The waiter appeared beside us, squeezing Hunter’s shoulder. “I’ll tell my manager exactly what happened. Everybody saw how he provoked you. There was nothing you could do to prevent it. I mean, he talked mad shit about your girl, man.”

“She’s not my girl,” Hunter said aloofly, gathering phlegm and spitting it—pink with the traces of blood in his mouth—onto the floor. He reached for his back pocket, took out his wallet, and tugged out a few bills, stuffing them in the young waiter’s hand.

“Don’t wash the floor. I want every asshole in this place to remember what happened today.”

I jogged after Hunter outside. He unlocked my car, sliding in and revving up the engine, ignoring my existence. I swung the passenger door open, worried he’d forgotten about me and would leave me abandoned if I didn’t hurry. A sharp, needle-like pain in my deltoid reminded me of my injured shoulder, and I winced, folding in half in my seat from the pain. I didn’t want to think about what it meant to have a shoulder injury—both for my Olympic chances and my sanity.

Hunter was still as a statue, staring at the pub with a zombie-like expression. I wished I knew what he was thinking.

Swallowing the humiliation down my throat, I tried to make light of what happened. I was full of gratitude and fear of rejection. Worst of all, I wasn’t even sure what I was offering for him to reject.

“Ironically enough, that wasn’t an Irish goodbye.” I produced two pieces of gum from the glove compartment, unwrapping the thin foil and offering him one.

He didn’t move to take it. I shoved one piece into my mouth and began to chew.

“Thanks again. I promise I’m not as pathetically incompetent in dealing with the outside world as I seem. You just always beat me to it before I have the time to kick ass.”

Now’s a good time to shut up, Sailor.

It was hard to believe I was the one babysitting him, when he was the one protecting me.

When Hunter still didn’t show any signs of life, I began to worry he was suffering from a post-traumatic disorder.

“Just tell me you’re okay.” I felt my head dropping, along with my shoulders, exhausted with humiliation. “And I’ll let you be.”

“I’ve never fought before,” he said, finally, more to himself than to me. “I’ve done my fair share of screwed-up shit over the years. I even ran after my friend, Vaughn, with a machete one time. But I never really fought, you know? Threw fists. Got hurt. Hurt back.”

He turned to meet my eyes. I looked up, gulping his attention ravenously.

I didn’t know how it was possible, but he looked even more gorgeous with cuts and bruises. Like a brand new car sporting its very first scratch that transforms it from just another car to your car—with history, shared memories, and baggage.

In that moment, I wished I’d never laid eyes upon Hunter Fitzpatrick, because I knew with certainty that for all his spoiled ways, corrupted behavior, and obsession with pleasure, he was innately good, loyal, and courageous.

Those things made him very dangerous to me.

Dangerously attractive.

“Not that I encourage any type of violence, but this guy’s going to remember your face for a long time while he’s waiting for his to heal,” I told him. “So congrats on popping your cherry—and his nose—with success.”

More silence ensued. My stomach growled, reminding me it hadn’t been fed in over seven hours, and I gave it a firm squeeze, trying to shush it.

Hunter shook his head, finally pulling out of the makeshift driveway.

“You hungry?”

“I could eat,” I said noncommittally.

He laughed, then stopped when his lip reopened.

“You know, I remembered this place more fondly. It kind of sucks. Let’s McBinge on artery-clogging burgers while our metabolism can still take it.”

“Thank God. The meat there looked fishy,” I groaned.

“I have a perfectly good piece of meat between my thighs, if you’re interested.”

He was his usual, gross self again. I was actually happy for the crass comment.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Your loss.”

“And every other girl in America’s gain,” I quipped.

“Not for the next five months, thanks to your ass.”

Five months.

How had it been a month already?

It hadn’t. It had only been two weeks. But Hunter was desperate to get out of this arrangement as soon as possible. I rested my head against my headrest, the pain from my shoulder and adrenaline pumping in my veins making me sleepy. I closed my eyes just for a second, but found it difficult to reopen them as Hunter started driving, slashing through the night like a knife on our way back to Boston.

Maybe that’s why he said what he said. He thought I was asleep, not just resting.

“Agnes,” he whispered. “The nanny’s name was Agnes.”

Mood song: “Zombie” by Jamie T.

The next week sucked worse than the previous two.

My life had seemed to shift from a theme park of orgasms, designer clothes, and eternal sunshine to an ongoing, cloudy, celibate catastrophe.

First, I had to explain why I looked like my face had been chewed by severely diseased pit bulls at the office. Luckily—and I use that term very fucking loosely—Captain Save-a-Bro, AKA Sailor, promised she wouldn’t snitch on my ass in her weekly report to Da, which made me feel like a teacher’s pet, sans the fun part, where I got rewarded with a blowie (or was that only in porn?).