Ready Or Not (The Hunter’s Club #2)

Chapter 4

4

Cute Girl - Diggy Graves

The woman I picked is a fascinating creature. She has those big brown eyes, a perfect body, and a pussy that tastes like heaven. When she was standing in line, she looked at me with an expression much like a deer’s. Like she was frozen and didn’t know what to do. And she was quiet. Not loud like the rest of the fools who come here.

Hunting her down and eating her until she came was fascinating. She hardly reacted. Just a few tears, some apologies, and then quiet. She’s nothing like most normies who make a huge dramatic show.

So naturally, I followed her home.

I meant to scare this woman tonight. Meant to get under her skin, literally and figuratively. To feed on the power she gave me. But she was so expressionless, besides those few tears. They leaked out of her eyes without all the gross slobbering that most people do. Instead, they made her eyes shine even brighter with an unreadable expression.

She reminds me of me.

And that hasn’t happened since…Manson.

Right now, the woman is sitting in her driveway in her little Toyota. I know she’s thinking about me. I bet she’s wondering what my pussy tastes like.

Most women do. Not that I ever let them taste it.

Maybe she’s crying again? It’s possible I read her wrong, although it’s rare—if ever—that I’m wrong.

Bambi’s car door pops open, her dome light turns on, and she gets out. I’m leaning against the neighbor’s house, watching her. If she sees me, it’ll be round two.

But she doesn’t, and there are no tears on her face.

My mouth kicks up in a grin. What a fascinating little creature.

I wait until she goes inside, moves around, flips what I assume is the bedroom light on, and then, finally, it goes off again.

Fuck. I need a cigarette. They’re in my saddlebags on my bike—a Ducati Panigale—but I can’t step away from her house, not even for a minute.

What is my little deer like? The little deer who gives nothing away?

My phone vibrates. I pull it out, expecting a message from Manson. Instead, it’s a message from a rando I’ve been conning.

User1995: I’m in for 500

I roll my eyes. I saw this coming a mile away. The man did a shit job of pretending he wasn’t interested in the mounted deer head I said I had. Sure, he didn’t know it was me he was talking to. He thought it was Wesley, the deer-hunting YouTube sensation. But I hunt, too, and I’m a hell of a lot better than Wesley.

Anger prickles over my skin, and I message back.

Me: Great! I can deliver if that makes it easier.

User1995: That would be awesome.

He gives me his address, and I smile while rage boils in my chest. Nothing makes me angrier than posers—people who want to mount an animal on their wall and pretend like they hunted it, brag to their friends, and make up stories about things they didn’t do.

No poser deserves that attention, and no animal deserves to be dead on the walls of those shits.

I shake it off. I’ll take care of him later.

I glance at my doe’s window and wait longer. After I’ve waited as long as I can, I break in.

Not that I care if she’s awake to call the cops, but people have less opportunity to lie about who they are when they’re unconscious. And I find lying inconvenient.

Unless I’m the one doing it, of course.

Bambi’s house is a small ranch. I’m guessing three small bedrooms, a bath, and no garage. As soon as I kick the front door open, the faint smell of old person fills my nose.

Well fuck. Old people are inconvenient. Much like children. Is she stuck taking care of one?

The living room is silent. Is she a hard sleeper? Probably, after I fucked her good. She exploded in my mouth, her pussy gripping me so tight I was shocked.

I grin.

My doe’s living room is decorated in 1970s decor and Halloween accents. She has multicolored flower-print chairs, oranges and yellows all over everything, and an extravagant chandelier over the dining room table. She also has pumpkin decor and ghosts and witches everywhere. It’s kinda ugly.

I frown. Is this her choice, or does someone else live here?

I sort through the mail she has on the dining room table.

Rachel. I don’t see anyone else’s name. So, my bambi’s name is Rachel.

I lick my lips. I can still taste her pussy.

Stalking down the hall, I head directly to the room where I saw her light on. Sure enough, when I crack the door open, Rachel’s there in bed. She’s curled up, with her wrists tucked under her chin, snoring lightly. Her pretty little lips are parted, and I see the swell of her hips under the sheet.

My mouth waters.

I should see how much I can do to her while she’s asleep.

I force myself to pause. Not until I’m done snooping. I need to know more about her so I can…motivate her to do what I want. This is just the beginning, and I won’t fuck it up by not preparing correctly. As Manson likes to get all over my ass for.

I check the room opposite the bedroom. Most of it is storage for miscellaneous items. When I check the last bedroom and flip on the light, I suck in a breath.

There are skulls. Hundreds of them. All over tables, on shelves, and in display cases.

A strange feeling twists my gut. I look over all those dead animals, and the greed of humanity hits me.

They’d rob an animal of its life just for this? Trophies?

Rage filters over my vision.

No animal deserves this.

My phone buzzes again. I rip it out of my pocket.

Manson: Where you at, sis?

I almost throw my phone at the wall. He knows I hate it when he calls me that. Instead, I stomp out of the house, blindly typing.

Me: Fuck off.

Normally, I wouldn’t give him such ammo. He latches onto any weakness like a bloodhound, but when I’m mad, I can’t stop.

Manson: Why you in such a bad mood?

I can practically hear his smirk.

Manson: Did stalking your prey not get your jollies off?

I grip my phone so hard my fingers hurt and throw it violently into the saddle bags. Of course Manson knows I’m here. I forgot to check my bike for trackers before I left. Not only is my step-brother obsessive about me, he’s obsessive about the people I fuck. “Obsessive,” meaning he usually kills them and leaves the bodies in my cornfield. The killing doesn’t bother me. I never stick around for longer than a fuck, but it’s the principle of it. Manson thinks he’s in charge of my life, and he makes me clean up his messes.

Arrogant prick. I’d put him at the top of my list to kill, but that would only go to his head.

I suck in a deep breath and start the bike. I wasn’t expecting the animals. I shouldn’t be disappointed because I shouldn’t have gotten interested in the first place. I need to get myself back together so Manson doesn’t rip me to shreds. I snatch up my phone.

Me: Kill this one, too, I don’t care.

Then I turn my phone off and peel away from the curb.