

To believe I’ll live.

Thatwe’lllive through the terror that’s to come.

I don’t wanna doubt that we’ll survive, but the odds aren’t exactly in our favor.

“Why are you soantime making you a birthday cake?” I question on a stab of the sausage crumble, not wanting more thoughts of my stalker to sour my pleasant mood.

“Why are you sopro?”

“Maybe because it’s something I’ve never gotten to do before?” The confession is accompanied by me poking at other fallen pieces from the dish. “Or maybe it’s because it’s something I never thought Iwouldget to do?” Additional scrapes at the scraps are made. “Or maybe it’s something I wanna do to show you how much you mean to me? How grateful I am that you were born? That I get to have you in my life?” Realizing I’ve rambled too much is what pushes me to lighten my tone back up and meet his gaze. “Or maybe I just need something to do while you two are busy checking out headlights and bumpers for ten hours tomorrow.”

“We’re not going to that.”

“You are.”

“We aren’t.”

An unhappy grumble out of me appears as I shove the bite into my mouth; however, rather than continue the argument more in-depth, our attention gets redirected to where Nolan is sauntering through the front door for the first time since he left for work in the middle of the night. “Fuckme,I don’t know what aches more, my feet or my balls.”

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