Page 99 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

Wait, do they evenhavewild boars in this state?

As I bat a trailing vine out of the way, I see a blotch of brown and black ahead.

Boomer.

The puppy is sitting at attention near the edge of a small clearing. I hear a stream burbling somewhere nearby, and spot it to one side when I creep closer. Creeping, because there’s something about the way Boomer’s sitting that has me all kinds of nervous.

Tense, rigid, trembling.He’s either terrified or excited beyond belief.

Oh God...

Instinct tells me not to break cover, despite an overwhelming urge to fetch Boomer so he can’t run away again. Thank fuck I listen to my gut, because a second later a man decked head-to-toe in hunting gear walks into view from behind a massive spread of ferns. He’s even wearing a peaked cap and camo bandanna, so all I can see are his cruel black eyes.He looks a bit like a bandit would, if they’d started wearing camouflage.

If this is Boomer’s owner, why doesn’t the puppy run to him? Unless it’snothis dad. Or maybe that rifle at his side makes the puppy as nervous as it does me.

How many hunters are there in these woods?

“Hey, Boomer!” I whisper, quietly snapping my fingers.

The puppy glances back at me, but remains sitting.

“Come.” I make kissing sounds, and the puppy hesitantly turns toward me. Just then, the man lifts his rifle and shoots into the air.

I clap a hand over my mouth as I scream in shock, falling backward and scrambling until my back hits a tree.Suddenly, Boomer starts yipping. It’s nothing like his previous barks.This sound makes my skin crawl.

“Will you never fuckinglearn?” the man says, his voice hard as steel.

Boomer’s bark cuts off with a pained yelp. My eyes fly open, and before I can stop myself, I’m peering around the tree trunk.

The hunter has Boomer by the scruff of his neck, carrying him like a fucking duffle bag as he walks away. The puppy is lame, which I know is what happens when you grab them by their necks, but my heart clenches at the way his scrawny little body swings from the hunter’s heartless grip.

I scramble up, a lump in my throat trapping my outraged yell.

Ihatepeople that treat animals like objects. I am not usually a violent person, but there’s a laundry list of things running through my head that I’d like to do to that hunter right now. Quite a few involve his testicles.

But it’s not my place to intervene, especially with a strange hunter in the middle of a forest. Boomer is back where he belongs, poor little sod, so it’s time I went back. The sun is starting to set anyway. I definitely don’t want to be out here during twilight.

Before I can move, five adult versions of Boomer stream into view. Black, brown, brindled, their sleek bodies form straight lines from their noses to their tails, their floppy ears pricked.The dogs move silently through the clearing, leaping effortlessly over the small stream before disappearing into the foliage again. They’re mesmerizing to watch, and all I can do is stare until they’re gone.

Then another three hunters in full camo gear appear.

They move through the undergrowth with as much calm and precision as the dogs, but their presence here doesn’t makesense.

They’re too goddamn attractive.

Boomer’s handler calls out, “Did they pick up a scent?”

So that’s why the dogs were so never minded about Boomer and his handler. They had more important business elsewhere. One of those wild boars?

The tallest of the newcomers isn’t wearing a cap or bandanna like Boomer’s dad. He looks to be about three or four years older than me, twenty-two at the most. As he comes to a stop, he runs a hand through his shock of unruly black hair. The boys behind him look to be around the same age. One is built like a tank with short, neatly styled brown hair, the other is slimmer with a shaggy-cut mop of dirty-blond hair.

All three of them could easily be models. The tall, black-haired one could be in a Louis Vuitton or Fendi catalog. The brawnier one I can easily see as a WWE wrestler. The guy bringing up the rear with his messy blond hair? I’m sure Billabong or Quicksilver would snap him up in a heartbeat, whether or not he could actually surf.

My heart beats double-time as I retreat deeper into the dappled shade of a massive fern. Being nosy has always gotten me in into trouble. Looks like today is no exception. I should be figuring out which direction is home and fucking off instead of watching this weird Mexican standoff.

But then Vuitton steps forward, gives Boomer’s dad a very unpleasant smile, and slips a machete out of his belt.

Chapter 2

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