Page 10 of The Revenge Agenda

I was just an easy target.

“I hate this guy so fucking much,” Molly whispers.

I only wish I did too.

Chapter 3

Hunter

One month later

The need to run back to Portland hasn’t completely left me. Trying to find a rental over the holiday period was icing on top of the shit sandwich that is Seattle, and bouncing between questionable-looking motels and hotels really put a damper on my first two weeks here.

Mom and Dad begged me to come home. Audrey even went so far as to tell me I could stay with her until I found another apartment, but if I have to hear her say, “Just because he’s good for your hole, doesn’t mean he’s good for your soul,” one more time, I’ll probably smother her.

The fact is, moving home feels like failure.

I’m not ready to face all my friends and family and tell them that I moved all this way for some deadbeat. There’s also the little voice in my heart hoping said deadbeat will come crawling back.

He tried. For about a week. Then it’s been radio silence ever since.

It’s not that I want to get back together with Ian—the trust is well and truly shattered—but it would be nice to know that I was worth something. Worth fighting for.

Not just the idiot who was easy to string along.

A spike of anger shoots through me as I climb into my car. What the hell was his plan? Did he really think he could keep fucking around behind my back and get away with it after I moved here? And how many others were there? Not having the answer to these questions is torturing me.

It’s time to move on. Just let it go. I’m back at work today, and the salary and benefits this place is offering is a huge step up from the place I was working at in Portland, which was another reason I was reluctant to head home. Department head is something I’ve been aiming toward for years, but I was going to fossilize in my wait for something to come available. Insurance isn’t the most exciting career path, but it pays the bills.

So I’m giving myself the fresh start I’d planned for … without the man.

It stings a lot like failure, but I’m trying not to let it bother me.

Who knows? Maybe there are other men in Seattle who I won’t want to punch in the face. Given Ian and Rush are the only two I’ve met so far beyond servers and baristas and the trainers at the gym, it doesn’t look promising, but at least I know there’ll be plenty to fuck around with at least.

That might be all this city is good for, and I’ll end up running back home in a year. Where the men in Portland really aren’t that much better.

The morning commute is different from what I’m used to. Still busy. Still frustrating, but the view out my window gives me something new to look at. Especially when I take a wrong turn that sends me ten minutes in the opposite direction before I can turn around again.

Luckily, I’ve given myself plenty of time because there’s no way in hell I’m turning up late on my first day.

Or ever.

I turn up the radio as I drive, adjusting to the unfamiliar voices, and when the music kicks in, I try to channel the energy, try to get motivated and pumped up for the day. I’ll meet my supervisor first and then my team. And sure, I have expectations and standards I want them to meet, but they’re not unreasonable. Be on time. Meet deadlines. Hit goals. That’s it. If they want to fuck around and chat and take personal days, that’s all cool with me. So long as they do their jobs. My people are adults, and I’ll treat them that way as long as they don’t cause me headaches.

The traffic spits me out downtown, in a sleek glass building. We’re on the third floor, which will mean no view of anything but more glass, but I’m oddly excited.

Checking in at the foyer, Ted meets me with a firm handshake and friendly smile. The morning is a blur of orientation and getting my access pass. A morning coffee break with the other department heads followed by a quick meeting and rundown. I’m turned around and have no idea which direction my office is in and where Ted sits, and even where my team are, but I don’t care.

I love this.

The office is alive with energy, the hub of productivity giving me that deep feeling of purpose. It’s the first time in over a month where I don’t want to fall into bed and live there.

“Courtney,” the woman next to me says, holding out her hand. She’s close to my age, maybe a little older than thirty, and she’s one of those people who looks like they’re always smiling.

“Hunter.”

“Welcome to the team,” she says. “That’s what I’m supposed to say, isn’t it?”

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