Page 24 of Willing Prey

TWENTY

Shane

I’m sure there’s a tasteful, subtle way to work up to telling my brother that there’s a woman staying in my house so I can hunt her.

A way to set up the reveal so that it comes across as mildly eccentric, or maybe even funny.

Chugging four Jack and Cokes to get my nerve up and blurting, “I think I’m in love with the woman I’m hunting,” is not that way.

Unfortunately, it’s the way I chose.

I’m sitting on a futon in a stranger’s living room.

Caine’s cross-legged on the floor, the feathered cat toy he was dragging back and forth now limp on the rug.

An orange tabby waits beneath the coffee table, tail flicking as if convinced the toy’s stillness is a trap.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my brother speechless before.

He stares at me for a full minute before responding. “I don’t know what part of that sentence has me more fucked up, hunting or love .”

“Trust me, it’s the love part.” I’ve made peace with the hunting. So I like to chase a breathtaking woman through the woods, wrestle her into submission, and fuck her until she screams. There are far more concerning interests I could have.

“No, it’s the hunting.” Caine’s had a few drinks too, but not as many as me. Or maybe he has, and he’s just better at drinking.

“That’s the fun part,” I mutter, reclining on the futon. Tilting my head back, I study an old water stain on the ceiling. It looks like a dog, or maybe a deer. I squint. Definitely a deer.

Should I have texted Claire that I wouldn’t be home to watch Real Estate Wreck ?

Shit, I should have.

Fuck. I’m a dick.

A dick who doesn’t text.

Or do aftercare.

I need to text Claire.

Caine’s saying something, but I’m not listening.

Where is my phone?

Straightening, I start digging through my pockets.

“Shane. Answer me.” Something flies at my face, but I’m too slow to dodge it. It’s soft and makes a crinkling sound when it hits my forehead.

What the fuck?

Bending forward, I grab a toy mouse from between my feet. It’s light blue and crackles when I squeeze it. I toss it back at Caine, missing him by three feet.

“Answer me.” He sounds too serious for someone who just hit me in the face with a cat toy. The cat—Mosby—is delighted by the mouse flinging. He pounces on the terry-cloth rodent, dropping onto his side to kick it viciously.

Focus.

“I missed the question,” I admit, dragging my hands across my face. “Let’s start over.”

“What do you mean when you say ‘hunting’?” Caine’s trying to hold eye contact, and I don’t like it. I focus on his T-shirt instead, but it’s boring and white.

“Did you get a new tattoo?” I gesture at my right hand. Both of Caine’s arms and the tops of his hands are tattooed, have been for years, but there’s something different about the designs on his right hand—I just can’t figure out what.

“No, I didn’t. And answer me.”

He’s lying about the tattoo, I’m positive.

“She tries to get away from me, but I find her.”

My brain itches. I was going to do something, but what?

“Shane, tell me exactly when and how you’ve hunted her.” Caine’s voice is grim.

Being told what to do by my little brother is irritating enough, but the idea of telling anyone how I hunt Claire makes my jaw clench. What happens beyond the tree line is ours alone. Every single one of her moans, and gasps, and cries belongs to me.

“Hell no,” I snap. “I’m not telling you how I fuck my…Claire.”

Shit.

I need to text her.

Turning my pockets inside out, I’m frustrated when there’s nothing but my wallet in them. “Where’s my phone?” Standing, I start to look for it.

Caine’s confused. “Wait, fucking? What are—oh my god, your phone is on the coffee table. Put the mattress down.”

I drop the side of the futon mattress with a thud. He’s right: my phone’s on the coffee table.

Grabbing it, I sit back down. “I need to text her in case she thinks I’m coming home to watch Real Estate Wreck .”

Mosby has crawled into Caine’s lap, and they’re both staring at me.

Using voice-to-text, I let Claire know my brother is in town and we’ve been drinking so I’m probably going to crash at his place, except it isn’t his place since he’s house-sitting.

Actually, it’s more like cat-sitting, but I’ll explain tomorrow and she should have a good night.

Once I’m satisfied with the message, I add a few deer emojis and delete them.

Then I add them back, because they’re cute, and Claire likes cute things.

There’s a hedgehog emoji a few rows over—I think it’s new—and I add three since it’s sort of cute too.

Looking up after I press send, I see Caine staring at me. He’s smiling.

What did I miss?

“Why are you happy?” I scan the room, trying to figure it out.

“Do you have a girlfriend? Did you just text your girlfriend?”

Ah.

That’s why he’s happy. Caine’s always encouraging me to get on dating apps with names like Doorjamb and Tumble. They sound horrible. Making virtual small talk with someone to see if we want to meet up to make real-life small talk is not for me.

“Not a girlfriend,” I offer, holding my hand out for Mosby to inspect. He’s been avoiding me, but maybe he’s coming around. I consider taking a picture of him for Claire. Or a video.

If he plays with the mouse again, I will.

“Then what is she? What does ‘hunting’ her mean?” Caine laughs as Mosby rubs my ankle, then puffs up and skitters sideways across the living room.

“You’re going to want another drink for this.” Sliding off the futon, I join Caine on the floor and reach for the toy mouse. I really want to get a video for Claire.

· · ·

By the time I’ve won over Mosby, I’ve given Caine a brief rundown of the basics.

Namely, the Christmas party, hiring professionals, Claire’s divorce, my observations, the contract, and her moving in.

I also mention today’s epiphany—that I’m apparently interested in a variety of kinks, provided Claire’s involved.

I’ve moved to a recliner in the corner of the room.

Mosby is on my lap, covering my dress pants with short orange hairs, but he’s purring, so I don’t move him.

I have a change of clothes at the firm to wear tomorrow.

I keep them there for when I work overnight, which happens often—or at least it did before this month.

Caine has migrated to the futon, and he’s sprawled on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“So, one more time: If she’s brilliant, tough, funny, kind, and inhumanly sexy , why aren’t you just dating her? Why complicate it with a contract, Mr. Lawyer?”

Hah.

Complicate.

My brother doesn’t understand my need to outline responsibilities and expectations. I can’t even get frustrated with him over it. We’re too different. Caine has never had problems forming and keeping relationships—romantic or platonic.

“The contract simplifies things. Establishes boundaries and outlines both parties’ obligations.”

“Is it simplifying things now?” The toy mouse is in his hand, and he’s swinging it back and forth by its tail.

“Did you film five videos of Mosby the mouse hunter because the contract says you have to? Or did you do it because you know it’ll make her happy, and when she’s happy your grinchy little heart grows three sizes?

” He chuckles. “Heh, you get a heart-on. Get it? Like a hard-on—”

“Shut up,” I grumble, rubbing behind the cat’s ears. He stretches out on my thighs, his purr accelerating.

“If you like her beyond the scope of the contract, you need to tell her. Ask her out.” Now he’s tossing the mouse up in the air and catching it. The crinkle makes Mosby stir, opening his eyes and then yawning so big they close again.

“I’m going to, but I want to do it right.”

He snorts. “Do not overthink this. Literally all you have to do is open your mouth and ask if you can take her out for dinner—and don’t make her sign anything, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s not that easy.” Mosby slinks from my lap. “If I ask her out now, she might say yes because she feels like she has to or the rest of the month will be awkward.”

Caine mumbles something under his breath about everything being awkward with me. I ignore him. “But if I ask her out at the end of the month, it will seem like I’m trying to date her so I can hunt her for free. I’m fucked.”

Still tossing the mouse, he makes a contemplative sound.

“The first point is valid. It does put her in an uncomfortable spot if you ask before the end. But the second is bullshit. When the clock strikes midnight on day thirty, you need to tell her how you feel, and just see what she says. Hell, tell her what you’re telling me, that you wanted to say something sooner, but didn’t want to put pressure on her. ”

“Then what?”

He groans loudly. “Then if she’s into you, you date her. If she’s not, you move on.”

“Say she’s not into me. Then I’ve made it weird, and she won’t agree to another thirty days.”

He darts a concerned glance at me, before returning his attention to the mouse. “You’d want to hire her again even if she turned you down?”

“Of course.” I watch Mosby creep under the coffee table, his eyes on the mouse Caine’s tossing to himself.

“That’s why I have to orchestrate the transition from business arrangement to whatever comes next so carefully.

If I could, I’d roll from one contract to the next—forgo the emotional discussions entirely—but I crunched the numbers, it isn’t financially feasible long-term. ”

“For the love of fuck, you are such a nerd. No orchestras or number crunching, just talk to her about how you feel.”

Mosby moves closer. Caine’s unaware. I consider warning him, but decide against it. He makes it sound simple, because for him, it is. How did we grow up in the same house but turn out so different? “You know I’m not good with emotions.”

Caine laughs. “And I’m not good with numbers, but I still pay my taxes. Usually.”

I’ve hit the morose point of drunk, and his amusement irritates me. “Sure, you can laugh. You can express emotions like a real person.”

“Do you realize you’re expressing an emotion now?

” He tosses the mouse faster as he speaks.

Mosby’s settled into a crouch, his eyes locked on the toy.

“Look, you, Delaney, and me, we all have issues, I’m not arguing that.

They aren’t all our fault, but they are our responsibility.

We didn’t pick them, but we’ve got them, so we deal.

Otherwise Joel wins—fucks up our whole lives instead of just our childhoods.

” Caine only refers to our father by his first name, spitting the word out as if it’s rancid.

When he exhales, I see it as much as hear it.

“I swear the first six months I went to therapy, I did it solely out of spite because I knew he would have hated it. Turned out being good, though.” He side-eyes me.

“You and Delaney both need to try it; maybe it will cure your emotional constipation.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mosby’s tail whipping as he prepares to launch at the mouse Caine is still tossing and catching. “Maybe one day. Sorry for making you play therapist in the meantime.”

He chuckles. “I’m always ready to share my wisdom—what the fuck!”

Mosby strikes. He goes for the mouse, misses, and crashes headfirst on Caine’s face with a soft thunk. A flurry of orange fur and indignation, he races back across the room to glower at us from behind the recliner.

Sputtering, Caine sits up, wiping his face. “I can’t believe you let him ambush me. You’ve changed.” He grumbles, “Betraying your brother. Hunting women. What have you become?”

“You called me a nerd,” I retort. “And I only want to hunt one woman.”