Page 7 of Theirs to Hunt

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

Chapter seven

Reagan, Saturday 04:30 p.m.

Itossed and turned all night, horrified this is even up for debate. The idea is planted now and taken on a life of its own. I’m honestly thinking of staying, not reporting anything to the police, and just seeing where this could go.

I’m twenty-eight, for fuck’s sake, and I’ve only ever had boring sex. One guy found my clit by accident, and I only came after lots of vocalizing to help him get to the right spot. You want me to sing in the key of G, dumbass. I’m lucky the neighbors didn’t call in a noise complaint for the weird yodeling lady.

Bobbie’s worried. She texted me about nursing shortages, said I could vanish into another city, and she’d stay behind, pack up my shit, lay a false trail. Ride-or-die.

I still don’t know what I did to deserve her, but I’m not questioning it. She’s my anchor. My one steady truth. And she gets it. She understands the appeal. What it feels like to have someone pay this much attention. To be the focus of that kind of intensity.

God knows my mother never gave me that.

My father was gone the second those two pink lines showed up. My mom wasn’t cruel, just detached. She kept me alive, did the basics. Food. Clothing. Shelter. But time? Room for me to show her my drawings or have them displayed on the fridge? Not my life.

I was a quiet kid at home. I stayed in my room, made sure I wasn’t a bother. Because my mom? She didn’t even have the energy to get mad at me. Just that same quiet, disappointed look.

Bobbie and Momma Nell changed everything. From the first day Bobbie brought me home for an after-school snack, they included me. Loved me. Made me feel like I was worth something. Like I belonged.

Every guy before this? They didn’t want to do the work, or see me. They wanted someone to bring them beer while they watched a football game, as long as I didn’t cross in front of the television to do it. They were one more person for me to take care of. They never tried reciprocating.

I’ve spent my whole life longing for that. To be needed. To be wanted. For someone to look at me and not look away.

And the way those men spoke under that tree… that’s the closest I’ve ever come.

Chapter eight

Reagan, Sunday 11:30 p.m.

Itap FaceTime, and Bobbie answered mid-bite of a protein bar.

“Tell me this is the call where you finally flee the city and change your name to Shania.”

I laughed quietly. “I’m in bed. But I’ve been thinking about it.”

“You should think about therapy. Or a new vibrator. Depends on how this call goes.”

I hesitated. “Bobbie… they knew things about me. Before the party.”

That got her attention. She straightened. “What kind of things?”

“My name. My work. I mean… who knows how much? What if she told them about what I read?”

Bobbie didn’t miss a beat. “Well, it’d definitely make it easier for them to know you’d love to be railed by, which one?”

I groaned. “Both. It’s like someone built a boyfriend based on my Kindle library and then dropped him into my life with a tiger mask, a lion mask, and a scary smile.”

“Okay, but was it the scary-hot kind of smile?”

“Bobbie.”

“I’m just saying, it matters. Creepy is sending a toe. Sexy is knowing your primal kink because you highlighted every other page in Mila Crawford’sThe Mask.”

“It should scare me more. They watched me. They planned.”

“And yet… here you are. Not running.”