Page 23 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter twenty-three

I change into jeans and a cute blouse with a ditsy print, sandals and head down to my favorite bar.

It's perfect and cozy and a bit more of a locals hang out, everything off Bourbon street really is.

As I walk down and enjoy looking at the beautiful wrought iron on the buildings and hanging ferns, I miss the crisp air from when I lived outside of the city.

The New Orleans quarter area really only smells good when you are passing a bakery.

Otherwise, scents of hundreds of years of garbage and occasionally vomit and urine have baked into the bricks.

I dream of the day I can get my house and while I will miss the historic beauty, I really want a full fresh breath.

I duck in the door and wave to Jean Pierre the bartender as I head straight to the fireplace booth that just opened up to wait for Bobbie.

The scent of wood smoke and the warm welcoming smile from the staff make me finally relax, at least for now .

Tonique's is glowing softly around the edges, all amber light and wood smoke and the faint scent of citrus oil from someone's drink.

I'm tucked into the fireplace seat, one heel kicked off, nursing an Old Fashioned. It's literally the only thing tethering me to this realm.

I've just sunk into that first delicious sip when the front door bangs open.

Bobbie barges in on her way to start a war on my behalf.

Sunglasses on despite the twilight, her tote bag clutched a weapon.

She spots me, veers straight to the booth, and slides in a woman on a mission.

"I came prepared," she says without preamble. "Taser, pepper spray, and an old bottle of chloroform someone gave me when I gave them stitches on the side."

I blink. "Are we kidnapping someone or staging a coup? Chloroform is disturbing, even for you, not judging… just saying."

"They took your orgasms, Reagan. This is war."

I snort into my glass. "They didn't take them. They… reassigned the responsibility."

Bobbie leans across the table, you would have thought I told her I joined a cult. "You're defending them?"

"No, I'm explaining them. There's a difference."

She stares.

I sigh. "Okay fine. I might be defending them. But you weren't there. He looked at me with such single focus. He was mapping out any and all weaknesses."

Bobbie blinks. "Do not make this romantic. They stole your glitter bullet. That thing survived Vegas."

"They took all of them, Bobbie. Even the one I keep for nostalgia."

"Did they leave a calling card? A pressed flower? An image of you on your knees worshipping their—"

"A note," I interrupt, glancing around. "Four words. "

I lean back and sip. "'You won't need them.'"

Bobbie stares. "Okay that's hot. But also, what the hell, Rae?"

I shake my head. "That's the thing. I know I should be angry. I want to be angry. But mostly I'm…"

I shift in my seat. "Frustrated."

"Yeah, lack of orgasms will do that."

"No," I murmur. "Not that kind. I mean… I'm keyed up. From the meeting. From that look he gave me. From everything I didn't say."

Bobbie tilts her head. "You pushed him."

I nod. "Just enough to see if he'd push back."

"And?"

"He didn't. But he wanted to." I smile slowly. "It was standing on a fault line and feeling the tremor. But he's waiting. Calculated. Watching."

"Which means you're in the game now." Bobbie leans back. "So, what's your next move?"

I pause. Swirl the ice in my glass. "I'm gonna out-crazy the crazy."

Bobbie raises her eyebrows. "Do we need a safe word?"

"We already have one. It's 'Jeff from Marketing.'"

She laughs, loud and unladylike and perfect. She is more than familiar with the Jeff the Elevator man stories.

Then she sobers. "Rae," she says quietly. "I know you're flirting with the fire, but you see the smoke, right?"

I glance out the window. The street outside is quiet, bathed in the orange glow of streetlamps and the occasional flicker of a passing car.

For a second, I think I see someone across the street, just a dark outline near the wrought-iron fence. But when I blink, they're gone.

I turn back, heart thumping a little too hard.

"I see it," I say, voice low. "I just don't know if I want to run from it or burn with it. "

"Girl," Bobbie mutters, clinking her glass to mine. "There's one thing we still don't know."

I glance back outside. I see nothing, but I feel it. A slight prickling along my skin.

"Hmmm?" I murmur absently.

Bobbie grabs my hand, her chocolate eyes meeting mine. "We are a step behind. Do you have two guys or three?

We have Brooks who you have only seen in a lion's mask and his hair was slicked back, so unknown shade or length.

We have Hot Daddy, who we now know is Grayson Calhoun.

And we have a mystery gym god, Rain.

We need to figure where and how to strike next."

Later that night, curled up under my throw blanket with a second Old Fashioned and a stomach full of fries I didn't remember ordering, I do something dangerous.

I think, and I Google, and there are no pictures of Grayson with his son.

Could Brooks be Rain?

I run it all back: the party, the tree, the gym, the meeting.

The lion. The tiger. The man in the hoodie. Rain.

He felt younger than Grayson. Not by much, but enough. And that hair. That voice. The way he looked at me.

I was both prey and prize. That wasn't new. Neither was the way he moved. The same power. The same restraint.

It had been there in the woods, too. Very reminiscent of Grayson and how he moves.

People just want out of his way, while also hoping he notices them .

Is that a hot, sexy guy thing? Do they come with that downloaded? Or is it inherited?

I sit up straighter.

Could it have been the same man?

No. That can't be right.

There were two masks. Two heights. Two sets of eyes.

But then again, have I ever seen more than one of them at the same time?

Yes, under the tree. Lion and Tiger. Brooks and Grayson.

I grab a pen and paper and draw three circles. Label them: Gym God aka Rain, Lion aka Brooks, and Grayson the Tiger.

I stare at the middle one, Lion, and draw a tiny question mark next to it.

Then I draw an arrow from Gym God to Lion. Possibly the same.

I lean back, absently chewing the pen cap.

"Oh my God," I murmur, horrified.

"I'm becoming the string board meme."