The Hunter

Advils every morning.

Missing gym time.

Developing a Vin Diesel shoulder overnight.

Yeah, bitch wasn’t going to get out of this one.

“Oh…uh, what’s up, Hunt? I’m sorry I kicked you in the nuts, but to be fair, you walked in on me completely naked. I swear I don’t need urgent care. I—”

Without a word, I tackled her, hoisted her up on my shoulder, and wrapped my arm around her lower ass, carrying her out of the bathroom. She sucked in a breath, too sore to claw at my back in protest. I was surprised to find her skin silky everywhere. The backs of her thighs were like pressed velvet, so soft I wanted to sink my teeth into her calf and nibble my way up to her pussy. She objected the entire time I marched to her room and placed her on her bed. Next thing I did was open her closet and rip out an Anti Social Social Club hoodie and a pair of baggy pants. I turned around and started dressing her.

“What are you doing?” She wheezed when I put her leg through her pants. She was kicking the air again, frantic.

“You’re going to urgent care,” I clipped.

“I’m fine. It’s just a little swollen.”

She tried to worm out of her pants. I couldn’t believe I was now actively keeping a girl in her clothes. This was hell. I was sure of it.

“Sorry, doll.” I tsked, finishing with the pants and moving on to putting a hoodie on those surprisingly terrific titties. “Either you need something for that shoulder or you’re going to turn into a mutant monster. I’ve watched enough horror flicks to know you’d turn at the stroke of midnight, and I don’t want to be here in the morning when you make me your breakfast. Although, let it be known, I’d be happy to eat you out whenever you please.”

She yelped in agony. She couldn’t even laugh she was in so much pain. Jesus.

I found her car keys, shoved her into the passenger seat, and buckled her up like she was a kid. The entire time, Sailor threatened to kill me in numerous ways, some of them very creative and extremely painful. I answered calmly with all the ways I’d wanted to kill her when we first moved in together, including the sunset-in-the-Bahamas stabbing and hurling her from the Eiffel Tower. It was beyond me how someone would be so obsessed with something—getting to the Olympics, in her case—that they’d put their health at risk.

After we were done fantasizing about killing each other, she refused to shut up about how this could set her back with her training. Turning on the radio didn’t work, so I decided to change the topic.

“You know at first, I looked through the door because I thought you were flicking the bean.”

She shot me a look in my periphery, her eyes full of fire and wrath.

“You can tell a lot about a person by their masturbation choice.” I shrugged, driving the empty streets of Boston. They were becoming familiar. “Rubbing one off in the ho-boiler bodes well for your conservative personality, you know? You seemed like the type to do it with a bowl of chocolate-dipped strawberries by your side, reading a nice Danielle Steel hardcover.”

“I don’t masturbate,” she said, staring me down defiantly, daring me to challenge that.

I believed her. She seemed like the type of chick to be too busy to explore sex, for all its wonders.

I rubbed my stubbled jaw. “Because you don’t know how, or because you don’t care about getting off?”

“Both,” she surprised me by admitting.

“I can help with the former.” I cleared my throat.

“So nice of you to offer.”

“That wasn’t a no,” I pointed out.

“It wasn’t a yes, either. I’m just trying to take my mind off the fact that I’m about to get a lecture about not treating this inflammation earlier. I hope the steroid shot will help. I have an early practice tomorrow.”

Bitch was still planning to train in a few hours. Unbelievable.

“It’s just fucking archery,” I hissed. “You shoot nothing. It’s not even a real Olympic sport. It’s the shit people watch to fall asleep. Perspective.”

“I’m truly sorry you’ve never found something you care about, Hunter, but you don’t get to judge me.”

“I just did.”

“Shut up.” She scowled.

“Make me.”

“How?”

I wiggled my brows, and she dropped her head to the headrest behind her. “Ugh. Your mind is dirtier than a junkyard.”

I kept my mouth shut the entire time we were in urgent care. Sailor got a steroid shot, painkillers, and had her shoulder scanned and checked. The stern doctor who saw us told her she needed to start physical therapy, real physical therapy, once the swelling was under control. He gave her at least two weeks off training. She duly agreed and acted like the goody two-shoes I’d thought she was before we moved in together.

But as we walked back to the car, she said, “Can you believe it? He actually thought I could take two weeks off.”

“Because you are,” I replied, not missing a beat.

Why did I care? Why? Why? Why?

“Absolutely not.”

“I should be the one sending your parents a weekly report,” I muttered.

She laughed, and then clutched her shoulder.

Seeing her like that made me violent.

At home, I put her to bed and watched as she crashed. The painkiller whooped her ass good. She was down in two seconds.