Page 41 of Hunter

I lie back down on the couch, arm thrown over my eyes, breathing slow.

Charlie feels everything I shove down. And right now, that feels like the only lifeline I’ve got. Even if it means I’m dragging a soft, broken kid into the same fire I couldn’t save Robby from.

Chapter 17

Charlie

I’m gaining a collection of paintings and drawings of Hunter, and it’s getting a little embarrassing.

The newest one is still wet on my easel—Hunter half-turned in the dim studio light, jaw tight, eyes dark and startled as though he’d just seen something he wasn’t supposed to. I painted him the way he looked standing in the doorway while I was still breathing hard from the pole, sweat cooling on my skin, fishnets clinging to my thighs. I caught the exact moment his gaze dropped to my bare chest and then flicked back up, like he was trying not to look but couldn’t help it.

I stare at it now, brush still in my hand, cadmium red smudged across my fingers. It’s good. Too good. The kind of good that makes my stomach twist because I know exactly why I keep painting him.

Admitting out loud that I’d fuck him in a heartbeat was definitely a mistake. I can already hear Lucy’s voice in my head—amused and a little worried: “Jesus, Charlie, you really said that to him? You’re collecting red flags like they’re limited-edition art supplies.”

I set the brush down and wipe my hands on an old rag, but I don’t cover the canvas. Instead, I step closer, studying the way the light hits the sharp line of his collarbone, the tension in his shoulders. He looked so solid standing there. Older. Tired in a way that makes something in me want to reach out and smooth the edges.

That’s the dangerous part.

I keep telling myself I’m not interested. But the paintings don’t lie.

There’s more than a few in my sketch book I take with me everywhere and the three I’ve done with paints in my apartment.

I sink onto the edge of my bed and pull my knees up, staring at the newest canvas.

I rub my eyes, exhaustion pressing heavy behind them. I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time since the nightmares came back, and painting Hunter isn’t helping. Every stroke feels like inviting him closer, even though I swore I wouldn’t.

Lucy would lose her mind if she saw this collection. She’d probably drag me to the studio for another pole session and lecture me the whole time about not collecting emotionally unavailable men like they’re damaged art supplies from Mrs. Lovelady’s shop.

She’d be right.

But right now, alone in my apartment with the smell of oil paint thick in the air, I can’t bring myself to put the brush down or turn the newest canvas to the wall.

Instead, I just sit there, heart beating a little too fast, wondering how long I can keep telling myself I’m not interested before the lie stops working.

The city keeps moving outside my windows, loud and messy and beautiful. And somewhere across town, Hunter is probably trying to forget the stupid thing I said, if he’s even thinking about it at all…while I’m over here painting him like he’s the only thing worth putting on canvas.

Fuck.

I really am collecting red flags.

After a few minutes of staring at my newest creation, I finally force myself to clean up.

The brushes go into the jar of murky turpentine, the palette knife scrapes across the edge of the easel, and I wipe the worst of the cadmium red off my fingers with an old rag that already looks like a crime scene.

I peel off my clothes, fishnets catching on my heel as I kick them toward the laundry pile, and drag myself into the shower. The hot water beats down on my shoulders, washing away the dried sweat from the pole and the faint smell of oil paint. For a few minutes, I just stand there, forehead pressed to the cool tile, letting the steam fill my lungs. My body feels loose and used in the best way—the good kind of ache that comes from spinning upside down.

When I finally crawl into bed, the sheets are cool against my bare skin. Sofia immediately claims the spot on the pillow next to my head, purring like a broken motor. I stare at the ceiling, watching the familiar dance of headlights sweep across the cracks, and wait for the usual spiral.

It doesn’t come.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion finally winning. Maybe it’s the pole session that wrung every drop of tension out of my muscles. Or maybe, it’s the quiet memory of Hunter’s low voice on the sidewalk.

Whatever it is, sleep comes faster than it has in a couple weeks.

I drift off somewhere around 2 a.m., and for once, the nightmares stay away.

When I wake up again, my windows are full of soft morning light. My phone says it’s a little after seven. I actually slept—five solid hours without waking up crying or gasping. My body feels…better. The knot behind my ribs has loosened enough that I can breathe without it hurting.