Page 27 of Make Me Hunt
“Two hours, I literally just rolled out of bed.”
Josh:
“Great! Can’t wait to see you, Beautiful.”
I actually feel good about this—not good as in he’s The One or anything, but good in the sense that he might help me take my mind off things while I wait for Ares to make his next move. Deep down, I know I’m just fooling myself. It’s not Josh that I want. But it’s not Ares either—at least, I can’t allow myself to want him.
I hop in the shower, throw on a pair of black leather pants, a beige tank top, and just as I’m reaching for my heeled boots, I realize I left them in the trunk. I wore them during my last shift at The Breach. I sometimes swap shoes mid-shift, so my feet don’t hate me, and I never actually went back to grab them.
So, I throw on a pair of sneakers and head down to the parking lot. I’ve got plenty of time before I’m supposed to meet Josh. I don’t even know why I’m excited about—seeing the guy or actually getting a chance to get Ares out of my head for a couple of hours. Not that it’s a real possibility. Especially since everything that man does seems to haunt me.
I pop the trunk open, and right as I lean in to grab my boots, I spot a black package tied with a red ribbon.
What the fuck is this?
I don’t exactly have that many secret admirers, and even if someone wanted to send me something, it would’ve shown up at the door. This feels off, just gives me a weird vibe, especially since it doesn’t even have a note. Nonetheless, I grab the package and untie the ribbon. I need to see what’s inside; maybe I’ll figure out who sent this.
I lift the lid, then slam it back a second later.
This isn’t what I think it is. It can’t be.
I take a deep breath, then take a mental pause because my brain fully checks out. I don’t reopen the package. I just snatch it up and hurry back to my apartment, pretty sure I saw a note next to what I suspect isa severed dick.
I get inside and lock the door behind me. My heart is pounding, and chills crawl down my spine. I’m not the kind of person who gets scared by this shit, but this is just gross.
I work up the nerve to open the package again, and yep, the severed dick’s still there—along with the note.“No one touches what’s mine.”It’s not signed, but I knowwho well fucking sent it. And as I look again at the chopped limb, something about it looks familiar. Not familiar, as inI’ve seen it in personor anything. Just… memorable, in that it-might-be-the-ugliest-damn-dick I’ve ever seen way.
I quickly realize it’s the dick from that picture the bartender sent me last night. My first instinct is to slam the lid shut and throw the box somewhere no one will ever find it. But I’m still human, and the damn thing looks freshly removed. So, I grab a bowl, a bag of ice from the freezer, and toss it there to chill. I don’t know if anyone could sew it back on, but since I know who it belongs to, I’d feel bad not returning it. I just hope Ares left the guy alive so he can be reunited with his… limb.
Ares is such a dick. Strange choice of words—I know. But he crossed a line.
Imagine I hadn’t checked the trunk for a month… my mind refuses to even go there.
I change into something more casual. An oversized black pair of joggers and a matching hoodie, something that won’t draw attention, while all I can think about is: how the fuck did Ares find out about him?
He must’ve gotten into my phone, since the guy's dick was in my messages. Which also means he probably saw the texts from Josh. He’s probably going to fucking kill him, too.
I need to cancel the damn date, but I don’t want Ares getting the satisfaction of knowing I’m canceling because of him. God, I can’t wait for the day when I rip his heart out of his chest.
Still, I don’t want to see Josh hurt. Not because of me. And not over something this stupid.
I grab my phone and text him:
Sorry, something came up. Can’t make it.
Just like that, I just killed the only shot I had at getting Ares out of my head. I only hope it’s enough to get my psycho mobster off his back.
Now it’s time to play delivery girl and get the fucking dick to the bar where the guy works—if he’s still alive. Hopefully someone there knows what to do with it, like, take it to a hospital or something. These days, they can sew anything back on, as long as it gets there fast enough. I’ve seen The Hangover Part II. I know how these things work.
I curse again, grab my car keys and an ice box I had lying around, drop the bowl with the dick inside, and head straight to the bar. I park in the back alley and check for cameras, don’t want anyone seeing who it is, and end up with a possible murder investigation on my ass. I’m in enough shit as it is. Then, I throw my hoodie over my head and drop the box in front of the bar. Someone will pick it up soon because I see a delivery van parked out front, so I suspect there’s someone inside, probably getting their bill signed. That gives me a small window to get back to my car before anyone sees me, and before anyone starts wondering why I’ve got my hood up and ski gloves on. Best I could do on such short notice. No way I’m leaving fingerprints on anything. Just hope Ares was smart enough not to leave his. Or maybe he wasn’t, and this will end up with a one-way trip straight to jail for him. Honestly, I don’t give a shit at this point.
I check my phone. There’s a text from Josh.
No worries. Rain check?
I don’t reply because I don’t intend to reply to him anymore—for his own sake, of course. I just stop at the 7-Eleven and buy the biggest bucket of coconut and chocolate chip ice cream I can find. Doesn’t compare to a good fuck, but at least I’m guaranteed I get some satisfaction out of this.
I also pick up some basic groceries too, because my fridge has been empty for weeks. Nothing major, though. And definitely nothing healthy either. I’m not planning to live forever, so I’m sticking to pre-made crap over organic, two hour-to-cook meals.
