Sylvester Lewis wanted to fuck my family up, and despite everything, or maybe because of everything, I wasn’t okay with that.
I wanted to get to the bottom of this. Before or after I screwed my father’s little redhead project? Only time would tell, but I had two incentives now. Two things to wake up in the morning for:
1. Find out what Syllie was up to and deal with him myself
2. Tame Sailor Brennan, the unbroken, wild horse I wanted to use as my own personal pet until this nightmare of an agreement was over
On Monday, I woke up to a picture of me in the local newspaper, ducking my head down while following Hunter to a limo on our way out of the fundraiser.
“The Hunter Games: Royal Pipelines Playboy Caught Canoodling Archery Mistress Sailor Brennan!” screamed the headline, which I thought was both incorrect and unwitty.
I figured Gerald was behind this, and also knew he had decided to market his son and me as a couple to tame Hunter’s disastrous image, so I tried to tell myself I didn’t care—all while shoving the newspaper to the bottom of my duffel bag, making sure Junsu couldn’t find it.
As it turned out, a couple days later it didn’t really matter.
“The boy. He’s here again,” Junsu announced solemnly, his hands clasped behind his back, a disapproving pucker on his lips.
Ignoring him, I lifted my bow, which looked like an arm ripped from a Transformer robot, drawing a breath to regain my composure. It had taken me forty-eight hours to get my head straight after the stupid fundraiser. I spent Sunday with Persy, Belle, and Aisling, eating cupcakes, watching Riverdale, and talking about anything other than Hunter Fitzpatrick. I realized one dance meant nothing in the grand scheme of life. The fact of the matter was, Hunter was scrolling through pictures of half-naked girls in the limo after our so-called moment. I got temporarily blinded by his looks, but checked myself quickly. Now, it was time to focus on what truly mattered: archery.
My eyes zoomed in on the target, and I imagined it was Hunter’s beautiful face. I released the arrow, watching it travel the 76.5 yards to its destination and landing on the eight-point ring.
I knew it had nothing to do with my lack of cold-eyed precision and everything to do with my sore right shoulder, but every time I complained to Junsu, he said it was the usual discomfort athletes had to deal with.
“You think it is any different in judo, fencing, and artistic swimming? They all hurt. Art is pain, Sailor.”
I lowered the bow, adjusting my ball cap before plucking another arrow from the stack beside me.
“Did you hear what I said?” Junsu asked. His stern gaze prickled my skin with awareness.
“Loud and clear.” I punched the timer on my watch to twenty seconds, the time given Olympic archers when they reached the finals, and began to draw the arrow. I’d been shooting between two hundred and three hundred arrows a day, working day and night.
“Well?” he said impatiently. “Shoo him away. He is waiting outside.”
I shot the second arrow—this time imagining the target to be Hunter’s elusive, cold heart—watching as it got the seven-point ring.
Shoot. I needed a steroid shot or I was going to perform miserably this week.
I twisted my neck to look at Junsu, smiling calmly. “Acknowledging him would encourage him. As I said before, he is not my boyfriend. If he decides to visit me here, I have no control over it, but I’m not going to stop my training because of it.”
Junsu didn’t mention Hunter again, and I tried not to think about his presence here. I sucked for the remainder of the practice.
Half an hour later, I strolled out of the shooting range to my car, surprised to find Hunter leaning against my trunk in his pristine navy suit, his arms and legs crossed.
He waited outside all this time?
“So this is how living in the doghouse feels.” He spread his arms, gesturing to an imaginary kennel, his words seasoned with buoyancy.
“If you’re about to make a bitch joke, please spare the world, and while you’re at it, get off my trunk,” I shot back.
Hunter surprised me by obliging, muttering something about things he would like to do with my trunk that had nothing to do with my vehicle.
I popped the trunk open, dumping my gear inside. I slammed it shut, feeling the sweet, curling pressure of excitement escalating in my chest despite my best efforts. When I turned around, Hunter was there, in my face. Closer than the time we’d danced together. He planted his hands on either side of me, on my car, his lips inches from mine.
“You’re avoiding me,” he hissed.
“So are you.”
My roommate hadn’t exactly sought me out since the fundraiser, other than the unanswered text messages. Truth was, I had no right to be hurt because he was checking out other women, and he had no right to interrupt me while I was training. The lines were beginning to blur, and I didn’t like it.