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When I spoke to Graham about it, he seemed dismissive. "I guess we're seeing Hunter's true color
s."
I didn't think so. I couldn't believe that Hunter was fine with carrying on with the way things were—the way that sent his uncle to federal prison for a decade and that got his brother killed. I had to think that Hunter was just having problems extricating the business from the grasp of the mafia, but his actions seemed the opposite of that.
He seemed to be in even more deeply. There was talk of Hunter spending time with members of the Romanov family—even the notorious head of the Romanovs, Sergei—the godfather who rarely spent time in Boston, preferring instead to spend his time on Martha's Vineyard.
I didn’t go to the house anymore when Spencer was at home. There was no way I wanted to see him gloat when he told me of how close Hunter had become to the Romanov family—the very family Graham had gone to for a loan.
The very family that beat Graham so badly he almost had a permanent brain injury. He could have died if his partner Mark hadn't gone out into the alley for a smoke.
How could Hunter get in so close with them?
I just couldn’t figure it out.
Hunter had changed. It hurt me to realize that, but in the end, I couldn’t deny it.
Finally, a few days after Hunter paid off Graham's debt, I got a text from him.
HUNTER: You're coming to my place tonight. My driver will pick you up at ten.
That was it.
CELIA: Okay. Any specific instructions?
HUNTER: Don't be late.
I frowned and wished I could stick my tongue out at him.
CELIA: Yes, Sir.
There was a pause.
HUNTER: Oh, I like it. Maybe you should call me Sir all the time…
CELIA: Don't hold your breath.
Hunter wanted me at his place, and ten o'clock was late enough that I pretty much knew what he expected. He was seriously going to hate fuck me in repayment.
Part of me was disgusted. What kind of man expected someone to have sex with them as repayment of a debt?
Part of me—a part that hated myself—was aroused.
All day, I went around slightly wet and swollen at the thought that I'd be having sex with Hunter that night. I kicked myself mentally, wondering how I could sink so low. I wasn't some airhead bimbo. I was a Harvard law student. I was magna cum laude.
I was also indebted to a man who did business with the mafia.
What else could I expect from Hunter but this?
I silently cursed Graham for getting me into this mess. Now that I felt Graham was well enough, I allowed myself to feel some anger toward him. But most of all, I wanted to try to distract myself from thinking about how excited I was about going to Hunter's apartment and having sex with him. It had been months—months—since I'd been with a guy, and that experience had been completely unfulfilling.
The way I was feeling suggested that hate sex with Hunter might be better than anything I'd experienced since the first time I had been with him five years earlier.
I had a bath at eight, washed my hair, brushed and flossed my teeth, and reapplied a bit of makeup—just some mascara and gloss—and blow-dried my hair so that it was long and straight.
Then I went to my closet and considered what I'd wear. Should I get all fixed up? Wear something pretty? Something sexy?
I chewed my bottom lip and couldn't decide.
