Darksoul (9 page)

“
Oui,
” said Hunter, seemingly recovered. When he met my gaze, I glared at him. He was being civil now, but what he said yesterday—
“Hazel,” said Ash, his accen
t a perfect American drawl. “I’ve been wanting to introduce you to Hunter here.”

“
Didn’t I tell you he was in my damn art class? But wait a minute—” A horrifying thought occurred to me, and I stared at Ash in revulsion and shock and disgust. Introduce me. Like they were— “Friends? The two of you are friends?”

“He gives me f
ree smokes,” said Ash, taking a drag of his cigarette and blowing out a gray puff. Just as lazily as Hunter. With his gauges and eyebrow piercing, it looked as if it belonged, as if it completed the image.

“Not for long,” said Hunt
er. “You’d better start getting your own shit soon.”

“Hold on,” I said
. “Hold the fuc—hold up. There are so many things wrong with this situation that I can’t even—shit. Okay. First of all, the two of you are friends?”

“Acquaintances,” said Ash, and clinked beer bottles with Hunter before taking a sip.

“Fuck that,” I said, frustrated, “you’re friends. Second of all, Ash, you didn’t tell me?”

“I did tell you to approach him, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. That doesn’t mean you’re
friends
.” I sent an accusing glare at Hunter, who was watching me with hooded eyes.

Ash considered this, and then shared a contemplative glance with Hunter. “We don’t interact during school. More…extracurricular activities,
n’est-ce pas
?”

They clinked bottles again. “
Oui.
”

“Oh, my God,” I said, sliding a horrified hand over my mouth. “You even act like friends, too.”

“Acquaintances,” Ash corrected.

I turned to him and, clenching my teeth, jabbed a hand at his cigarette. “And what the hell is that?”

“It’s called a cigarette.”

“It’s called a major wh
at-the-fuck factor,” I said, staring incredulously at him. “Ash, for crying out loud—you smoke?”

He held it out to me. “Want to try it?”

“How could you have possibly—how the everloving fuck—”

“Your language tonight,” he said, hazel eyes twinkl
ing with laughter. “It’s lovely.”

I opened my mouth to verbally pummel him to pieces, but then I saw it.
A hint of ink poked out of his shirtsleeve, rippling across his skin before hiding out of sight. He’d been wearing hoodies as of late—due to the chilly weather—but I supposed that hadn’t been the only reason.

“Ash,” I said, eyeing it as
I edged closer. I looked at Hunter’s arms, at his tattooed collar. My tongue dried up inside my mouth. “Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is. Please.”

Ash
simply sipped his beer.

I wanted to step on someone’s face.
Ash’s, Hunter’s, a cat’s. “When?”

“Recently. About three weeks ago.”

“Is it still healing?”

“Why?”

I punched him on the arm. Hard. “I hope that hurt.”

His
lips twitched. “It tickled more than anything else.”

“Dear God,” I said to myself, turning so I wouldn’t have to look at
the creature that had replaced my boy-best-friend thing. Massaging my temples, I muttered, “Give me patience. Grant me the endurance I need to survive this tribulation. Hard times may come and go—”

Ash said something in French, and I swiveled around to find
their gazes stuck to the back of my skirt, dark lashes lowered. The corner of Hunter’s mouth tilted up. Guy friends. Guy friends. They’re the worst.

Before I could curse them out, shove my middle finger into their eyes, or do both at the same time, Ash said, “You forgot another thing that’s wrong with this situation.”

“What?”

“Your skirt.”

I scrunched up my eyebrows. “What?”

“It needs to be out of the picture.”

Hunter sipped his beer, barely holding back laughter. “You fucking rogue.”

“Oh, God, I can’t deal with
this,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. After getting myself together, I whipped my hand down and glared at them. “So what else? The two of you smoke, speak fluent French with a side of douchebaggery, are left-handed, drink beer like bitches, are tattooed, stand at the same height, and—?”

They waited for me to finish.

“And?” I prodded. I wasn’t about to be blindsided by them anymore. Just seeing them together made me want to beat my head against the wall.

They shared a glance before looking at me. Tilting his head to the side, Ash said something in—good God, was that—Russian? He was
n’t speaking to me but still gazed at me, as if I were in exhibit. Hunter also regarded me, taking a final drag of his cigarette before dropping it on the ground and snuffing it under his boot.

“
Mmm,” Hunter murmured as Ash spoke. “No.”

“
Aaaand
you speak Russian,” I finished. “Great. Okay. Slade?” I gave a tight nod toward the closed French doors. “A word?”

Hun
ter followed when I turned and started to walk away.

“Don’t get rowdy, kids,” Ash called after us. “Use protection. Papa’s proud of you.”

“Papa needs to shut the fuck up,” I barked back.

He looked as if he were trying not to smile. “And lovely costume, Zel,” he said, lifting his drink at me. I sent him one final glare before yanking the door open and, still fuming, letting Hunter through.

Chapter
9

A gust of music and warm air
engulfed us. I slammed the door shut and looked at Hunter, who, of course, was already staring at me.

“A quiet place,” I called over the
noise.

We went to the second floor, which was dim and just as grand as the first. Some
kids were passed out in the hallway. Crushed red cups lay everywhere. The music thumped as loudly here as it did downstairs, and plenty of couples walked around, looking happy and tipsy as they looked for a place to get the deed done. Some glanced at us and gave us drunk smiles, as if they thought that we, too, were doing the same thing. I nearly gagged.

Finally, I found a guest room that wasn’t occupied. After Hunter walked in, lazy and graceful as always, I slammed the door shut and turned to face him. He leaned against the dresser, facial expression cool. The music sounded muffled. As did the rest of the world.

“How long?” I asked, reaching up to massage my temples.

“How long what?”

“How long have you been friends with Ash?”

It was a stu
pid question. I knew that. But somehow, I felt as if I’d been cheated. How was it that they were such good pals and I hadn’t been aware of it? Maybe Hunter and I could’ve become buddies before the art project fiasco, and the three of us—Hunter, Ash, and I—could’ve been chilling downstairs with two hot chicks and another sexy dude.

But that wasn’t
why I was bothered. If Hunter and Ash were friends, then they talked about girls. And if they talked about girls…

Hunter took a sip of his beer.
“Why do you ask?”

“Answer the question or I’
ll throw my shoe at you.”

He dared to look amused. “Are you sure that’s the way you want to speak to the master of the house?”

“The—” Excuse me? “Come again?”

“You’re talking to the host of the party. One word from me and you’ll be kicked out.”

The first part hadn’t even registered. “You’re the—what? Of the—what?”

“Ma
ster,” he said, saying the word at a slow, infuriating pace. “Of. The. House.”

Impossible. “You don’t own this place
. You can’t own this place.”

“Says who?”

“Says the law of thermodynamics, you asshole. Says God. The county. The state. I don’t know—”

“I own it.”

“What?”

“I also happen to live in it.”

“No.”

“In denial, little mouse?”

I clenched my teeth. “Call me that one more time and I’ll—”

“Threatening me, I see. What part of ‘master of the house’ and ‘I can kick you out’ did you not understand?”

“Okay,” I said. “So you live in this house. Your parents would be the masters. Not you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

I stared at him.

“Go on,” he said, regarding me through the half-lowered canopy of his lashes. “I want to hear what else you can come up with.”

“Where’s your family tonight?”

A pause. Then:
“Interesting question.”

“You mean to tell me they’re not here? They don’t know you’re having this massive party with a bunch of drunk teenagers?”

“Mmm,” he murmured. “Try again.”

“And you can’t possibly be rich. I mean, this is, like, filthy rich, and you’re—” I looked him up and down, at the simple French shirt that would normally be black,
at his dark jeans and deadly-looking combat boots. Humble attire, if this was the kind of money he had.

A barely-there smile. “And I’m…?”

“You’re—” I cut off and tried to get myself together. “Forget it. Let’s get back to our original—dilemma.”

“You mean your original dilemma.”

“Shut up.” Getting down to business, I crossed my arms. “So? How long have you and Ash been this damn close?”

He considered me. “I knew you were the jealous type,” he said, sounding as though he’d had enough of girls like me. “Damn possess
ive. Why does it matter, anyway—?”

In half a
heartbeat, I closed the distance between us.

My hand lashed out and fisted the collar of his shirt, yanking him to my level. He was close enough that I
could see the hazel flecks in his irises. For a passing moment, I imagined them inverted. Gray flecks in hazel eyes. So pretty.

So…familiar.

I beat the image away and clenched my teeth.

“It matters
,” I ground out. “Damn it, Slade, it matters. You’re friends. You talk about girls. And if what you said yesterday is true—” I blinked back tears and channeled my anger into his damned face. “You probably said the pole thing without thinking. But it’s like you forget I’m a girl, and when you say shit like that to us, it never goes away. He wouldn’t poke me with a mile-long stick? Do you know how much that hurt? It made me feel so worthless and stupid, and—”

He
reached up, unwrapped my tight fingers from his shirt, and gave me a gentle push back, putting some distance between us. I frowned, but let him.

“You need to relax,” he sai
d, meeting my eyes with his calm, unreadable own. “I was just speaking from what I saw.”

“What you saw,” I echoed.

“I’d seen Asher with several girls before, and none of them looked particularly like you. I figured it was safe to assume you’re not his taste.”

“Look, I know I’m not. You don’t have to shove the fact in my face.”

He stared at me for a moment. I’d known him for—what?—less than a week, and I was already tired of the way he looked at me. At last, he said, “I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want an apology. It’d be wo
rthless coming from you, anyway. Just—”

“He never said anything about a mile-long pole. He never said anything, period.” Hunter pushed off the dresser and went over to
a canister next to the bed, where he threw in the empty beer bottle. “Relax. It was just me, saying shit.”

“You saying shit,” I echoed, watching him. “I can believe that.”

“If you’re done questioning me, I’m going downstairs
to drown myself in more nicotine and alcohol.”

“Hold on a
second.” Reluctantly, I moved closer. “Why don’t we—okay. Here’s an idea. Let’s…let’s forget about the whole thing with Ash. It’s my problem, not yours. And let’s forget about yesterday. Or some choice parts. You, ah, did help me with the art supplies…”

“My only good deed of the day.”

“Right. Erm…and you did get me a Butterfinger, which, I just realized, added about twenty points to your application—
which
, by the way, I haven’t trashed even though I should have. And…” I cringed. “I still need you to sit for me next week, so if you don’t mind?”

“I never said I wasn’t doing it.”

“So we’re on good terms?”

“Depends on the definition of ‘good terms.’”

“Not ripping each other’s heads off, being civil to each other, the usual.”

He stared at me.

“Good enough.” I stretched out a hand. “Shake on it?”

He looked down at my
extended palm, not making a move to return the gesture. The conciliatory expression on my face twitched, and I nearly scowled. I was being nice. I was willing to forget. And here he was, completely ignoring my handshake.

But finally, he reached out and slipped his hand in mine. He didn’t shake it. Simply held it. His lips parted slightly before he sealed them shut.

“Oh-kay,” I said when he didn’t do anything, and shook it myself. “Cool.” But when I tried to let go, he didn’t, and I shook it again. “Yeah, look, Slade, we’re shaking. Now let go.”

He still didn’t.

Huh. Peering up at him, I said, “Hun…ter?”

He blinked once at the sound of his name. “Yes.”

I rolled the letters around on my tongue and decided I liked the taste. “Hunter.”

“Yes?”

“Let go of my hand before I do something irrational,” I said, smiling sweetly.

It happened before I could register it happening.

There was a blinding flash of movement, the rustle of clothes being taken off and the dizzying, momentary feel of getting flipped over. My devil horns slipped off my hair. I was suddenly on the bed, wrists pinned above my head and skirt fluttering above the decent point on my thighs, a shirtless, tattooed Hunter hovering over me on fours.

I blinked. My crop top hung open, baring the polka-dotted bra my mom
got me on my last birthday. My lips parted in confusion. Then, realizing what was going on, I clenched my teeth. “What,” I ground out, struggling against his hold, “do you think you’re doing?”

He leaned down, his eyes falling to my mouth. “What every guy in my position would’ve done.”

I turned my face, and his lips brushed my cheek. “I’m a potato! You do
not
want to do a potato!”

“My body is saying otherwise.”

“Damn it, Hunter.” I struggled against his grip on my wrists. Tried to move my legs so I could kick him where it hurt. “I know you’re just fucking with me—”

“Poor choice of words.”

“I’ve known you for a week
. Shit does not happen after just a week.”

“In my world it does.” He slid closer and let his lips flutter
to my neck. I squirmed again and tried to twist out of the way, but he landed a kiss on my throat and, horrorstruck, I grew still. “That’s a good girl,” he murmured.

My mouth went dry. “I know you’re kidding,” I said. “I’m not your type. You—you said so yourse
lf. Right? You don’t want this—ugly little mouse. Like, ew, right? R-Right?” He kissed my jawline. I tried not to recoil. “You can let go of me now. Whatever p-point you’re trying to make, I get it. See, you’re just…” What exactly was he trying to do? “You’re just—”

“I’m doing what every guy in my posit
ion would’ve done,” he murmured.

“You’re—you’re a funny
guy, Slade. Ha-ha. I’m d-dying of laught—”

“
Shh.”

I grew more desperate. “L-Let go of me now. Look, pretty tattoos. You have such p-p-pretty
tatt—”

“Hush.”

“I know you’re kidding.” I tried to laugh, but it fell limp. “So funny. Ha—”

“Three.”

“I m-mean—” Damn it, I couldn’t stop the stuttering. “If you’d wanted to really do this, you w-w-would’ve ripped off my clothes already—”

“Two.”

I squirmed against him. “You’re a n-nice guy. I know you are. You may have the mouth of a toilet—”

The next word was a barely-there murmur. “One.”

Right at that moment, the door exploded open.

Earsplitting music burst in, and the smell of alcohol assaulted the room. Hunter loosened his hold on my
wrists, but before I could shove him off, two bodies crashed into the bed and I heard Ash laugh.

“Shit,
Zel, I didn’t know you were getting it on in here,” said Ash, letting the bumblebee-dressed girl wrestle off his shirt. “Don’t mind us. You keep doing what you’re doing, we’ll keep doing what we’re doing—”

Hunter, who had started to nuzzle my neck, breathed quiet laughter against my collarbone.

The words came naturally, as though they were scripted. “We’ll take another room,” I said, starting to sit up. Hunter gently pushed me back down.

“I think—whoa,
babe, not the mouth,” said Ash, turning his head just in time for the girl to start making out with his cheek. “No, no, stay. Wouldn’t it be ace if we, you know, shared this experience—”

Major awkward sauce.
“No, thanks. I’ll be going now. Hunter, let’s—”

He
didn’t even let me finish. “As you wish.”

In one swift movement,
he was off me, and I was swept into a pair of strong arms. He turned and, acting as though I weighed nothing more than a feather, flung me over his bare shoulder. I blinked.

“Take care of my girl,
eh, Slade?” Ash called. “Try to return her in one piece.”

“Not promising anything,” Hunter said, and closed the door behind us.

Once in the hallway, he walked farther down and then set me on my feet, his hands startlingly gentle around my waist. For a moment, I stared up at him. He stared back, his gaze as cool as it’d ever been. I tried to say something. No words would come.

So I punched him in the face.

His head whipped to the side, blondish tufts falling over his eyes and an alarmingly red blot forming on his cheek. Swallowing the urge to follow it with another one, I took a step back and buttoned my crop top again.

“Are you going to explain what that was,” I ground out, “or
do I have to choke it out of you?”

He reached up and touched
the side of his face, and then—impossibly, unbelievably—held back a barely-there smile. “For someone who didn’t know what was going on,” he said, tipping his head at me, “you played along quite well.”