Page 20 of Hunter

Instead, I push myself up, the room tilting hard, and grab the half-empty bottle that’s still on the floor where I put it. One more swallow. For courage.

I snort. Right. That’s what it’s for.

The MetroCard is still in my jacket pocket from the last time I left the apartment. I pull it out, stare at it, then shove it back in. Fuck it. I’ll be late. I’ll be drunk. And maybe they’ll kick me out and I can come back and drink some more.

I splash water on my face in the bathroom, but it doesn’t help. I look like shit. Not surprising.

I don’t bother changing my clothes. They get the full package today.

The walk to the subway is a blur of too-bright streetlights and too-loud voices. By the time I shove open the door to the New Light community room, I’m twenty minutes late, and the circle is already going. Heads turn toward me, and I give them a sloppy salute.

The pretty boy—Charlie—is sitting in the same spot as last time, in a cropped hoodie that shows off the smooth skin of his stomach, and baggy looking jeans with rips all over them with fishnets visible through the holes. His eyes find mine immediately.

I drop into the empty chair across from him, spreading my legs wide, and slouching into it. The beer is still buzzing warm in my veins.

The therapist gives me a calm, measured look. “Hunter. Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Group therapy and cheap coffee? My favorite fucking Friday night.”

Whoops. That’s not going to convince them I’m ready for a change.

Charlie’s gaze doesn’t waver. And it makes my skin itch. I absently scratch at my forearm and look away first. But I can still feel him watching me. And for the first time in days, Robby’s voice is almost silent.

That terrifies me more than anything.

Tim clears his throat gently. “Charlie, you were in the middle of sharing. Would you like to continue?”

Charlie hesitates. His light-blue eyes flick to me for a long second, then drop to his painted nails. The room goes quiet. I can feel every person in the circle holding their breath, waiting to see if the soft kid is going to shut down because the drunk asshole just walked in.

He swallows once, then lifts his chin. His voice comes out soft but steady.

“I was talking about the worst nights in conversion therapy,” he says. “When it was decided that prayer and ice baths weren’t enough to stop my urges. They wanted proof I didn’t like dick.”

He huffs a bitter sounding laugh and rolls his eyes. I straighten a little, the beer turning sour in my gut. And he continues.

“As most of you know already, they brought in older boys who had graduated from the program and made me touch them. But what I haven’t shared…” he clears his throat and casts his eyes down, picking at his nails. “Is that Brother Mark, he uh, forced me to my hands and knees and raped me.”

Shock rips through me. “The fuck?”

The words rip out before I can stop them, loud and ugly in the quiet room. My voice cracks on the last syllable, the beer and the rage and the sudden, sick twist in my stomach all colliding at once.

Charlie’s eyes lift to mine again, meeting my stare with that same soft, steady look that’s been crawling under my skin since the first session. Like he’s not surprised I reacted that way, and he expected it.

The rest of the circle is frozen. Someone shifts uncomfortably. Tim opens his mouth, probably to redirect or calm things down, but I can’t look away from him.

Raped.

That soft kid with the golden curls and painted nails and the voice that never gets loud—someone held him down and raped him while praying over him like it was holy work. Those sick motherfuckers.

How can he sit here and tell us this as if it’s just another scar? How is he still so fucking soft with that trauma? Why didn’t anyone protect him?

My stomach rolls. The beer I’ve been pouring down my throat all afternoon suddenly feels like poison. Part of me wants to force out a laugh or snarl at him that his pain doesn’t compare to my own. I know it’s not true. But I want to do anything except sit here feeling as though the floor just dropped out from under me.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Charlie’s painted fingers keep picking at his nails, but he doesn’t look away from me. He’s daring me to say something else.

“Charlie, thank you for sharing that. That took immense courage. We can sit with it as long as you need.”

“Thanks. I just wish the nightmares would stop. You know? And the panic attacks. Sometimes it’s too much.”