Page 32 of Hunter

When the song changes to something with a dirtier beat, Lucy grabs Charlie’s wrist and drags him toward the dance floor. The other girls follow, the guy trailing after Maya like a puppy. Charlie glances back at me once, almost like he’s checking if I’m coming, but I just lift my Coke in a lazy salute and stay put.

My gaze trails after him anyway.

He moves like the music lives under his skin—loose hips, shoulders rolling, his smile turning into something brighter under the strobes. Someone bumps into him, and he just laughs, spinning away without missing a beat, curls flying. Too soft. Too open. Too fucking trusting in a room full of people who’d eat him alive if they got the chance.

Maybe I’m not leaving after one drink.

I shift on the stool, the healing burns on my shoulder and arm pulling tight under my shirt, a sharp reminder of why I’m not out there with him. If I tried to dance right now the pain would probably drop me to my knees in under thirty seconds. So I stay glued to the table, nursing the watered down Coke, eyes never leaving Charlie for long.

The greasy guy hasn’t moved. He’s still posted up near the edge of the dance floor now, beer in hand, watching Charlie the way a wolf watches a lamb that wandered too far from the flock. Every time Charlie’s cropped hoodie lifts or his hips roll to the beat, the asshole’s stare gets heavier.

My fingers tighten around the cold glass.

The greasy guy finally finishes his beer, sets the empty bottle on an empty table, and starts weaving toward the bathroom at the back of the club. I watch him go.

I give it ten seconds, then slide off the stool and follow.

The bathroom reeks of piss, cheap cleaner, and stale smoke. One flickering bulb overhead, the rest burned out. The guy’s at the urinal when I push the door open, back to me, zipper already down. Perfect.

I don’t say anything at first. Just let the door slam shut behind me. He glances over his shoulder, a smirk already pulling at his lips like he already knows what this is about.

“Problem?” he drawls.

“Yeah.” I step closer. “Stop staring at the guy on the dance floor like he’s your next fuck-toy. He’s off limits. You look at him again tonight and I’ll break your fucking jaw.”

He finishes, zips up slow, then turns to face me, curling his lip in a lazy laugh. “If he was interested in you, he’d act like it. He’s been dancing like he wants attention. So why don’t you stay out of it, tough guy? Let him make his own choices.”

The words hit like a spark on dry tinder.

I move before I even decide to. My hand shoots out, fist twisting into the front of his leather jacket, and I slam his head hard against the metal stall door. The bang echoes off the tile. The side of his head cracks against it with a satisfying thunk. He grunts, eyes wide for half a second, blood already trickling from a fresh split in his eyebrow.

I lean in even closer, voice dropping to a growl right next to his ear. “I said he’s off limits. Touch him, look at him, even breathe in his direction again and next time I won’t stop at one hit. Got it?”

He wheezes a laugh through the pain, spitting blood onto the filthy floor. “Crazy fuck…”

I slam him once more for good measure, harder, the stall rattling like it might come off the hinges. Then I let go, shoving him back so he stumbles into the urinal.

“Stay the fuck away from him.”

I turn and walk out without waiting for an answer, heart hammering steady and dark in my chest. The bass from the dance floor hits me again as I push back into the main room. Charlie’s still out there, golden curls flashing under the lights, laughing with his friends as though the world hasn’t tried to chew him up and spit him out a hundred times already.

I slide back onto my stool, pick up the warm Coke like nothing happened, and let my eyes settle on him again.

Just making sure he’s safe.

That’s all.

Nothing more.

Chapter 13

Charlie

The buzz settles in nice and warm somewhere behind my ribs after the second drink, loosening the knots that not sleeping leaves behind. Not drunk—just soft around the edges, the kind of floaty where the bass feels as if it’s pulsing straight through my bones and the colored lights look prettier than they have any right to. I laugh too loud at Maya’s story about her nightmare coworker, let Heather drag me onto the dance floor again and, for once, my head goes quiet.

Hunter’s still at the table.

Every time I glance over, his eyes are on me. Dark, steady, unblinking. Not smiling, not really, just… watching. Like he’s memorizing the way my cropped hoodie rides up when I lift my arms or the way my ass looks in my jeans when I move. It does something dangerous to me. A slow, liquid heat pools low in my stomach and spreads outward until my skin feels too tight. I know I shouldn’t. I know he’s from group, he’s got his own heavy shit, and I’ve got ghosts that still wake me up gasping some nights. Pursuing anything with him is a terrible idea.