Page 5 of Hunter

I laugh again, that same broken-glass sound that scrapes my throat raw. “Help. Right. Because strapping me down and pumping me full of whatever you people pump into guys like me is gonna bring Robby back. Or make me stop seeing his face every time I close my eyes. Or fix the fact that I left him burning while I crawled out like a fucking coward. It should have been me that night.”

My shoulder flares white-hot with the words, the fresh burns screaming under the bandage as though they’re trying to split open and finish what the fire started six months ago. I welcome the pain. Because it’s been my constant companion.

The doctor watches me carefully, eyes steady. “Mr. Hale, the trauma from losing your partner is clearly still very raw. That’s normal after⁠—”

“Normal?” I cut him off. “Normal is going home to the guy you loved and fucking the bad shift out of your system. Normal isn’t dragging what’s left of his body out of the rubble and then spending every night trying to drink the smell of him burning out of your nose. Don’t talk to me about normal.”

He doesn’t argue. Just nods once, like he’s heard it all before. “We’ll get those restraints off as soon as you’re stable. In the meantime, try to rest. The department will be sending someone by later today with paperwork. You’re not alone in this.”

Not alone. The lie sits heavy in the room long after he stands up and leaves, the door clicking shut again with that same final sound.

I’m alone as fuck.

Robby’s gone. The crew is probably already whispering about how Hunter finally cracked. And I’m stuck here in this white box, wrists raw, shoulder on fire, with nothing but the beeping monitor and the ghost of the only man I ever loved telling me to forgive myself like he has any right to speak from the grave.

Chapter 3

Charlie

The city never sleeps, and neither do I, but at least the city makes the insomnia feel like a party, even at 6 a.m..

I step out of the R train at 28th street, the evening rush still thick around me—honking taxis, the smell of hot pretzels and piss and possibly all mixed together. My chipped black nail polish catches the neon from the nearby signs as I adjust the strap of my dance bag. Inside it: pole shoes, wrist wraps, and the tiny shorts I wear when I’m trying to sweat the nightmares out.

Pole isn’t therapy, exactly. But it’s mine. The only place where my body feels like it belongs to me again, not to the church or the backwoods or the men who tried to pray and beat the softness out of me.

I love this city with my full body, it’s the first real breath I ever took. Here I can wear the eyeliner and the cropped hoodie and the little silver hoops without waiting for the next fist or the next sermon. I can disappear into the crowd when I need to and still stand out when I don’t. Fitting in and blending in at the same time. It’s the closest thing I’ve found to freedom.

Lucy’s already at the studio when I push through the door, bass thumping low through the speakers. She’s in her usual neon sports bra and leggings, legs wrapped around the pole like she was born there. She spots me and grins, wide and wicked.

“Late again, princess. Rough night with the ghosts?”

I flip her off, but my voice stays soft, the way it always does unless someone really pushes. “Just the usual. Dreamed I was back in the prayer room with the demons who run the church. Woke up tasting communion wine and shame of my very existence. You know how it is.”

She laughs, but her eyes soften the way only Lucy’s do. She was the first person I told about the conversion camp after I ran. Never flinched even once, and she doesn’t show me pity. “You want the slow playlist or the one that makes you forget your own name?”

“Slow,” I say, already peeling off my hoodie and heading for a changing room. “I need to feel it today.”

“Anything for you,” she says as I shut the door between us.

I get changed quickly and come out in my four-inch heels. She whistles low and long when I appear, spinning on the pole just to show off.

“Have I mentioned that I wish you were just a femboy who was straight?”

“A hundred times at least,” I laugh, striking a dramatic pose with one hand on my hip.

She sighs theatrically, clutching her chest like she’s in a telenovela. “I’m the textbook best friend in love with her gay bestie. It’s tragic. Shakespearean. I should get a cape and everything.”

“You’d look terrible in a cape,” I deadpan, walking over to the pole next to hers. “You’d trip over it and break an ankle, then I’d have to carry your dramatic ass home while you moaned about lost love.”

Lucy gasps, fake-offended. “Rude! I’d make it work. Black velvet cape, thigh-high boots, the whole villainess look. You’d be my tragic gay sidekick who pines for unattainable masc men with trauma.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning. “Unattainable masc men with trauma? Sounds like a very specific category on Pornhub.”

“Exactly! And you’re the star of it, baby.” She winks, then drops into a slow spin, hair flying. “Seriously though, if you ever decide to switch teams, I’ve got first dibs. I’ll even learn how to top.”

“You couldn’t top a toaster,” I shoot back, voice soft but dripping with mock pity as I grip the pole and pull myself up. “You’re too busy crying during Pixar movies to dominate anyone.”

“Hey! Wall-E is emotionally devastating!” She laughs so hard she almost loses her grip. “And for the record, I could absolutely top if the right soft boy begged pretty enough. You’d look cute on your knees, Charlie.”