CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Hunter

Eighteen Months Ago

I hadn't blinked in over a minute. Staring at the wall behind the television and keeping count between blinks occupied my time. Two, maybe three, minutes of distraction kept me sane. Blink.

"Shit," I muttered, returning to regularly programmed grief.

I figured it must be after six PM. The sun was long gone. The temperatures outside were freezing, and I still stared at a blank TV screen. My eyes moved to the kitchen, where a calendar hadn't been turned in six months. June. The month my life ended. My will to live ended. The world ended. At least for me.

People had celebrated New Year's like all was good. Like Christmas, I hid in the darkness of my house. Well, actually, I'd hid that June too, then the rest of the summer, the fall and the turning of leaves, and now I was facing winter. Alone. Still.

My pain was marrow-deep. There'd be no escaping this horror show. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. As a deputy in a small town of less than a thousand, I could take the time needed to heal. That's what the Sheriff had said. He knew I was hurting. He also knew that I was the best deputy he had, often telling me I was sheriff-material myself. I'd laughed. I'd never be back to work.

I'd talked myself out of killing myself earlier today. Just like yesterday and the day before that. Truthfully, I couldn't tell if it was getting easier to not choose suicide as an out, or easier on myself that I was surviving so far.

When you fall in love with someone and decide that they are your person, you never imagine what life would be if they were suddenly gone. No one gives advice beforehand. No emergency kit to open if the day comes. But after? Sure, they line up, shake your hand or hug you, but their advice on how to move forward is new to your ears. No one has ever told you how to survive death. School doesn't teach that lesson.

My heart still beat. My lungs still expanded and then deflated. The microwave kept time, and my beard kept growing. But other than that, life stood still for me. I'd cried. I'd screamed in the darkness of our bedroom. I'd closed my eyes and begged God to let me awaken from the nightmare where Mark had died.

Nothing worked. Jill tried her best, at the same time making me feel guilty about her love and caring, because she'd lost her brother. She hurt too. She'd lost her dad and her mom. Now her brother. Why did shit like that happen to a person?

A slammed door from a vehicle alerted me to company. I stood and pulled the edge of the blinds, looking out toward the driveway. Charlie was here for the fiftieth time in six months. I sat back down and decided to do what I did every time he'd shown up before. Ignore him.

Him knocking on the door only made me more resolute. Charlie would knock. Then he would try to talk sense into me through the wood of said door. He'd bitch and moan and swear this was the final time he was going to check on me. And then he'd leave me alone until the next time.

Suddenly, and with violent force, the front door came crashing into the living room. "What the fuck?" I screamed, rushing to stand. "Holy fucking shit, Charlie. You fucking asshole!"

I rushed him and he sidestepped me, slamming me into a wall. "I'm done with your bullshit, Hunt," he hissed, gripping the back of my neck and pushing me down the hall. "You smell like fuck and this house is gross."

I fought him but was weak from lack of food and lack of giving a shit about living. "Who gives a fuck, asshole?"

He shoved me into the bathroom, me falling in a heap to the floor. "Get outta of those disgusting boxers. You smell awful and look ten times worse." He reached into the shower and turned the water on, stepped back, and began removing his clothes.

"What the fuck?" I asked.

"We're taking a shower, is what the fuck, Hunt. I'm fucking done with you. Now get the fuck up. Now!" he yelled.

I resisted, so he grabbed the top of my head and yanked my hair, practically lifting me to my feet. "Stop!" I raged, tugging at his hands, to no avail. "Fuck you!"

I fought, but he was too strong as he led me through the glass door, tugging at my filthy boxers. "I'm done with this shit. Mark died, dude. I fucking get it. But your stupid ass is still living, even if you do look like death."

"I don't care," I screamed, flailing at him, trying to connect with his flesh. "Kill me!" I hollered. "Just fucking kill me!"

Charlie encircled me and held me tightly, both of us naked. "Stop, Hunt. Just stop this right now," he soothed. "I know you hurt. I know you miss him, but you can't keep this up."

I leaned into him, resting my head in the crook of his neck. "I… I…" I gasped.

"I know, buddy. Let it out. Just let it out," he soothed, stroking my head and holding me upright. "A day at a time, Hunt. How about we get this shower out of the way today and then we'll take another step forward tomorrow?"

"Why do you keep doing this?" I asked. "I'm not nice to you. I chose Mark over you. Why?"

"We were fucking teenagers, Hunt. You didn't promise me shit."

"But we never even had sex and you still claim to love me," I cried. "Why don't you just move the fuck on?"

"I did move on. Remember? Even New York wasn't far enough to move to," he reminded me. "Turn around, Hunt. Lemme get you cleaned up."

Charlie stuck a toothbrush, preloaded with the paste, into my mouth before spinning me around. His hands began to suds my backside while I brushed my teeth, hiccupping and crying as tears fell freely. After getting my back, my butt, and legs, he spun me around, lifting an arm at a time as he washed my pits.

"I'm sorry, Skeet," I whispered, touching his face. "I just loved him more."

He ignored me as he went about washing my chest, kneeling down as he sudsed his hands up and cleaned my cock and balls, stroking as he massaged deeply. I knew he was just helping me get clean, but I responded. Surprisingly, I responded.

I yanked him to his feet and dropped the toothbrush, pulling him against my chest, my mouth forcing itself onto his. He fought at first but slowly gave into my need.

"I need to feel something," I hissed. "Anything! Please, God. Anything."

"Don't do this, Hunt," he begged. "We can't. You can't. I can't."

"Turn around, Skeet," I ordered.

His eyes welled up. "Hunt, please. You'll regret this tomorrow."

"I need to feel something, Skeet. Please," I begged. "Just this once."

I forced him to face the wall and slid my finger into his crack. At first, he resisted, but then he arched his back and pushed backward against my fingers. I turned the shower off, spit in my hand, and slicked my cock, biting the back of his neck.

"Fuck me hard, Hunt," he breathed. "Use my hole."

I shoved my cock into him with one surge of power. He yelped, leaning forward, placing his hands on the tile wall. "Fuuucccckkkk," he hissed. "Fuck! You're so fucking huge."

"Shut up and take it, punk," I snarled, placing my arm against his back so I could improve my aim. "You fucking want this and you know it." Charlie remained silent, but extremely receptive to my aggression, moaning and groaning as I pounded away. "Take it, Skeet."

Skeet was the name I used when we were teenagers. Skeeter was his nickname, but he allowed me to shorten his name because he was so into me when we were in high school. I knew it. He knew it. But we kept our mutual admiration to ourselves, always walking just on the edge of going there. I had Mark and would never have ruined that for Charlie.

"Fuck yeah!" he moaned. "I've wanted this shit for years, dude. I've jacked off about your cock a billion times. Dreamed about you in the locker room."

"Well, now you're gettin' dick downed, fucker," I growled. "Bend over further," I ordered, pushing on the back of his head. "There we go, buddy boy. There we go."

I slammed into him as hard as I could, trying to fuck the grief out of myself. What I probably needed was tender love and care, but I wouldn't allow myself to feel that kind of emotion with Charlie. I couldn't risk that. But Mark was dead. I actually could go there.

"Fuck that hole," he yelled. "Fuck me harder, Deputy. Dump your load in my ass."

I gripped his lean waist and pumped my hips faster, relieving my anger at the world directly into his asshole. "Take it, fucker!" I felt the tension in my balls as my orgasm chambered up in my sack. "I'm gonna fucking shoot, Skeet. Spread that ass, fucker!" I grunted.

I watched Charlie's arm move rapidly as he jacked his own dick while I filled him deep and hard. "Oh fuuucccckkkk," he moaned. "Right there, Hunt. Right fucking there," he gasped, struggling to remain standing as I plowed his ass.

"Holy fuuucccckkkk," I roared, gripping him tightly and unloading, slamming into him over and over as I emptied my nuts. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

I leaned over him, still holding him tightly against me. Charlie was panting and went limp in my arms before sitting down on the shower floor. I leaned back against the cool tiles and stared at him.

"You good?" he asked, swiping at his forehead.

"Yeah," I huffed, still trying to catch my breath. "I'm sorry, Skeet."

"It's okay, Hunt. It's okay," he repeated. "Let's get you fed."

I stepped out of the shower and leaned over the sink, my eyes capturing my image in the mirror. "You've fucking done it now," I whispered to the gaunt man staring back at me.