None of them had noticed me yet, even after I stepped out of the elevator, watching them, mesmerized.
Alice. Alice from Instagram. Alice he was flirting with. Alice of his own, private Wonderland. My heart bled tar. I felt heavy and sluggish, my mind cloudy. I was jealous, I realized.
“Which senior celebrity you’d rather do, Michelle Pfeiffer or Madonna,” Hunter supplied, taking another sip of his drink, his hand tucked into the front pocket of his light gray cigar pants.
He looked so much sharper and mature than Knight, with his blond hair sleeked back elegantly, like the rest of the Fitzpatrick clan.
“Michelle Pfeiffer all the way,” I interrupted, discarding my duffel bag by the entrance, strolling in. All eyes darted to me in surprise. I smiled with too much teeth, trying to appear calm, as I went on to explain, “Batman Returns, anyone?”
“I’m giving you half the points.” Knight pointed at me with the neck of his bottle. “Because you had the celebrity right, but the movie wrong. Dangerous Minds, by the way. I’m Knight.” He disentangled from his gorgeous fiancée to approach me.
I reached out to him, expecting a handshake. Knight grabbed my hand, jerking me into a crushing hug full of soul. This guy, I knew by his hug alone, came from a family of professional huggers and knew love intimately and madly. Luna was a lucky girl.
“Thank you for taking care of our boy. We know he’s a cunt.”
“Knight!” Luna giggled, butting into our hug and squeezing me, too. She smelled like a warm fabric softener sheet, and had zero mean-girl vibe about her despite her beauty. “I’m Luna.”
“I’m Sailor.”
“We know,” they said in unison, laughing. When we broke the hug and turned to Hunter, we found him staring at us, his expression blank.
“I said Madonna,” he pointed out matter-of-factly. “‘Like a Virgin’? Not after I’m done with you, baby girl.”
“Yeah. ‘Burning Up’ would be her song the morning after, though.” Knight swaggered over to Hunter, slapping him on the back.
We all laughed, but I didn’t feel anywhere near happy. I was coming face to face with my nightmare, AKA Hunter’s very recent past and reputation, which I’d tried to pretend wasn’t a part of who he was.
A Casanova.
A manwhore.
A guy not to be trusted.
“So, are we going clubbing or what?” Knight cracked open another root beer, downing it in one go and emitting a loud burp. “We gotta celebrate Luna’s new book contract.”
“Clubbing with two recovering alcoholics sounds like real fucking fun, said no one, ever.” Hunter stuck his fingers into the empty bottles on the kitchen island, using them as makeshift nails to point between him and Knight. “We’ll celebrate your girl kicking ass in another way. Ye Gold Rush kids of the West are in the Athens of America. While Todos Santos is more like Aiya Napa, I’m going to show you a good time. Get ready. We leave in fifteen minutes.”
Knight and Luna exchanged glances and headed toward Hunter’s room for a change of clothes, but not before stressing to me, once again, how grateful they were for the accommodation—as if it was my apartment, not Hunter’s.
I didn’t fail to notice that Hunter hadn’t included me in their plans for tonight, or even acknowledged me directly since I’d walked into the apartment. I wasn’t a part of their evening plan. I tried to ignore the sharp slice of disappointment in my chest, but the realization made it hard for me to breathe.
“Heading to the shower. Hope you had a good day,” I offered him a wave and half a smile.
“Yeah, you too.” Hunter turned his back to me and began to discard the empty root beer bottles in the recycling can.
I halted, unable to take another step. Was it something I did that made him ignore me? I didn’t think so. We’d slept together last night. And the night before. This morning, he woke me up with his face between my thighs, biting, nibbling, and licking me all over.
But that’s just sex, I scoffed inwardly. A part of your arrangement. He doesn’t see you as more than a warm hole to keep him satisfied, a means to an end. Namely, his very fat inheritance.
I hopped into the shower, letting the extra-hot water pound against my skin. I also brushed my teeth to try to wash the bitterness from my mouth. By the time I stepped out of the bathroom wearing my Surely not everyone was Kung Fu fighting PJs (ten bucks on Etsy, a far cry from the people I was sharing a roof with this weekend) I was met with three pairs of angry stares.
Hunter, Knight, and Luna stood in the hallway, cross-armed, scowling at me like I’d wronged them somehow.
“What?” I looked down, making sure I’d remembered to put my pants on. I had.