Page 5 of Theirs to Hunt
If I had to guess, she’s pulling up a rideshare. She isn’t texting enough to be calling her friend Bobbie.
I stay put. She keeps checking the screen. Her shoulders rise and fall; she is holding back either a sob or a scream.
She doesn’t call anyone. Not yet. Good. That means she’s thinking.
A silver compact sedan pulls up at the curb. The driver leans over and confirms her name. She nods. She glances over her shoulder one last time. She feels it. Feels me.
She doesn’t see me in the shadows, but I know she senses something. She is tuned in now. Awake. Good girl.
I don’t follow the Lyft. I don’t need to. I know where she lives. Her apartment is in the Quarter. No roommate. That was the first thing I checked when I found her.
I have cameras installed on the exterior of her building. Not for surveillance. For safety. Once she found us, I took precautions and had the interior wired too. I need to know if she is planning to run.
Tonight could have gone very differently if I had not been here. Dad is right. She probably would have taken the option to bail. She doesn’t need money. She has a solid savings account and Calhoun Industries pays her well.
Dad thinks I’m soft when it comes to her. That I let emotion cloud logistics. But there’s a difference between control and chaos. She wasn’t ready for the game. And games without rules turn into bloodbaths. I won’t let that happen to her.
She is our forever.
Dad focuses on the board. Sometimes he forgets to track the emotional variables. He manages the structure. I track the threats. I cover the blind spots.
She is safe. For now.
Chapter six
Reagan, Saturday 01:35 a.m.
Finally, having made it out of the damned tree, with yes, a soaked spot on my dress, I was back in my apartment.
I threw together a pitcher of Sazeracs and changed into my modal PJ sleep shorts and matching top with little ostriches on them, because I identify with burying my head in the sand. Pretending none of this happened.
I stared at my phone, debating whether to call my best friend, Bobbie. I didn’t know if I wanted to drag her into this mess or quietly resign and move.
I had a bit saved up. I live a frugal life, and I’d been putting money away for a house. Quitting my job and moving anywhere else sounded fantastic right about now.
But then again… what if I didn’t run? Instead, leaned into it? Let myself be caught? What would it be like to live my best book girl life? The morally gray men. The primal play. That had to be what it was. Between the name (not a zoo fundraiser) and the masks, predator and prey, it fit too well.
The dark obsession. The drenched panty moment of weakness.
I could write it off as a fluke, a stress response. Or admit the truth: part of me wanted it. Still wants it. Even now.
I’m not sure my heart can take it. According to my fitness tracker, it’s lucky my watch didn’t call 911 while I was crouched in that tree. Or maybe it was hearing his voice say,When she’s hunted… she’ll know exactly who’s stalking her. And she’ll want it.
My thighs rubbed together involuntarily, remembering his voice. Three Sazeracs in, and I still didn’t know if I was aroused or traumatized.
Picking up my phone and dialing my ride-or-die was the first thing that felt natural since getting out of the car.
“Hey, how was the fancy event?” Bobbie answered immediately.
Classic Bobbie. She’s a thoughtful friend who notices the little things and makes you feel seen. She’s also an ER nurse, which means cutting the bullshit out of every conversation. Making her the perfect foil for my dramatic ass.
“Well, I’m on my third Sazerac, and my current blood pressure is 128 over 78. It was absolutely batshit crazy. Help me update my résumé or install security cameras. I really can’t say which yet.”
“Already in my car and headed to you. Are you okay?”
Hearing the thunk of her car door and the squeal of tires assured me she’d be here in record time.
“Keep the line open. If you hear my taser deploy, call 911. In case one of the crazy-ass stalkers I may have picked up at the fête gets here before you do.”
