Page 22 of Hunter

Charlie’s eyes flash with something bright and stubborn. He doesn’t step back. If anything, he lifts his chin a little higher, that soft mouth curving into the tiniest smirk.

“Careful, big guy. You’re drunk, and I’m sober. I win every sass battle when the other person can barely stand up straight.”

Big guy? It comes out teasing. Again, like I’m a friend and not who I am. My fists clench at my sides, shoulder screaming, but I can’t look away from his eyes or his lips curving up into a smile. He’s clearly not afraid of me.

I want to snarl at him.

I want to shove him against the wall and kiss that smart mouth until he moans into mine.

Instead, I just stand there, the protective urge and the rage and the alcohol all crashing together until I don’t know which one is winning.

“You’re trouble,” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Pretty, soft, trouble.”

Charlie’s smirk softens into something else that looks almost curious. “Am I, Hunter?”

The sound of my name in his soft, teasing voice hits me like a backdraft—sudden, hot, impossible to ignore. It cuts straight through the beer haze and the self-loathing.

I sway closer without meaning to, close enough that I can see the faint shimmer of his eyeliner and the gray streaks in his blue eyes. I could reach out and touch him if I wasn’t such a fucking mess. He really should keep his distance from me. I’m not good for people’s chances of staying alive.

“Yeah,” I rasp. “You are. Walking around looking like that, talking like that, after everything you just told us in there…you’re nothing but trouble.”

For a second, I think he might lean in. Then he takes one small step back, enough to put space between us, and the obvious rejection feels like a cold shower.

“I know I am,” he says, as if I spoke the truth. “But I’m trying really hard not to be trouble for anyone else right now. Especially not for someone who’s already carrying as much as you are. But if you need to talk while you are here, I am a good listener.”

The words sting. He’s definitely rejecting me. Politely. Carefully. As though he’s protecting both of us.

It only makes me want him more.

How is that possible? Robby hasn’t even been gone a full year yet. I’m such a bastard. How can I even think about kissing someone else when he was my whole life? The one I thought I’d grow old with.

The guilt slams into me like a collapsing beam, heavy and crushing. Robby’s laugh echoes in my head—bright, warm, the one that used to fill every empty corner of our apartment.

And here I am, drunk in a dirty alley, staring at this soft, pretty boy with painted nails and thinking about shoving him against the wall and kissing him until neither of us can breathe.

I’m a traitor.

I’m a monster.

I hate myself so much it burns worse than the scars on my shoulder.

But the want doesn’t go away. If anything, Charlie’s gentle rejection only makes it worse. He’s protecting me. He’s protecting himself. And that quiet kindness makes me want to break every wall I’ve built just to see if he’d still look at me the same way when they’re gone.

“You shouldn’t be nice to me,” I mutter. “You don’t know what I am.”

Chapter 9

Charlie

“You shouldn’t be nice to me,” Hunter says, his voice cracking. “You don’t know what I am.”

The words hang between us in the cool night air, raw and jagged, like he’s daring me to run.

I should. Every rational part of me knows I should turn around, walk back inside, and let Tim handle the rest of the session. Hunter is drunk, grieving, and radiating the kind of danger that used to pull me under like quicksand. Men like him have a way of dragging guys like me down with them until there’s nothing left but bruises and shame.

But I don’t move.

Instead, I stand there and look up at him. He’s tempting, even while drunk and smelling like vomit and beer. And that should be a loud fucking warning sign for me. Flashing danger, danger, danger.