The Hunted (2 page)

“
O
h
, my God, did you see that man, Ivy?”

She’s still cackling, and I’m sure it’s from my tumbling skit.

“Yeah, he looked ripped,” she finally gets out as she races down the street. Ivy drives like a real certified Nascar driver.

“If you think that’s ripped, you haven’t seen anything yet.” A strange voice sounds and then a hand touches my shoulders and I scream. My body bolts upright with my head slamming into the roof of the car.

Once again Ivy’s horrendous cackles fill the cab of the car.

“Sorry, thought Ivy told you I was back here. I’m Gannon.” He stretches his arm up through the seats and tries to shake my hand. It comes out more as a weird ass patty-cake exchange between the two of us.

Once his hand disappears, I sink back into the passenger seat and cover my racing heart that feels as if it’s going to crack my sternum any second.

Ivy leans over and whacks my shoulder. “This is my very rude friend Basil Harper. She hasn’t been around many people. She’s more like a caged animal than a human.”

Twisting in my seat, I glare at her and would smack her across the face if she didn’t have all our lives in her hands.

“Okay.” She chuckles. “Her name is Bay and we’ve been best friends since we were six.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Bay.” Gannon’s voice is deep and rich. I twist a bit further to offer him a polite yet weak smile. I barely catch a glimpse of his golden hair and dazzling smile before I turn around.

Ivy nudges me with her shoulder, and I realize I never said a word back to him.

“Um, yeah you too.”

“So, how do you two know each other?” Again, I see his hand wave between the two of us and notice his olive skin this time.

“Best friends.” Ivy slaps my thigh. “We grew up together in the suburbs.”

“Nice. What year did you graduate, Bay?”

“Oh, she was home schooled,” Ivy answers for me. This is her thing; she knows I’m deathly shy and Ivy has always overcompensated for me when in public. And this is why she’s having such a hard time coming to terms with me living on my own. I know she had a picture of us rooming together and breezing through college.

I’ve been different my whole life and just want to experience life the way I want. Being raised by a hippy mother who smokes more pot than drinks water wasn’t easy and for hell sakes being named Basil Harper never helped me in the social aspect of life. I became Ivy’s shadow from playing on the playground across from our houses, to her dinner table, and even on their family vacations.

“How was that?” Gannon asks.

Ivy slaps me, once again urging me to speak.

“Damn you, I’m going to have a bruise. I realize he asked a question. I’m not brain dead.” I twist a bit and place my hand on the back of the seat, gripping it tightly. “It was just okay. My mother could be the hippy poster child. You know peace and love. She nurtured my talents, and I learned the social part from this freak over here.”

I nod my head in Ivy’s direction.

Gannon nods his head back and forth and sends me a quick grin. “Nice.”

“You just have to be careful around Bay since she was never vaccinated as a child. If you see her begin to foam at the mouth, run for your life.”

I roll my eyes and smile back at Gannon. “I hope you know Ivy is full of shit.”

“Oh trust me, I do. Met her a couple of weeks back, and she keeps begging me to hang around her.”

“I feel your pain.” I twist back around in my seat and stick my tongue out at Ivy.

“You little assholes.” She pounds the wheel. “I’m feeding you both dinner and I get this?”

I just shrug and keep answering Gannon’s questions and even find myself asking him some. Ivy can’t help but pipe in every once in a while adding her flair to the conversation.

We get in line at a little deli, and my stomach audibly grumbles in protest.

“Someone is hungry.”

Of course, Ivy points it out instead of just letting it go, making the scene incredibly awkward and beyond embarrassing.

“I’ll get a table,” I offer.

A table just big enough for the three of us is nestled in the far back corner, so I weave my way back to it and plop down. I can hear Ivy’s voice over the dull roar of the deli. This is our normal routine–she orders for me, I find the seat, and then we eat.

“So, you just let her order for you?” Gannon pulls off his hoodie, taking a seat opposite of me. My face flushes even brighter as a piece of his abdomen is exposed. And that’s when the looks of Gannon fully hit me, sucker punching my gut, causing my mouth to water. He looks like he just walked out of a fashion magazine.

I used to hoard issue after issue, appreciating the newest and latest trends and now a real living guy is sitting across from me. My vision follows each of his movements as he places his locked hands on top of the table. Even the man’s veins are drop dead sexy.

I wonder if he knows I’m staring at his hands. I slowly drag my vision up to his face and yep, he knows I was staring as my eyes meet his, and then he shoots me a dazzling grin.

“You’re pretty.” I slap my hand across my mouth and feel the blush creep up from my toes.

Gannon just laughs as Ivy sits down with our drinks. “What’s so funny?”

“She thinks I’m pretty.” He points over to me.

“Thank God she’s alive and not a lesbo. For a while, Bay, I thought you were batting for the other team.”

“I think I’ll just eat and shut up.” I pluck my turkey and avocado sub with extra sprouts from the table and do just that.

Gannon and Ivy go on about college life, and I just listen, trying to pace my eating speed, but the blunt truth is I’m starving and can’t manage to slow down.

“So, Basil is quite a unique name.” Gannon wipes his mouth with his napkin. I mirror his action, making sure I don’t have mayo all over myself.

“Um.”

“Her mom is a hippy. We already discussed this.”

Gannon glares over at Ivy. “I was asking her a question, sassy pain in the ass pants.”

“Fine.” She throws both of her hands in the air and grabs both of our sodas. “I’ll just go get refills.”

“Diet, please.”

Ivy stops dead in her tracks. “Diet? You never drink that. Remember when we were seven you cried all night because you tasted it and thought you’d grow an extra toe because of the crap your mom would tell you.”

“I’m watching my weight,” I whisper.

Ivy shakes her head and spins away.

“So, your name?”

“Ivy did kind of sum it up. My mom is a real-life hippy. It’s all sunshine and butterflies with her.”

He nods, and I wonder what’s going through his head.

“Ivy mentioned you were waiting a year to start college.”

“My heavens she holds nothing back, that girl. Did she tell you my blood type too?”

“O Positive.”

I tilt my head in shock and feel my jaw hit the table.

“Lucky guess.” He lets out a hearty laugh.

I sink lower in my chair, feeling the effects of my full belly and actually enjoying the conversation flowing between the two of us. Although, I’d have to say he does most of the asking while I just provide simple answers.

“Where do you work, Bay?”

“A little coffee shop by my apartment.” I lie because there’s no way in hell I’m telling either of them where I work. Ivy would drag me by my hair, beat the shit out of me, and then call my mother.

“I didn’t see one,” Ivy says, as she bounces back down next to me.

“Oh, it’s around the corner from my apartment.” I’d scoped a place out where I could claim that I worked when nosy Ivy started asking questions.

“Well, not to hurt your feelings, my dear, I don’t think I’ll be slumming it and enjoying coffee in your neighborhood any time soon.” Ivy strums the black tabletop with her cherry red nails.

Thank God.

I can’t help but compare my bitten down and bare nails.

“It’s not that bad.” I lie again. Cheap is cheap.

“Why did you pick that area?” Gannon asks. I feel our comfortable conversation morph into a firing squad.

I shrug my shoulders. “Because I can afford it.”

“I’ve told her a hundred times to get on student aide and join us, but she won’t. Her mom has her brainwashed on some things.”

I swat Ivy on the shoulder. “You are so wrong.”

“Really?” She cocks an eyebrow, challenging me.

“Yes.”

“Then spill, Bay.”

“I’ll go to art school next fall. I want to paint and work as an artist which means I’ll be poor most of the time, so I don’t want to go into debt now and not be able to climb out of it.”

“Please, when people see your shit you’ll be famous and travel the world with me as your queen.”

I roll my eyes at her and know that Ivy has always been my biggest fan and believer. She’s unable to comprehend or even begin to understand my need to do this on my own and out of the spotlight. She thrives on attention, I don’t.

“That’s actually a smart plan.” Gannon nods.

He shocks me as I whip my stare in his direction. “Yeah, I guess. If I can save up enough.”

“Are you doing art on the side? I may know of some local galleries you could put your stuff in.”

I shrug again and mentally will my damn shoulders to stay in place. “Once I find a smooth groove with work, I hope to start back up soon.”

“Isn’t your stuff still at your mom’s?”

“Yeppers, so next time you go home, please come pick me up so I can get more of my stuff.”

“Call me queen three times and kiss my hand.” She holds her hand out like royalty.

I laugh but play along. I know she’ll ask for my British accent if I don’t provide one the first time. I say the word three times and then kiss her hand but leave some saliva on it, knowing it will make her gag. And just on cue she does.

“You two are worse than frat brothers.” Gannon sits back in his chair.

“It’s all her fault.” I point to Ivy.

“I believe that one.”

Before anyone else has the chance to speak up, we’re interrupted by someone hollering his name from across the deli.

“Excuse me for a second, ladies.” Gannon stands and glides across the deli. I swear to God, I’ve never seen a man with such finesse, charm, and masculinity all combined together.

“He’s so damn dreamy.” I turn to Ivy and grip her shoulder, talking through my teeth. “And if you tell him I just said that, I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

“You already let that secret fly.”

“I know.” My vision goes right back to Gannon. “I don’t want him to think I’m super creepy by saying it twice in one day.”

“I brought him here for you.”

“Huh?” I keep staring at Gannon, watching him talk while using his hands and telling some animated story.

“I’m setting you two up.”

“You’re what?” My voice comes out a bit louder than I expected. Okay, it came barreling out in a yell. The busy deli comes to a halt and all eyes are on our table. I feel like I should wave or bust out in a song. Even Gannon stares at me.

“She has Tourette’s,” Ivy yells and points at me.

My heart flops right out onto the tile floor.

I
always thought
sticky floors were just a corny punch line to a joke until now. This is my third full day on the job and night shift at that.

“Bay.”

I startle, almost throwing the tray of drinks over my head.

“Um yeah, Stew?”

“Move your ass. Your tables are waiting for you.” He nods from behind the bar towards the direction of a sea of customers.

Money, money, money,
I repeat over and over in my head. Yes, this is my brilliant idea of making money quick. My vision goes to the stage where the lights have illuminated it, and a very exposed young lady takes to the pole. Stew, the owner and bartender, told me I had to work on the floor for a few months before hitting the pole. I nearly shit my pants, and now I’m thinking I should’ve run.

I have clear intentions of saving up enough money before that even hits. The tips here are outrageous, and I’m hoping to get just enough of a solid foundation of money pooled up with my other savings. My wobbly legs swerve through the tables and chairs. I feel my skin glide against the cool metal of the chairs and realize I have on as much clothes as the girl on the pole.

Money, money, money.

“You new?” An arm wraps around the back of my legs. I force myself not to jump and send the tray over my head again.

“Yes. What did you order?” I make no small talk and try to be blunt, which Stew told me not to do if I wanted to make bigger tips.

He tries to tug me in a bit closer.

“What did you order?” I yell a little louder this time over the sexy song being blared over the speakers.

“Hands off.” Stew pulls me back from the table. “You know the fucking rules, Jim, if she touches you first, then you can play a bit.”

The man raises both hands, sending his gold Rolex down his arm. Inwardly, I cringe thinking about how big of a tip I will not be getting. Man, I must have inhaled too much secondhand smoke the night I researched this idea back at home. How in the hell did I think I’d make it in this career?

Tears threaten to spill over and for the first time, I think Ivy has been right this whole time. I should just bite the inevitable bullet and get loans.

Stew places his hand on my shoulder. “You alright, kid?”

I give him a slight nod.

“He always orders a Black Opal.”

Stew picks up the glass from the tray and sets it on the table.

“Now get going, Bay.”

Everything inside me is shaking and full of confusion. Again, I have no idea what I signed up for or what the hell I was thinking when I applied for this job. The lights dim when a new dancer takes the stage. The music drowns out all the noise and most of the faces in the club, making it easier for me to focus on the table number scribbled on my notes under each drink.

By the fifth table, I actually give the group of men a slight grin as I bend over and set their drinks in front of them. To get better tips you need to be friendly and welcoming, so I better learn some faces and names at lightning speed.

As I stand back up after all the drinks are delivered, I swear I feel my nipple slip out and I feel the air-conditioned air of the club hit it. Discreetly, I try to wiggle my boob back down into the black halter-top.

“Another set of orders.” Stew pushes a tray towards my side of the bar before I even have the chance to put the empty one down.

Conviction, Bay, conviction. If you want art school you have to do this, plus it’s good for your confidence.

I whirl around, throw back my loose curls, and smack right into the chest of a stranger. Before I know what’s going on, the tray is in his hands and above his head. I glance from the tray, down to his tattooed arm, up to his hoodie covered head, and then into his eyes.

An audible gasp escapes me before I gather my thoughts.

“Sorry.” I look down. “And thank you.”

“Holy shit, if it ain’t Satan himself,” Stew booms from behind the counter.

The tray is lowered down and placed back into my trembling hands.

“Bay, just a sec; there are a few more orders.”

I look over to Stew, who starts throwing together drinks while still staring at the man who displays no emotions on his face. The scar above his right eyebrow entertains my eyes, and I can’t help but stare at the man.

“Van Hollis.” Stew shakes his head. “I never thought I’d see the day when you came home.”

The man shrugs his shoulders, saddling up to a barstool. He’s quiet and dark but all in a stunning package. I can’t help but stare at him as if he’s a puzzle just waiting to be pieced together. His broad shoulders bump into my exposed abdomen as he settles in. He doesn’t seem to care that he could’ve just knocked me down straight onto the sticky ass floor. The man is haunting and downright bone chilling.

“Here, Bay.”

Snagging the tray, I happily take off this time in the direction of the customers. I mentally give myself a pat on the back when I whip out all the drinks and even let a few smiles slip and offer some gentle shoulder pats as well. Once my nerves have calmed down, this isn’t that horrible of a job. I mean, it has to beat being a garbage man or the poop scooper at the local zoo.

I’m able to avoid the stranger at the bar as I work the rest of the night. The floor gets stickier, the customers drunker and the tips larger. When the flow of bills come in, I actually smile in the midst of the storm I’m in.

“Thanks, Bay. After you figured out the flow of it, you did well.”

I throw my hoodie on, covering up my bared skin as the club lights flip on and wish like hell I was clothed in the safety of my yoga pants.

“Thanks, Stew. I appreciate the job.” I nod to him as I fumble with the two long strings of the hoodie.

It sucks because, deep down, I do appreciate it, and I enjoy making my own money. Keyword: OWN. But I hate everything about the environment. I feel my ponytail holder break and then a cascade of kinky curls fall down.

“Damn. Wear your hair down next time. The guys will go wild over that mess,” Stew tells me, beaming from behind the bar.

Van glances over at me eyeing my hair and then moves his gaze down my body. I can practically feel him undressing me with his hungry eyes. I can’t help but stare back at him. His face is hollow and chiseled while his black hoodie frames his features. He’s definitely the bad boy who has the ability to melt panties and destroy hearts, not a good combo.

“You’re my neighbor,” he snarls.

“Oh, Bay, I won’t have to worry about you then if Van is next door to you. I wasn’t sure which empty apartment he decided to move into. Van and I go way back.” Stew throws down the dingy white towel on the bar top. “This crazy kid here moved up from the ‘burbs to work in the city to save money for college.”

Van swivels on his barstool to face me. “Pretty, but damn, you must be fucking dumb.”

My jaw drops as my heart sinks low in my chest. The guy is gorgeous but a dickhead. I do my best to ignore him and wave to Stew while hollering over my shoulder. If he thinks I’m pretty then he can stare at my damn ass as I walk out. I hike up the bottom of the hoodie, letting my ass hang out in my short spandex shorts.

“See you in a couple of days, Stew.”

Empowerment is what I feel as I push open the doors and mentally flip Van the bird.

Things slowly click together as I practically jog home in the dark muggy air. Stew owns the run down apartment I’m renting. Van is now residing in the one next to me, and he knows Stew. Stew owns nearly all the dumpy little buildings and businesses in a three block radius. It’s like Stewville. I giggle to myself as I fumble for my keys and rush into my own little piece of Stewville.

The musty scent attacks my nose, but the cool air inside is actually comforting. I race to my bedroom and dump the contents of my purse on the bed, watching all the dollar bills tumble out.

“Man, I wonder how much strippers make?” I say out loud to myself.

My stomach growls, and I realize I haven’t eaten a thing since before lunch, and it’s past midnight now. Hurrying off to the kitchen, I snag a protein bar, and then bolt back to the bedroom. In true lady fashion, I stuff the whole bar into my mouth and do my best to chew it while I start counting the money. Crumbs spread all over the bed as I count out loud.

Two hundred ninety-two dollars raked in all in one night. Flopping back onto the bed, I let out a sigh of relief. This dumbass idea I’ve concocted might just work if I can stomach the job long enough. But it would all come down to being able to handle the bare skin, mens’ appraising eyes with their tented work pants, and that damn sticky floor feeling.

All I want to do is paint and draw without financial worry. I can consider this my first step in getting there.