Griff:Joss n I’ll be there in 5
With his dick still hard and shoved into his jeans, Griffin and I raced out the door.
7
The Irony Was Tremendous,
the Role-Playing, Less So
Our treehouse was nestled deep in the woods of our lie-rents’ combined properties. Though neither Griff nor I were dressed for a run, we both leaned into the movement, whipping along the well-worn trail. At first, the exercise was a good way to work off the lingering rush of our lovemaking, the excruciating frustration at our first time being cut far too short. But the more we moved, the more concern for Hunt shadowed what intimacy Griff and I were missing out on.
Hunt had never texted an SOS before. None of our crew had, though if we’d been in a position to do so during our dying and resurrecting, we probably would have.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. Hunt wasn’t prone to exaggeration or false alarms. But it wasn’t just that. Somethingfeltwrong. The sensation prickled along my body, urging my legs and arms to pump faster, faster. With how insane our lives had become, I didn’t want to guess at what could be causing Hunt to call us to such an urgent meeting.
When Griffin and I charged up the porch steps and barreled through the door, we were breathing heavily, our bodies slick withsweat, our clothing sticking to us. We were the last to arrive, and if we reeked of sex, our friends either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to comment. With both Layla and Brady in the room, the fact that neither of them followed up on Griff’s and my “ride to Pound Town” told us as much as Hunt’s SOS.
That Hunt’s face was drawn, his eyes heavy, his mouth a strained line, told us even more. When Griff shut the door behind us, Hunt turned from where he’d apparently been pacing to simply … stare. His chest heaved as he appeared to try to catch his breath, or maybe it was to corral his thoughts.
I rushed over and threw my arms around him, pulling him tightly to me. Only when the sweat on my arms stuck to his shirt did I consider my state of dress.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” I tried to pull away.
He only pulled me closer, crooking his head so his cheek rested on my head.
“I’m sweaty and gross.” I tried again to disengage.
He shook his head atop mine and whispered, “Not yet.”
I settled into our embrace, his shirt slowly growing damp. After long moments of hugging, his breathing slowed, and finally he released a long, laden exhale.
I pulled back, searching his face. Griffin, Brady, and Layla were on their feet, surrounding us.
“What happened?” I asked.
Hunt opened his mouth, closed it. Rubbed at his jaw, his nape, the tatted skin along his collarbone peeking out from the crew neck of his shirt, before stalking toward the weight rack against one wall, spinning, and returning with hard, swift steps.
His eyes blazed as he looked around at us. His jaw clenched, his nostrils flared. Next, his nose bunched. After pressing his lips together for several moments, long enough that I wondered if I’d die right then and there from the suspense and save Magnum the trouble, he spoke.
“Zoe’s pregnant.”
The air whooshed from my lungs.
“Say what, now?” Layla said.
Hunt scowled while his brows drew low, accentuating the storm that brewed in his eyes. “Yep. She even showed me the pregnancy test. Actually, several of them.” His scowl deepened. “They even smelled like piss.” He scrunched up his nose again. “Convincing.”
“And she says you’re the father?” Brady asked.
Hunt’s jaw was so tight, so chiseled, it was as if a sculptor had just finished hammering it out.
“That’s what she says.”
“Fuck, bro,” Griffin exclaimed before running both hands through his hair.
Hunt said, switching to our telepathic connection now that we were veering off the path Magnum and the lie-rents had so purposefully and so fucking intrusively orchestrated.
