HOP ON THE BUS
And I don’t want to waste more time; I’m in a New York state of mind.
~ Billy Joel
Hunter
FOUR DAYS AFTER her meltdown, she finally agreed to get out of her grandfather’s penthouse. Fitz continued to cover for me until Willow is a hundred percent recovered. As much as they insist I get out of the relationship before things get out of hand, my brothers support me. Even if they believe that my irrational decisions will create some kind of pandemonium not even they will be able to fix.
Will it? It won’t, I’m behaving out of the ordinary but I’m capable of getting out of my comfort zone.
Have I mentioned I don’t handle crowds well?
Hopping on a double decker tour bus might be seen as irrational, but according to Willow it’s the best way to see New York the way the outsiders see it.
“Are you sure you want to skip the first stop?” Willow releases my hand, taking off her black leather backpack.
“Come on, do you honestly want to see the Freak museum?” I respond, laughing as we grab two seats on the upper deck.
“Frick,” Willow corrects me, pushing my sunglasses up to look at me. “It’s an art museum. Lovely place for weddings and special events. Your entire house is filled with expensive pieces of art. Aren’t you into that kind of stuff?”
“That kind of stuff? Like the art cult?” I arch an eyebrow and give her a look that says, “woman, you have no idea what you’re talking about.” Lifting her hand, I kiss it and keep holding it as the bus rolls onto Fifth Avenue. Leaning closer, I whisper close to her lips, “I’m into any cult that worships you.”
Biting the smirk, she tries to tug her hand out of my grasp but I don’t let her. “You have art everywhere, I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“My house is fun. If you prefer, we can go there and I’ll show you.” I wiggle my eyebrows, drawing circles along her wrist. Oh, what I’d give to be able to run my hands across her silky skin.
Everything changes the moment I see him. My body tenses when a bearded man wearing a hoody and sunglasses sits right next to us. His hands are tattooed with symbols, letters, and designs I can’t read. He looks like the Unabomber, the famous serial killer who attacked people by mailing bombs. The chills running through my body make me shiver. What if this man is carrying a bomb inside the orange backpack he carries?
Fuck. Willow is with me. I can’t let anything happen to her. This is a bad idea. Should I call Harrison? Can he stop this man from killing all of us? Hunter, you’re making shit up, calm the fuck down. Placing a hand into my pocket, I rub the piece of cloth I carry around like a security blanket.
“My parents are with me. I’m safe,” I mumble a few times.
No, they aren’t with you. They are dead! Because they couldn’t escape.
Run, go home.
“Or we can head back,” I suggest weakly.
“Today is a good day. I feel energized.” She chooses the worst time to become Little Miss Sunshine. The sweetness in her smile calms me for a few seconds, until I realize she will die with me. I’m such an irresponsible asshole. I put her in danger. “We said we were going to pretend to be tourists.”
Willow hasn’t realized this is it for us. What should I say? Stand up and run with me. Use all the self-defense lessons Harrison taught me. Kill him by destroying his trachea with one hard hit on his throat.
“Loosen up, Hunt.”
Are you insane?
We are going to die!
“We haven’t discussed our motivation or where we’re from?”
Running for your life is motivation enough. He’s going to kill us all.
Willow rests her head on my shoulder. Her coconut scent slows my heartbeat, dragging me back to reality . . . Outside my fucked-up mind.
She angles her head slightly, watching me. Fucker, don’t let her see you lose your shit. What is she waiting for? Right, an answer. Say something. We are the kind of tourists who take a helicopter ride instead of a bus. They’re safer, unless someone is using the aircraft to crash it against a building. Utilizing it as a bomb. Fuck, my anxiety spikes once more. My heart thunders against my chest, as the man rises from his seat. I cover Willow with my body. The man bends, catching the little blond boy running toward him. Why didn’t I see him?
“Daddy!”
Fuck, I’m such a loon. You’re twenty-eight years old. Hold your fucking shit, Hunter. Touching my throat, I loosen the imaginary hands choking me. Air, I need air. Fuck. Should I have taken a couple more Ativans for my anxiety? Negative, the crap knocks you down for days. Shit, I feel like I’m about to die.
“Are you okay?” Willow squeezes my hand, grounding me. Her warm breath hits the base of my neck.
Act normal! But I can’t get rid of everything going inside and outside of my head. I’m sweating, cold, shivering, and fighting an anxiety attack.
“You’re cold.”
“Nah, I guess it’s chilly.” I hug her tighter. Control your shit for her, fucker!
She gives me a suspicious glare.
“I’m fine, babe.” I kiss the top of her head, nuzzling her hair. Fuck, I wish I could lose myself inside of her.
My cock twitches as I imagine myself thrusting hard in and out of her pussy. Forgetting my shit, driving her wild with my mouth. Listening to her husky voice scream my name as I make her come all over my cock. My hands rest so close to her core, I restrain myself from undoing the button of those tight jeans. I want to do it so badly. I’d be unzipping them and sliding my hand inside her panties, my finger finding her wet pearl. Rubbing it fast with my thumb as I push my finger inside of her entrance.
Fuck, I’m aroused just thinking about the way I can drive her into madness.
“I want you,” I murmur, caressing her ear with my lips, making her shiver. “Are you cold?” My question is followed by my fingers sneaking inside her blouse, finding her warm skin. I draw small, tantalizing, inviting circles. “You have no idea what you do to me, Willow Beesley.”
“Stop it, Hunter Everhart.” She laughs.
I follow, pretending nothing is wrong, as my hand pushes inside of her jeans. It’s too tight, but I’ll make my way inside her. I need her.
“What kind of tourists are we?” Her throaty voice makes my dick harder, if that’s even possible.
“International tourists.” I clear my throat. “From Australia.” I fake the accent, sounding like a cheap imitation of Ricky Gervais, who is British, with a bad cold.
“Behave, Mr. Everhart.” She laughs and shakes her head, pulling my hand out of her pants and kissing it. What the fuck am I doing, acting like a pervert? “How about Californians?”
“You’re from California.” I hand her the pair of pink shades hanging from her low-cut blouse. Fuck, those tits, I can’t wait to lick them—suck each one so hard she’ll come as she rides my hand.
“Eyes up here, Hunter Everhart. This is a PG zone.” She runs her finger over my jeans. Her nail teases me, almost touching my crotch, but stopping as I push my hips forward.
“We’re from the Valley visiting New York for the first time.” Pressing her hand against my crotch, I mumble, “On our honeymoon.”
“I’ve never been to Los Angeles,” she stutters, swallowing hard. I’m affecting her almost the same way she affects me. “What if I move there? I can try something different, start from the beginning. No one knows I’m a loser.”
“Is that what you want?” I redirect her conversation, the last thing I want to do is engage in depressing subjects. “Why did you choose New York instead of Hollywood?”
“Performing live is what I enjoy the most.” She moves her hands away from my crotch and combs her long dark hair with her fingers. Shifting it to her left shoulder and leaving her thin, stylish neck bare, tempting me to kiss it. “But it hasn’t worked out. Maybe I did something wrong.”
“You love it,” I state, redirecting her insecurities. How can I deal with them when I’m just swinging with the conversation the best I can without losing my shit? “What’s your favorite part of your job?”
“The applause I receive after each performance is unique. Never the same.” Her posture relaxes, her neck stretches, and her voice fills with excitement. “I like the vibe and energy coming from a live audience. The reward, the love, and the mutual feedback are irreplaceable.”
“Do you want us to go to a play?” I suggest.
“I’d rather go to the Frick museum,” she counters my suggestion. Maybe we both are avoiding what we fear the most. “But I think you’re trying to avoid it.”
Can she blame me? There are too many memories inside that building. Mom loved that place. The old mansion has one of the most unique collections of art from the old world. She was a member and brought us every chance she got, at least once or twice a month. Each time she spent hours explaining every era, artist, and technique. Scott continues to pay the membership in memory of Charlotte Everhart. I’d rather avoid places where I’m reminded that they’re gone.
“What’s there to avoid?” I turn my focus to the scenery, pretending to enjoy the trees that are starting to awaken from the long winter. Spring hasn’t stuck to the program. There was a light snowfall only a couple of days ago. “If you want to go to the museum, we’ll visit the Museum of Natural History. Isn’t that the one where they filmed that movie Night at the Museum?”
She twists her lips to the side, sucking on her cheek. I want to be the one sucking her lip, or her sucking my dick. The arousing thought is shut down when a kid behind us wails.
“You watch too many movies, don’t you?”
“Mostly action and sci-fi. You’re making me watch musicals.” I wink at her. “And I love it.”
I tolerate musicals—I don’t notice them when Willow is around. Fuck, I would go to a Justin Bieber concert if that is what it takes to make her smile. Grasping Willow’s hand, I hold onto whatever we’re feeling right now. I erase the thoughts of my parents, continuing to appear like a normal guy hanging out with his girlfriend. I’m fine now, at least I think my heart is beating back to normal. No one, not even her, needs to know what’s happened to me.