Page 6 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter six

F inally, having made it out of the damned tree, with yes, a soaked spot on my dress, I was back in my apartment.

I threw together a pitcher of Sazeracs and changed into my modal PJ sleep shorts and matching top with little ostriches on them, because I identify with burying my head in the sand. Pretending none of this happened.

I stared at my phone, debating whether to call my best friend, Bobbie. I didn’t know if I wanted to drag her into this mess or quietly resign and move.

I had a bit saved up. I live a frugal life, and I’d been putting money away for a house. Quitting my job and moving anywhere else sounded fantastic right about now.

But then again… what if I didn’t run? Instead, leaned into it? Let myself be caught? What would it be like to live my best book girl life? The morally gray men. The primal play. That had to be what it was. Between the name (not a zoo fundraiser) and the masks, predator and prey, it fit too well .

The dark obsession. The drenched panty moment of weakness.

I could write it off as a fluke, a stress response. Or admit the truth: part of me wanted it. Still wants it. Even now.

I’m not sure my heart can take it. According to my fitness tracker, it’s lucky my watch didn’t call 911 while I was crouched in that tree. Or maybe it was hearing his voice say, When she’s hunted… she’ll know exactly who’s stalking her. And she’ll want it.

My thighs rubbed together involuntarily, remembering his voice. Three Sazeracs in, and I still didn’t know if I was aroused or traumatized.

Picking up my phone and dialing my ride-or-die was the first thing that felt natural since getting out of the car.

“Hey, how was the fancy event?” Bobbie answered immediately.

Classic Bobbie. She’s a thoughtful friend who notices the little things and makes you feel seen. She’s also an ER nurse, which means cutting the bullshit out of every conversation. Making her the perfect foil for my dramatic ass.

“Well, I’m on my third Sazerac, and my current blood pressure is 128 over 78. It was absolutely batshit crazy. Help me update my résumé or install security cameras. I really can’t say which yet.”

“Already in my car and headed to you. Are you okay?”

Hearing the thunk of her car door and the squeal of tires assured me she’d be here in record time.

“Keep the line open. If you hear my taser deploy, call 911. In case one of the crazy-ass stalkers I may have picked up at the fête gets here before you do.”

“Did you say stalkers? Plural? Seriously, how? You were gone for four hours.”

“I know! Crazy, right? But I did. Two of them. About as easily as I think I may have caught some poison ivy, based on the look of my left leg,” I whined .

The knock on the door came fast, less than ten minutes later, and I did the smart thing: peeked through the peephole, taser still in hand. I was doing a bad rejected Charlie’s Angel impersonation.

“Open up, crazy,” Bobbie said, loud enough for the whole floor to hear.

I cracked the door. “Say something only Bobbie would say.”

She rolled her eyes and answered immediately. “You once got out of a date with a total skeez by saying you had a colostomy bag.”

Satisfied, I yanked it open and practically collapsed into her arms.

She hugged me tight, then leaned back to look me over. “Okay. You’re not bleeding, which is my usual baseline for drama. But you are flushed, tipsy, and vibrating with chaotic energy, so… talk.”

I motioned her inside. “I premixed the drinks on the counter. Sazerac, heavy on regret.”

She grabbed it and followed me into the living room, dropping onto the couch like she owned it, because she basically did.

I flopped beside her, dramatically kicking one ostrich-printed thigh into the air.

“So,” she said, sipping. “Stalkers. Poison ivy. Masked men. Start explaining.”

I groaned and threw my head back.

“It was supposed to be a mingle party. Genevieve from HR, you know, the one who puts inspirational quotes in her email signature, invited me. Said it was exclusive. Classy. Said the men were mature.”

Bobbie squinted. “Is that code for creepy old rich guys?”

“Some definitely fit the category, but also… sexy rich guys. One looked straight out of my favorite NSFW book. Dark hair, hint of silver, tailored suit. Voice? Mmm. Resonant, crisp, authoritative. The kind that makes you want to call him Sir and see how far you can push before he puts you over his knee.”

“And his son? Dead ringer for the cover model of Primal Heat: Book Four. A little shorter, still at least a foot taller than me, and swole. His buttons deserved hazard pay for holding his shirt together. And don’t even get me started on the quads and bubble butt.”

Bobbie stared at me. “I’m sorry. Are you describing a horror story or a fantasy?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know. They gave us masks and numbers, and then I heard Genevieve in the bathroom saying she got a five-thousand-dollar bonus for bringing me. Five grand. Like I was a luxury handbag or something.”

Bobbie sat up straighter. “Wait. They sold you? Actually sold? Auction block or discreet bidder numbers?”

I nodded, wide-eyed. “But with cocktails and a string quartet playing Wicked Game in the background.”

Chewing my bottom lip, I thought it through. “I never witnessed active bidding. They brought girls in one by one into a room. A few were escorted out to a car after. Others came back looking overjoyed. Practically waving golden ticket energy. I dipped before they brought me in.”

She rubbed her temples. “Oh my God. And you stayed?”

Throwing my hands up, I yelped, “Hindsight, hello! It didn’t seem sketchy until I was sipping champagne and complimenting the detailing on a woman’s wolf mask. She smiled and said, ‘The better to hunt you with, darling.’”

Every nature show I ever watched kicked in on loop. David Attenborough narration in my head. You don’t run from predators.

So, there I was, trying to look casual, scanning for exits, humming Don’t Be Suspicious.

She blinked at me for a second, then muttered, “I’m going to need to see your leg.”

“Poison ivy, or my body rejecting bad decisions?”

Bobbie sighed. “Okay.” Examining the thigh I shoved onto her lap, she determined, “Bark burn, babe, from climbing trees in a dress. Now you’re walking me through every single second again. And then we’re filing something. A complaint. A resignation. A restraining order. A plot twist.”

“Honestly?” I murmured. “It was kind of hot.”

Bobbie didn’t answer. She drained the rest of the Sazerac and headed for the medicine cabinet.