During the Thunderstorm (Natural Disaster) ✔

Chapter Thirty

Hunter was exhausted.

It had been a long week full of tests, basketball practice, and an impromptu party. Still, it wasn't over yet. Now that Alexander had accepted Cole's suggestion to play a drinking game at the bar, it was likely going to turn into the longest week of his year.

And it also didn't help that he kept counting the months, the weeks, the days until he had a break. Until he could pack his bag and take the first plane away from Florida.

Once he reached his place, he knew he should eat something quickly and head to bed. He had an early morning. He needed to practice in the morning and then he had a meeting with Coach. Later, he would probably need to head to his family's hotel and go to meetings.

His father had been easing him into meetings, so that when the summer arrived, Hunter would be able to start working at the hotel full-time. With Cole.

It was going to be a disaster but at least it wouldn't be unbearable with his friend there. Otherwise, he would drive himself crazy because working in the summer meant waiting at least another few months before he could take that plane away from Florida.

Until he could see her again.

And touch her, and feel her, and hug her. Fuck. He missed her so badly. It was a miracle he hadn't jumped into the first flight going northwest.

He was already on the edge.

This wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part wasn't missing her like crazy, being unable to feel her, or being away from her.

The worst part was being so fucking in love with your best friend but being unable to do anything about it because your best friend was in love with some other fucker. And that fucker went ahead and broke what you'd craved so badly. What you'd been dying for—her heart. You wanted to go and shoot a missile to his ugly face but couldn't do it because then your best friend would be sad the fucker had died.

Fuck morality.

Hunter exhaled hard. His hands were clenched from thinking about Zachary—or Fuckary, as Hunter liked to think of him in his head. Because he deserved nothing less.

Fuckary deserved a place in hell. In the boiling pot where souls got burned to damnation for eternity. He didn't deserve less than a painful, slow death.

Hunter would gladly go to hell for killing Fuckary. But then Eloise wouldn't be ecstatic about it.

And Hunter wanted nothing else but to make Eloise happy. Whatever she needed. Whatever she wished for. Whatever she wanted. All of that, he did for her.

Need to cut a ball? Hunter wouldn't think twice. Pass the blade.

Shave his head? No blink.

Stab his chest repeatedly? He did that on a normal basis.

Keeping Fuckary alive? It was a hardship, but Hunter was willing to inhale and channel his anger into peace. Which shouldn't be so hard because he normally was a peacemaker. Handy skills for captaincy and for preventing a murder—which could happen between Alexander to Cole.

However, Fuckary was the exception. And Hunter's internal peace vanished in his presence.

Hunter breathed in and out a few times. A technique Coraline had shown him to relax. He did it now every time he was going to video call Eloise because their usual topic was Fuckary. But it didn't matter.

It didn't matter how exhausted he was, or angry, or happy, or sad. Or how little hours of sleep he was giving up, she was the last face he wanted to see before falling asleep. The last voice. The last thought.