16. Hunter

SIXTEEN

HUNTER

" S omeone better be dead," I grumble. My eyes pinch closed against the early morning sunlight.

Ella traipses through my bedroom, singing at full volume and, for an unknown reason, speaking with a British accent.

"Oh, brother, wherefore art thou," she says dramatically as she twirls through the room, opening window curtains.

I groan and throw a pillow in her direction before turning over and throwing the blankets over my head.

"H, wake up. We need to talk."

I slide my hand from under the covers and shoot her a one-fingered salute.

She gives a shocked gasp.

Moments later, what feels like an earthquake hits my room—except it's Ella jumping on my bed.

"What the fuck, Ella!" I roll over and sit up, gripping her ankle and pulling her down on the bed.

" Hunterrrrr ," she drawls. "For real, I need to talk to you."

I rub my eyes.

"What. Do. You. Want?" I say through gritted teeth.

"Damn, you're still grouchy in the morning, aren't you?"

"Ella, get to the goddamn point."

"Right." She flips her hair behind her shoulder. She's dressed casually today with jeans that look fashionably baggy, a soft sweater, and a chunky scarf. Her long hair is pulled up in a high ponytail that still reaches her shoulders, and she uses a folded bandana instead of a headband. October breezed by and it went from hot as hell to fall in what feels like a blink.

I forget how beautiful autumn is in Virginia.

"It's about August." I look at her fully now.

"What about him? Is everything okay?" Despite seeking him out, I haven't been able to connect with August much over the past few weeks. He's either in his game room with his headset on, or he's with Winter. Which means she's just as much of a ghost as August.

Not that I have a plan to engage him once we are in the same room. How can I even begin to repair the damage of life lost? How can I make it right—the fact that I've left him alone to navigate this world?

How can I make him understand what I can't even talk about?

Winter's words echo in my mind: atonement . I have to stop feeling sorry for myself.

And I have to stop my incessant thoughts of Winter Vaughan. It's time to focus solely on August…even if I dream about the feeling of her body pressed against mine and the bright sound of her laughter.

"Well, Augie is a competitive RC helicopter racer," Ella says.

I didn't know that about him, and resentment at that lack of knowledge settles in my stomach.

She continues, "And there's a meetup he'd been planning to attend for months. Before all…this happened." She bites her lip. Lips that I notice are faintly blue .

"Ella, you have got to slow down on your candy consumption. It's barely"—I look at the clock on my nightstand—"eight a.m., and you've already got stained lips. You're gonna get diabetes."

She grimaces and rushes toward my ensuite bathroom. She turns on the taps, and I see her grab a spare toothbrush out of the top drawer from my vantage point in bed.

"Anyway!" she shouts from the bathroom after brushing. "I planned on going with him, but I thought it would be great if you'd go with him too." She walks over and peers down at me, standing at the side of the bed.

I think about it for a second. I've been searching for a way to connect with August for weeks and coming up blank.

"What time is it for?" I hop out of bed, pushing Ella back as she yells, "Ewwww!" at my nakedness. She covers her eyes and twirls to leave the room.

"Be downstairs in ten minutes, freak!"

This could be a good time for both of you.

The drive to the small airstrip in Reston is quiet, and we're in the Range Rover I delivered to the estate. I'm grateful to drive because it gives me something to do with my hands.

"How many people do you expect to be there, Augie?" Ella turns in the passenger seat to look back at August.

"I have told you, Aunt Ella. My name is August." He switched to a British accent, and the voice sounds like a butler in Downton Abbey .

"Sorry, I forgot that you're a teenager now," she says while bringing her hand to her chest with dramatic flair.

I clear my throat before looking in the rearview mirror at my son. His head is down, engrossed in a video on his iPad.

"August, how long have you been racing?" I ask. He looks up from his tablet, his face turned toward the back of my head. He returns his gaze to his video.

After several minutes, I try again. "Have you been with this group for long? "

He sighs and flips the screen on his tablet.

"Yes," he responds.

I squeeze the steering wheel and look over to Ella. She gives me a soft, encouraging smile.

Things are silent after that until we reach the field. August jumps out and rounds the vehicle to get the metal hardtop helicopter case out of the back. Then he walks off toward the group of people a few feet from the small airstrip—the hood of his puffy jacket flops against his back as he skips away.

"Just be cool, H," Ella says after putting on her gloves and zipping up her Patagonia coat. She pulls one of the folding chairs out of the back of the car.

"I'm just getting used to all this," I grumble.

She looks at me with an arched brow. "You know how to talk to people, I'm sure of it. Just talk to him like a regular human," she says. She hands me her chair while I grab the thick blankets she packed to protect us from the cold.

I shut the trunk.

"I'm going to get some drinks for us," Ella says, nodding toward the concession stand on the other end of the airstrip.

The field is often used for small-scale competitive air shows and RC aircraft meetups. There are pockets of dozens of people spread across the area, and a table sits under an awning. Ella mentioned there'd be a competition later today.

"Sure," I say as she walks off.

I head toward one of the groups of people near where August stands. The group he's with all have tablets out, and I realize they're all using alternative communication to talk.

My kid has more friends than I do.

I open a chair for Ella and myself, drop the blankets in her seat, and settle in to watch August. The realization that he's grown into an independent person with interests and friends and hobbies isn't lost on me. He's managed to grow into a nearly adult human .

I may not have been there for him over the last fifteen years, but I can be there for the rest.

Yes, I can.

I feel movement near my shoulder and say, "I hope you got alcohol, Ella." But as I turn, I don't see Ella.

Instead, my father is there.

He doesn't say anything as he throws the blankets on the cold ground and sits in Ella's seat. I look across the field and Ella is still in line, about seven people deep, tapping her phone screen.

"It's a great day out, even though it's cold. Don't you think so, Hunter?" My father looks laughably casual. A knee-length black wool coat complements his leather gloves, charcoal gray pants, and black loafers. Unironically, he has Ray-Bans over his eyes despite the low sun visibility.

I can still feel the malice in his gaze.

"What are you doing here, Father?" I say in a low voice. I don't want to draw attention to us. Specifically, I don't want August to notice the man beside me.

Protect August.

"You've been avoiding me again, Hunter." He crosses an ankle over his knee, the picture of nonchalance.

I don't respond. I have been avoiding him. He's called a few times and even sent a message for me to contact him through Ella. But every day that my team can't find anything about why the Winthropes are entangled with my father, the more my anxiety grows.

He flicks a piece of invisible lint off his pants.

"I'm granting you a lot of leeway because, well, I did give you life. And I don't like to waste my time, so I won't enjoy ending you after thirty-four miserable years on this planet. And yet," he turns to me, methodically taking the glasses off his face, "I will still end you if I see fit to," he finishes.

I stare at the cold eyes that are so much like mine .

He's smiling.

I want to carve it off his face.

He looks directly at August. "He is such a delicate boy. Isn't he?"

My esophagus spasms.

"Well!" Father claps his hands on his thighs and stands gracefully. "That's enough drama for the day." He hands me a card from his inside coat pocket.

"Be here at 8 p.m. sharp. Don't embarrass me."

And then as if he were never here, he's gone.

I clutch the card in my hand, not looking at it.

Minutes later, Ella bounces up toward me.

August's group assembles their helicopters, and a few hover them above the airstrip to perform flips in the air.

"They had hot chocolate, but they didn't have the kind with marshmallows. Who does that? Anyway, I got us a few." She hands me the steaming insulated cup, and I take it from her with numb fingers. She plops down next to me, taking a sip of her drink as she settles the blankets over her legs. She also pulls out a box of Nerds.

"What do you want to do after this?" she asks.

"I have no idea. But I have plans."

"He just showed up at August's meet?" Leo paces back and forth in front of the unlit fireplace in my office. My palms itch to take a drink, and I eye the new bottle of Macallan in the corner.

"Yes, out of nowhere. Then he threatened August again and left."

Leo runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply.

"Has he told you what he wants? It has to be much deeper than marrying you off and making heirs. "

I look up at Leo from where I'm slouched in my desk chair and say, "Max and his team are looking into Blair and what her family is up to. The bigger question is why get married at all, and why her?"

"It can't be just to punish you. Something is happening between him and the Winthropes. I'd bet money on Daddy Winthrope," Leo says.

A memory flashes back to Isla Cara. Morris Winthrope, with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter, laughs—loud and vile—as he bets on two naked girls fighting to the death.

Disgust bubbles beneath my skin.

"Hmm," Leo says. He's deep in thought. He sighs, and it's an unhappy sound. "In the meantime, you know what you have to do, right?"

I close my eyes, hoping that the words won't annoy me as much if I don't have to look at him.

"What, Leo?" I ask, sighing.

"You have to go along with all of this. Be amenable and active in the process. Nice. At least until we can figure out a way around this."

"What the fuck," I mutter. My head throbs under the stress of the situation.

"H, we're stuck here and don't have many options. You have to play his game until this is over. Otherwise, he will continue to get aggressive to get you in line."

The problem with playing his game is that I lose all around. I lose if I marry Blair because what else will he want me to do if I do this?

I shudder.

Plus, if he decides to really retaliate…

August's life is at risk. We're all at risk.

The anger I feel morphs into cold fury.

"The only way to get rid of this headache is to get rid of him," I say. I look directly into Leo's eyes. "Nothing we do will stop him. Nothing we do will keep August safe or keep BwP safe. The only way to nullify his power is to knock him off the throne."

By force.

Leo is silent for a long while. "If you get rid of him, you'll need to have someone else lined up to take the helm. Otherwise…" he doesn't finish his sentence, but I do mentally.

The devil we know may be better than an uncertain successor.

"Misha Hroshko," he says.

I rock my head back and forth on the headrest of the leather chair. My father's influence has been present for as long as I've been alive. And yet, it wasn't until I reached puberty that it reached God-level.

"You think he'd take over?" I keep my eyes on the ceiling. The thought of ending my father isn't a new one. But now that we're actually talking about doing it…a strange feeling settles in my stomach—a sharp edge of apprehension, relief, and another emotion I also don't want to look at too closely.

"It's probably what he wants. He's already said pretty plainly that your father has pissed off some people and it's time for him to be a non-factor. But getting him into power will take more than just influence. He needs some kind of leverage over your father's minions."

I allow myself to think about Isla Cara again. "I don't know if it's tapes or videos or what it is exactly, but on Isla Cara, there's what he calls ‘insurance.' It's records of the misdeeds of some very important people. If we got ahold of it…"

"Then we'll have enough dirt on the people your father runs with to keep them in line." Our gazes collide as the plan formulates between the two of us.

I rub my hands on my thighs.

"Leo, I'm gonna need a drink for this. And I need you to not say shit about it. "

He presses his lips together but ultimately nods solemnly.

At 8:45 p.m., I sit across from Blair Winthrope in the main dining room of the Appleton Country Club.

My father has been a member his whole life, as was his father, and his father before him—probably back to the Ni?a, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria.

I'm familiar with the setting.

The gilded chandelier, Persian rugs, and Italian leather furniture scream subtle opulence. Both in-your-face and understated with how much wealth drips from each corner of the room, but always unsaid.

The chateaubriand with béarnaise sauce sits untouched in front of me while Blair takes small tastes of her lemon and herb-crusted sea bass. Both our glasses are filled with chardonnay, and I'll leave my regret for testing the bounds of my sobriety and drinking not one but four glasses of wine for tomorrow.

"I think spring weddings are lovely," Blair says.

Everything about her is delicate. Her skin is like porcelain, unblemished and fragile. Her red hair is muted—a pale copper in the room's dimness. Her green eyes, straight nose, and straight teeth all present the perfect image of what a Winthrope woman should be.

Admired from afar but untouchable.

In response to her statement, I raise my glass to my lips for a healthy drink.

She sighs, her mouth tightening slightly.

"Listen, Hunter," she says.

I don't tell her to call me H.

"I know this isn't the most romantic situation. For either of us," she says softly. "But I am willing to make the best of it. And I hope you can too."

I look over the rim of my wine glass. When I lean back in the chair, my vision swims a little .

"Let me ask you, Blair. Do you want to marry me?" I blink at her, waiting for her response.

She appears to contemplate her answer. "I want to ensure that my family is well-regarded and has a stable place in society."

What a fucking non-answer.

"It's a simple question, Blair." I place the glass back on the table, but I nearly miss and it lands slightly on the edge.

A slight flush comes to her face. Even that is delicate—just two twin spots high on her cheeks.

"Hunter—oh, what the hell," she says, huffing and crossing her arms over her chest. "No, I don't want to marry a transient, sometimes drug addict who has fucked half of Europe."

My eyebrows are in my hairline, I'm sure.

"What, you don't think I've heard? People talk, Hunter." A flinty look appears in her eyes.

"I've heard a lot about you, Hunter Brigham. The majority of it is unsatisfactory. But you know what you haven't heard about me?" She leans forward in her chair and lowers her voice even further.

"A lot. I have secrets too." She lifts one corner of her mouth in a closed smile.

"Care to share?" I ask.

She looks at me for a moment before leaning back in her chair. "Not yet. But maybe one day."

She takes her first sip of chardonnay.

"But to answer your simple question, Hunter. No, I don't want to marry you. But I have my reasons why I am. Reasons, just like you have for going along with this whole thing."

A sad look crosses her face, and I stare at her momentarily. Maybe she's mixed up in this whole thing too.

I feel myself starting to have sympathy for her.

"And, importantly, you are a Brigham. So even though people think you're a degenerate, you're a prime catch," she adds.

There go those sympathetic feelings.

"If we can make this work and tolerate each other, I think we can get through this marriage thing just fine. We can come to an understanding." She reaches across the table and grabs my hand.

Immediately, images of Winter's palm touching mine after I stood so lost outside August's room come to mind. Flashes of her in front of me, against the tree, wrapped around me, our mouths seeking, seeking, seeking…

I pull my hand away from Blair's. "An understanding," I say. "I'm sure we can come to agree on something."

She looks at me and smiles.

I feel movement at my shoulder, and expecting the server, I turn to face the intrusion. My eyes meet none other than Morris Winthrope.

"Daddy," Blair says gently, moving her seat back soundlessly to hug her father.

"Princess," he says, ghosting the approximation of a kiss over her cheeks and releasing her embrace.

"Hunter Brigham," he says, sticking his hand out to me, and a mixture of training and ego forces me to stand and match the man's height.

"It's been a long time," I tell him. I force my mind to clear all thought, because if I don't, I'll have a replay of his depraved crimes running in my mind.

Morris smiles enigmatically, and the sight causes sickness to well in my stomach.

Morris Winthrope hasn't aged much since I last saw him, and it's difficult to know if it's from science or genetics. My bet is on science.

His reddish-blonde hair sweeps away from his strong face in an elegant haircut, and his green eyes are even more piercing than Blair's. He's a tall, wide man, and he reminds me of an ox.

I've seen him dish out unimaginable pain.

I force my eyes to stay open as I lose the battle to forget and the vision of him driving a harpoon through a child's abdomen crystalizes in my consciousness. The smell of the angry sea and metallic blood still assaults me. His triumphant laughter rings in my ears.

My hand flexes in his grip, squeezing.

Winthrope's smile twitches almost imperceptibly, and he is the first to drop his hand.

"We'll be seeing a lot of each other now, though. Won't we?" He isn't actually asking a question.

Winthrope raises his index finger in the air, still looking at me, and three servers immediately materialize to change the place settings, adding a seat for him. Winthrope sits, and I do the same.

God, just strike me down now. I know I've done some bad shit in my life, but just kill me now.

A server brings my soon-to-be father-in-law a glass of brandy without him having to ask. He picks it up and takes a sip. The ring on his pinky gleams in the soft candlelight, drawing my attention to it.

Gold and onyx, just like my father's.

Blair and Winthrope talk in muted tones, my brain involuntarily tuning out their conversation. I can only focus on the gleaming stone that draws me in—the center of the eye. The longer I stare at it, the more unease settles in.

Nothing sets it apart from the ring my father wears.

"We'll have much to celebrate soon. Uniting our families and creating a strong lineage," Winthrope says, drawing me back in. He raises his glass as does Blair. I pause for a beat, Blair's gaze hardening the longer she stares in my direction.

Get with the program .

I plaster a smile on my face. "Of course. To much happiness," I say.

"And prosperity," Winthrope adds. Looking at his face, it looks too perfect, to editorialized.

Clearly, there's so much more to this whole situation. More to this whole fucked-up world.

And I'm in over my head.

When we all lift our glasses, I drink until mine is drained.