My nights were spent as follows:
Come back home.
Fuck Sailor.
Talk about our days over takeout food—she was my Western Wall, there to listen without judgment, to hear without shoving her opinion down my throat—then listen to Syllie’s recordings after I was done with my college shit. Sometimes Sailor helped me. We would sit together on the couch, I’d massage her legs, and we’d both have our AirPods tucked in, listening to different parts of Syllie’s recordings. When one of us felt we were on to something, we’d play it for the other. So far, though, Syllie was too careful for his own good.
Finally, when we retired to bed, I’d fuck her again. Sometimes she fucked me. Sailor was a feisty one.
We didn’t talk about what we were.
What we weren’t.
We just existed: a butterfly and a man who appreciated beautiful things.
Co-existing in the eye of a storm we’d been thrown into.
Knight: Yo, asswipe. What are you doing next weekend?
Hunter: Scratching my balls. Making voodoo dolls of my dad. That kind of thing. What kind of question is that?
Knight: One I’d like a serious answer to, you little ass fucker.
Hunter: Not ass-fucking, unfortunately. Study, probs. Got dinner at my folks. You?
Knight: In Boston with bae for her book deal. We’re coming to see you.
Hunter: You’re fucking an author now? That’s the height of intellectuality you’re going to reach. I hope you realize that.
Knight: Did I say see you? I meant stay with you. Also: Ha. Ha.
Hunter: Cheap bastard.
Knight: Is that a yes?
Hunter: It’s not a no.
Knight: Would your nerdy roommate mind?
I hadn’t told Knight or Vaughn about bumping uglies with Sailor—not that I was embarrassed or anything. But I knew she was private. She hadn’t confided in her friends about us, and it felt like betraying her confidence. Especially if at some point my father found out about us and shit hit the fan. The more we kept it on the down low, the better. I wasn’t going to throw away my inheritance over a pussy—no matter how sweet and tight—and she was getting sweet-ass media coverage and hitting all her PR marks.
Sailor was recently interviewed on a local morning show, had been featured in two teen magazines, and Crystal, her agent, had said her name had been Googled more last month than a certain Kardashian sister, even though the latter allegedly remodeled her entire face and some other body parts. Keeping Sailor a secret was making sure what we had was just that—an ongoing fling with an expiration date. She wasn’t my girlfriend. But we lived under the same roof and enjoyed sucking each other’s privates.
Really, there was no reason to tell Knight about Sailor, just like there was no reason to tell him about any of the other flings I’d had over the years.
Hunter: I hardly care what she thinks.
Knight: Brutal as always.
Hunter: Catch ya next week.
Knight: Be seein’ ya.
The following morning, my new king-sized bed arrived. I got it for Knight and his fiancée, Luna. I paid a rush fee to make sure the little fuckers had somewhere to sleep. I hadn’t gotten the chance to bring Sailor up to speed about it, because the previous night, as soon as she’d walked in the door, I’d been too busy ravishing her to squeeze a sentence in.
It caught her off guard as we drank our morning coffee on Saturday morning like two grown-ups or some shit. The elevator dinged and the movers came out, holding the boxed pieces with the giant-ass print of the bed.
Sailor arched an eyebrow over the rim of her cup, feigning calm curiosity, but I knew she was pissed. Her green eyes always turned a shade darker when she was annoyed.
“I don’t remember exiling you from my bed. We have a bit more time to our arrangement.”
I grinned, dropping a kiss at the crown of her head.
“Not gonna sleep in the new bed for a second. My friend Knight and his girlfriend-slash-fiancée-slash-ballbuster Luna want to crash with us next weekend. She’s meeting with her literary agent here or some shit. That cool?”
“Sure.” She shrugged and meant it.
The tension had evaporated from her shoulders. I knew it was going to be hard on her when I gave her the boot. Honestly, I’d miss her ass, too (and her pussy, and mouth).
“But you won’t be sleeping in my bed when they’re here. No one can know about us,” she warned.
I nodded, happy she still had her head screwed on right. Some chicks lost it where a well-endowed billionaire was concerned. Not Sailor Brennan, though.
“I’ll crash on the couch when they’re here.”
She turned around, rinsed her coffee cup, and put it away. I came behind her, trapping her to the counter, massaging her shoulders. The right one was still a little sore, but she told me she’d been killing it at the range. I thought her chances of getting that Olympic spot were really good. It was going to soften the blow and give her shit to focus on when we were over. I couldn’t wait to drown in unlimited pussy and cheer on Sailor as she kicked ass and took names in the Olympics. I would even toast with a drink or six when she got that medal.