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My brother's former oldest and best friend, Hunter was now an enemy, thanks to Spencer, and there was no way Hunter would help.
"I'm so sorry," Graham said again, tears overflowing from beneath his swollen eyelids.
"Shh." I squeezed his hand again. "You go to sleep. I'll figure something out."
"Go to Hunter," Graham whispered again. "Don't call Spencer. Don't."
"But I have to tell Mom you're in the hospital..."
"No," he said and squeezed my hand hard. "Don't tell Spencer. Go to Hunter."
I didn't reply. Hunter was the last person I wanted to go to but did I have any other choice?
Chapter 2
Fifteen Years Earlier…
Celia
There were whispers about Hunter's family. In the school halls, in the playground. In my own house. "He's Irish," my grandmother said when she saw him the first time. "Stay away from that one. The Saints are trouble, the lot of them. I heard they have pirate blood in them, no doubt about it."
My stepfather said the elder Saint brothers were dirty, corrupt, mixed up with organized crime, and their sons weren't far behind them, destined to be just as criminal as their fathers.
I didn't care. At nine, I was intrigued by the drama and had no idea what ‘organized crime’ meant. Besides, Hunter was what my nine-year-old self considered a total hunk.
He was everything an adolescent girl could desire: buff from years of training at his father's club, Saint Brothers Gym and Boxing Emporium, with longish dark hair that flopped in his eyes, pale skin, and blue, blue eyes.
Hunter had a sexy smile that turned my insides to mush. Back then, I didn't know why I liked him, but I did, sensing something in him that would one day send women into paroxysms of lust.
"Pretty Boy Saint," they called him in the fighting circuit, because he still had a perfect face, his nose straight and his features symmetrical despite fighting since he was ten. My stepfather called him "Bad Boy Saint" but to me, he was just Hunter.
The man of my dreams. The only one I wanted.
Hunter's older brother Sean had hoped to go pro, and had taken up mixed martial arts. He was fierce-looking with his busted nose and glistening muscles, pumped from working out, tats across his chest and back. But he'd been in one too many fights where he’d gotten knocked out, and was no longer able to fight. He'd suffered brain damage and was now reduced to being the caretaker at the gym.
Hunter's younger brother Conor was fast becoming a skilled boxer, but back then, it was Hunter everyone placed their bets on to go to the Olympics. He was quick on his feet and fast with his hands, or so Graham told me as we stood at the side of the ring and watched Hunter practice, kicking and punching his trainer's gloves.
When Hunter was done, he leaned over the ropes and looked at Graham and me where we sat on the sidelines. He was a sight to behold with his hair wet from exertion, his fair skin pink and his muscles pumped.
"Hey, Celia, you wanna try?" Hunter asked, giving me a crooked smile.
"Yes," I said, jumping up without hesitation. I'd do pretty much anything Hunter asked. I turned to Graham. "Can I?"
He shrugged. "Go ahead," he said with a grin. “Be gentle with him. Don’t want him to lose that pretty-boy smile.”
I climbed up and through the ropes to stand in front of Hunter, who was almost two feet taller than me. Even at fifteen, Hunter was built. He had on a pair of black boxing shorts and his chest was bare. His hands had been wrapped in cotton tape and his skin gleamed with sweat. He took some smaller boxing gloves from the side of the ring and tied them onto my hands. I couldn't help but stare at him while he fastened them, in awe and somewhat breathless at being so close to his beautiful and unmarred face.
He must have known how impressed I was, because he glanced down into my face, his blue eyes twinkling.
"Excited?" he asked, as he finished tying one glove.
I nodded, at a loss for words, as usual.
He showed me a few stances and how to guard my face, then I punched his practice glove a few times to get my bearings. When the instruction was over, he put the practice glove down and stuck out his chest, his hands on his hips.
"Okay, Celia. Take your best shot."
"You want me to…" I said, stammering. "To hit you?"
