“What were you doing in there? Finger-banging yourself to the image of me five hundred times? We’re already late, and you’re wearing your goddamn PJs. Put on some jeans.” Hunter waved a hand in my direction.
“Oh.” I flushed scarlet. “I didn’t know…I thought…” I clapped my mouth shut, realizing I was being super awkward again.
At the same time, I was also so relieved, I nearly threw up.
“Yeah, you didn’t. Letting me run around looking like this in a city full of red-blooded women and alcohol?” Hunter gestured to his full height, head to toe. “You’re supposed to keep me celibate and sober. So get your ass dressed and do.”
So that’s why he needed me there.
My heart sank. Figures.
An hour later, Hunter pulled over in front of the Cutler Majestic Theater on Tremont Street in my car. The place was famous for being apparently haunted. A former, albeit fictional, mayor of Boston had died there watching a performance. There were also supposedly the two spirits of a married couple and one of a little girl who accepted hidden gifts that were left there for her.
I shared this information with our guests, who looked like they were about to bolt back to California on foot as Hunter got out of the car and started opening doors for us.
“Ghosts? Blood? Murders? Vaughn would have married this place,” Knight said, making Hunter and Luna laugh.
I’d heard the name a few times, but it meant nothing to me.
“Well, fucker’s not on the continent. Besides, he and Sailor would’ve probably murdered each other, and I don’t have time or energy to be a witness at a lengthy trial.” Hunter closed the passenger door with a bang after we all poured out. “Especially when I can almost taste freedom. And pussy. I can taste that, too.”
You do, every day, I wanted to scream. Or do I not count?
But of course, I knew why he did it. We couldn’t show people we were together in the biblical sense of the word. That was our agreement.
“Anyway.” Hunter yawned. “I rented the place for the night. The personal chef is already here. We’re having organic, plant-based food, because Luna is vegetarian and Sailor is…like, a chick.”
“Oh!” Luna squeaked in response, high-fiving me. I tried to remain upbeat. Like a chick? Was I not an actual woman now? Besides, this was bullshit, and he knew it. We ate out together all the time, and I was the more adventurous eater. In fact, one time he said I had the metabolism of a quarterback frat boy.
“Leaves, dude?” Knight threw Hunter a look that said he’d lost all respect.
“Fear not.” Hunter raised a warning hand. “In return for our hospitality in the food department—if I can even indeed call vegetables food—we will be watching a marathon of old-school movies, consisting of Fight Club, Top Gun, and Dirty Harry.”
“I’m not sitting through that!” Luna exclaimed, coming down from her initial euphoria.
“Even if it’s on top of me? Bareback?” Knight grinned, hooking his muscular bicep around her neck. Luna swatted his arm and laughed.
We made our way into the theater. An array of dishes—salads, pastas, and casseroles—were waiting outside in the lobby, complete with a makeshift dining area. We ate quickly, then went into the theater. There were two theater staff present. They dimmed the lights, put on the first movie—Dirty Harry—and made themselves scarce. We were seated in the front row of the upper level, in complete darkness, on plush seats. Knight and Hunter crossed their long legs at the ankles on the railings, with Knight putting Luna’s hand over his hard thigh, stroking it lovingly. Hunter and I didn’t touch, even though we sat right next to each other.
I couldn’t concentrate on the first two movies—Dirty Harry and Top Gun. All I could do was mull over how much it bothered me that Hunter hadn’t shown me any special treatment, or any treatment at all, for that matter. How hard was it going to be to face reality when our contract was up?
Over the weeks we’d slept together and listened to Sylvester Lewis’ tapes wrapped around each other with our AirPods, I’d willed myself to imagine Hunter walking away from me, saying goodbye one last time. I did it over and over again. I hoped the pain would subside with time—the more I envisioned it and the more I practiced.
It never did.
By the time Fight Club started, Luna and Knight had given up pretending they were watching the movies. They were fooling around, Luna straddling Knight on his seat. They made noises. Moans and groans and wet kisses. Their teeth collided, fabric shuffled. I couldn’t even decipher whether it was Brad Pitt or Edward Norton on the screen. I glanced at Hunter, who was sandwiched between me on one side, and Knight and Luna on the other. His eyes were dead on the screen as he poured a bag of M&M’s into his bucket of popcorn, skillfully balancing the huge thing on his knee.