Page 17 of Hunter

Now my head is twisting it more.

Hunter’s voice overlays the memory, low and mean: What about you, twink? The way he leaned in close, broad shoulders blocking the light, hazel eyes burning like he wanted to punish me for daring to be soft in front of him. The scripture loops louder—submit, submit, die to sin—until I can’t tell if it’s Brother Mark or Hunter speaking. Until the imaginary clinical hands on my thighs feel like his hands. Until the forced pleasure and the shame feel like something I might actually want from him.

Fresh sobs tear out of me.

I rock harder, Sofia clutched to my chest like a lifeline, but the images won’t stop. Hunter towering over me in the circle. Hunter’s hands pinning me down instead of the pastors. Hunter’s voice whispering scripture while he breaks me open and calls it righteousness.

I hate how much the thought makes my stomach flip with something darker than fear.

I’m broken.

Maybe I’ll be that way forever.

Sunlight pours through the second-story window, bright and unforgiving, slicing across the room. It only hits this hard after ten. Way after ten.

I jolt upright, heart still hammering, the blankets tangled around my waist. Sofia yowls in protest as she’s dislodged from my chest, shooting me a betrayed look before stalking off to the windowsill to glare at the world.

“Shit.” I don’t even remember falling back to sleep.

My eyes are puffy and my throat sore from the snot that probably slid down my throat from sobbing so hard. The clock on my phone reads 10:47 a.m. Pole class starts at eleven. I’m already late. Even if I catch the next train, I’ll be there a half hour late.

I drag myself out of bed on shaky legs, muscles screaming from being curled so tight all night.

I stumble to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face until my eyes stop burning, then throw on the first clean leggings and cropped hoodie I can find. No time for makeup. No time for anything except grabbing my dance bag and shoving my feet into sneakers.

Sofia winds between my ankles the whole time I’m prepping her breakfast, meowing demands like she knows I’m running late. I scoop her up for one quick squeeze, pressing my face into her fur again.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ll be back soon. Promise.”

She headbutts my chin once, hard, then lets me go.

The walk to the subway is a blur of too-bright sunlight and too-loud city noise. Every step jars my sore muscles. Every flash of a tall, broad-shouldered man on the sidewalk makes my stomach flip with that same sick mix of fear and heat. I keep my hood up and my eyes on the pavement, trying to outrun the images still crawling under my skin.

By the time I burst through the studio door, the slow playlist is already playing and bodies are moving around the poles like liquid. I’m twenty-five minutes late.

Lucy spots me instantly from her usual spot. Her grin falters the second she sees my face.

“You okay?” She drops from the pole mid-spin and crosses to me.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah.” I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “Nightmare.”

She doesn’t ask for details. She never does. Instead, she pulls me into a quick, sweaty hug, her neon sports bra bright against my dull hoodie.

“Go change. Slow playlist today. You can just breathe if you need to. No pressure, okay?”

I manage a small, shaky smile. “Thanks, Luce.”

In the changing room, I strip down fast, pulling on my fishnets, tiny shorts, and heels. When I step back into the studio, the lights are low, the music slow and heavy.

I grip the pole, cool metal under my palms, and pull myself up.

Every slow spin, every controlled drop is a quiet fuck-you to that mildew-scented room in Texas.

Every time my body moves the way it wants to, I feel a little more like me and a little less like the boy they tried to break.

Class ends with the last slow notes of the playlist fading out. My arms are burning, my thighs ache in the best way, and for the first time since I woke up, my head feels a little quieter. The movement always helps. Even when the demons are loud, the pole gives me something to hold onto that’s mine.

Lucy drops down from her pole and wipes sweat from her forehead with a small towel. She grins at me, bright and easy, like she can see I need normal right now.