The Hunt - Monica James

  Copyrighted Material

  THE HUNT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference.

  Copyright © 2017 by Monica James

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express, written consent of the author.

  ISBN: 978-0-9989769-2-1

  Cover Design by MGBookCovers and Designs

  Editing by Toni Rakestraw of Rakestraw Book Design

  Interior design and formatting by

  www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing platform

  Follow me on:

  monicajamesbooks.blogspot.com.au

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Books By Monica James

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with Monica James

  THE I SURRENDER SERIES

  I Surrender

  Surrender to Me

  Surrendered

  White

  SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL SERIES

  Something Like Normal

  Something Like Redemption

  Something Like Love

  A HARD LOVE ROMANCE

  Dirty Dix

  Wicked Dix

  The Hunt

  MEMORIES FROM YESTERDAY

  Forgetting You, Forgetting Me

  This is for my husband, Daniel…my original sinner. I love your face. Like a lot.

  THE HUNT is a spin-off to my A HARD LOVE ROMANCE SERIES. It can be read as a standalone. Don’t fall too hard for the main character. He most definitely will break your heart. Oh, and he has no mouth filter. Like none. You’ve been warned.

  Enjoy.

  Oh, Merde

  “Fils de Pute!”

  Smash.

  Vacationing in France over many summers has allowed me to acquaint myself with the fundamental phrases such as “Bonjour,” “Whiskey, s’il vous plait,” and “Oh, merde!”

  This right here is an ‘Oh, merde!’ moment.

  “You said you loved me!”

  “I did?”

  “Yes! Menteur! Connard!”

  Smash.

  “That doesn’t sound like something I’d say,” I calmly reply, sidestepping the broken wine glass which just bounced off the wall. I’m thankful I wasn’t standing two inches to the left.

  “You said if you had a star for every time I brightened your day, you’d have a galaxy in your hand.”

  Pausing from buttoning up my pants, I shrug offhandedly. “Well…now that sounds like something I’d say.”

  “Ugh!” screeches the wailing banshee, blindly reaching for anything she can use as a flying projectile against my insolence as I quickly continue dressing.

  I’ve become well acquainted with this standard practice of fucking and fleeing, but I tend to forget that others haven’t. I should feel bad, downright ashamed, but I don’t. I don’t make empty promises. I never have. I’m not looking to be saved, or to find that special someone to live happily ever after with. I lay my cards out on the table. They all know where they stand—and that’s a one-night stand.

  “Putain de cochon! I cheated on my husband because of you,” she cries while I dance around the room, trying to find my damn tie. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, how can I not?” I mumble under my breath.

  “Do you even care about me?” I faintly hear as I drop to one knee, still on the hunt for my favorite CK tie.

  “Yes!” I exclaim, elated when I see it discarded under the bed.

  Hastily reaching for it, I can’t get away from this cataclysmic disaster fast enough, and her desperate voice has me internally groaning, hating how complicated uncomplicated sex can be.

  “You do?”

  “Do what?” I ask with a sigh, lifting myself up and coming eye level with the sniffling redhead at the end of the bed. Her flaming red mane stirs a longing in my loins, but she’s just verified she can’t scratch the constant itch I have. No one can, well…that’s debatable.

  “Care about me,” she clarifies, her hazel eyes widening in hope.

  Standing to my full six-foot-four height, I place a hand on her bare arm. “Look, April, you’re a great girl, you really are.” I mean every word, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stay and snuggle. “But I thought you understood that what happened between us, it was just…fun,” I explain with a pause, hoping my honesty doesn’t backfire.

  When she remains quiet, her small, quickened breaths the only sound filling the room, I know she’s either bought my bullshit, or I’m five seconds away from getting something else thrown at my face.

  As the silence draws out, I lightly state, “So, let’s just remember the good times, because I know there were multiple good times on your end,” I add with a wink, hoping to lighten the mood. It doesn’t.

  Thwack!

  “Je m’appelle June!” she yells as I raise a palm to my stinging cheek.

  Oh, merde.

  Well, that’s my cue to leave.

  Looping my tie around my neck, I reach for my suit jacket and make a mad dash for the exit. June is following in hot pursuit as I quicken my step, not interested in being a piñata.

  “How can you do this to me?” she sobs, her bare feet pounding on the plush carpet behind me.

  “Mon petit, I did everything you begged of me,” I reply, bored by her melodramatics as I open the front door.

  “Hunter!” she cries, but I cut her off.

  Turning around, I witness the look I’ve seen countless times before—hope. They’re all hopeful that I can provide the missing piece to the puzzle. In June’s case, the missing piece is filling the void in her loveless marriage. She used me just as much as I used her.

  “Just stop.” I gesture with my palm. “Go back to your husband. He’s the good guy in this story.”

  “And what are you?” June queries, her naked body shaking with betrayal.

  “Me?” I ask, and she nods, wiping away her tears.

  That’s a good question. I thought I was a good guy, but the bleeding hearts of New York and its surrounding boroughs may beg to differ.

  “I’m no one you want to know,” I candidly reply before slamming the door shut behind me.

  Taking a breather, I scrub my hand down my face, that fucking blanket of shame draping over me once again. I know why it’s there and it’s all her fault. She’s the reason I’ve had sex with…I hold up my hand, needing the digits to count… five…no, I hold up both hands… six women this week, and I am still no closer to fucking this redhaired devil from my life. I thought abstaining from sex may have helped, but all it did was leave me with a serious case of blue balls, and no closer to figuring out what the hell to do.

  Groaning, I trudge down the hallway, cursing the day the infernal vixen, Mary Mitts, came into my world. I was fine. Cruising along
, chasing tail, happy to do my bid for the lonely hearts of NYC, and not look back once the deed was done…time and time again.

  My life was perfect—a fucking Hallmark card for the bachelors of this world, then my best friend, the once upon a time infamous, Dr. Booty Call M.D. aka Dr. Dixon Mathews, had to go and fall in love.

  How could he do this to me? The inconsiderate jerk.

  Not once did he consider my feelings or my balls when the woman of his dreams, Madison Roberts, had a plus one who annihilated the face of every woman I’ve ever slept with. Some infuriating part inside of me, that needs to book an appointment with the good doctor, decided to shut up shop and want her more than I have ever wanted anything or anyone.

  This makes no sense—zero—considering we both hate one another more than Liam hates Noel, and would take great pleasure in seeing the other being dropped into a tank full of piranhas and eaten alive. But I can’t stop thinking about her—like right now. What is she doing? Is her nose doing that cute crinkling thing when she…whoa.

  I just said the word cute. I never use that word. Ever. If someone asked me what Mickey Mouse was, I’d say he was a chump, never cute, whose balls were locked in Minnie’s purse. Never would I use the word cute to describe anything, but it appears Mary Mitts has the ability to ruin my vocabulary now. Fucking perfect.

  Jabbing at the elevator button, my patience is about to snap. There is only one person to blame and that’s none other than Dr. Do-Little because he’s doing exactly that—doing little to help me get over whatever insanity this is. He’s actually finding this funny, fucking hysterical. Said this is my karma for being an insensitive prick. What does he know anyway? He’s gone and done something stupid. He’s basically cut off his balls and given them to Cherry Pie to wear as earrings.

  He’s asked her to m…m…mar…marry him. I can’t even say the word without a stutter, and she obviously needs her head read because she said yes. To make matters worse, they’re getting married in three months’ time and expect me to be the best man. I should be the better man and tell Dix to say goodbye to his freedom and sex life, but they are so disgustingly happy and in love, and they so fucking deserve it. If anyone ought to have hearts and roses and re-runs of Friends, then it’s Dix. I’m happy for him. My little boy is all grown up.

  Fuck me. I need a drink. The elevator finally reaches my floor.

  Once inside, I reach into my back pocket and grab my cell. My finger wavers over my contacts, the letter M a noose around my neck because I want to call her. I want to rile her up because I take great pleasure in seeing her squirm. It’s like a drug to me, and honestly, I’ve become addicted to the taste.

  From the first moment we met, I knew she was something special. She didn’t drop her panties the moment I turned on the charm. I must be a masochistic bastard because I liked it. I liked that she made me work for it because I’ve forgotten what it felt like to be consumed with the overpowering need to crave something more than you need air to breathe.

  She was my oxygen, but in the same token, she took my breath away.

  She saw through all the bullshit because you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. This hard exterior of hers is just a front because I know once upon a time she let down her guard, and like so many, she got her heart broken. That is the reason why I have an urge to cover my balls whenever she’s near.

  Her long, fiery red hair is like an out of control inferno, which matches her personality to a tee. She is sharp tongued and crass, she makes no excuses for her filthy mouth, and that fact leaves me with a permanent semi.

  Her pink lips are full, the type of lips that bring men to their knees. That, combined with a rocking body and spectacular rack, has me fantasizing about her in ways I have never done so before. I have a confession to make…I have fucked plenty of women, but love—I’m a virgin when it comes to the big L.

  I don’t have a sob story like Dix. No one broke my heart because I never gave it to anyone to break. It has remained under lock and key for thirty-three carefree years. Sure, I’ve had a couple of girlfriends, and I use the term lightly, but none really did it for me. After a while, we both lost interest, and I don’t know if it was me, or them, or maybe we were just filling in time for something better to come along. For me, it was always a steady pace, not even breaking a sweat.

  I didn’t want to be saved, or tamed, because I wasn’t interested in settling down. The thought of sharing my bed with one woman and one woman only was like a black hole sucking the flair from my loins. Some called me a commitment-phobe, while most called me a manwhore. But the simple fact was that I was happy to live my life a bachelor, Hugh Hefner-style, accepting this as my fate.

  But Mary, or better known as Lamb, has completely ruined my dreams of being surrounded by endless bouncy blondes because all I want is one…maddening…libido-sucking redhead. And I don’t know why. It’s not like she’s nice to me, or even likes me.

  So that’s my story in a nutshell. I have never been in love because I just didn’t see the point. Dixon, regardless of what an utter pussy he can be, is the best person I know, and that cuntasaurus, Lily, tore out his heart and used it to wipe her ass. He told me that she was the love of his life, and that she was “the one.” Yeah, she was the one who turned him into a raging hard-on, nailing anything within a hundred-mile radius. Even though I commended him on his sexual prowess, and applauded him on the skill to not dehydrate from all the loads he was blowing, I saw how fucking miserable he was when she broke his heart. Not only did she break it, she fucking set it on fire and destroyed him.

  If that’s what love does, then love can blow me.

  Cherry Pie is the exception. She is an anomaly, a glitch in the system. I can’t help but wonder what her best friend is. At the moment, she’s a thorn in my side and a complete cooch blocker because I can’t fuck anyone without picturing her soft lips, her vivacious green eyes, but most of all, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to possess her and never let go.

  Holy motherfucking donkey dicks. I need to get a grip.

  With my cell still in hand, I decide to call the one person who owes me. Big time.

  “Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment to discuss our good Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?”

  “There aren’t enough Hail Marys to save my soul.”

  I can’t help but laugh because we’re riding the highway to hell together. “Amen! What are you doing?”

  Dixon’s gravelly chuckles alert me to the fact that he’s probably snuggled with his honey, watching some chick flick and about to call it a night.

  “Madison and I are binge watching a TV series on Netflix.”

  “Oh, yeah, what’s that? Gossip Girl?” I snicker at my own joke while Dixon scoffs.

  “Gossip Girl? What the fuck is that? An autobiography on your life?” I can hear Madison’s muted chuckles in the background.

  “Whatever. Meet me for a drink?” The elevator doors ping open, notifying Dixon that I’m not home.

  “Where are you?” Nothing slips past him.

  “Nowhere special,” which is codeword for I don’t exactly know.

  It’s a Friday night, and back in the good ol’ days, Dixon and I would be on the hunt, while Finch would be the adult of the group, pleading we stop thinking with the wrong head. Goes without saying, I’ve been flying solo for quite some time. What, with Dixon denouncing his manwhore ways, and Finch mastering Daddy Day Care, our threesome soon became a one man show.

  I’m over the moon for my friends. They’ve got their shit together, but the wave of nostalgia always seems to hit around ten thirty on a Friday night, which is why, most Friday nights, I’m buried between the legs of some faceless woman, who seems more than happy to forget her woes also.

  “One drink, or is it past your curfew?” I quip, tying back my hair into a low manbun.

  A rocking brunette, who is talking to the front desk attendant, does a double take when I saunter past. Her red stained lips almost smack in delight, inflatin
g my ego and pants. I know I’m not ugly, and have been told on numerous occasions I look like the lovechild of Chris Hemsworth and David Beckham.

  My shaggy, dirty blond hair is less than acceptable to all the tools I work with on Wall Street. But they can eat me. I refuse to look the part of corporate asshole, because no one wants to fuck a stick in the mud.

  I’m a stockbroker, and am a kingpin to the men of my trade because lucky is my middle name. I have illustrious connections and my portfolio would give the Wolf of Wall Street serious wood. My clients trust me because no one can say no to this face. NYSE is my bitch, and I ride that bell like a cowboy breaking in a mustang.

  I’m good at what I do because I don’t like to lose, and that confidence, combined with my, and I quote, “GQ” looks, never leaves me short of female attention, like right now. It’s a crime that it’s this easy, but when I think about the one woman who is anything but easy, I pay the lady in red a wink.

  Her blushing cheeks rival the color of her skin-tight dress, which has my inner caveman pounding his chest and priming for a sure thing, but some foreign, gushy part, which I’ve dubbed D2, highlights the similarities that it also resembles the color of an infuriating vixen’s hair.

  That thought is a swift kick to the balls and I gripe aloud because this woman is ruining my life.

  “Do you want your dick to fall off?” Dix says, transporting me back in time, however, this time, the shoe, or the cock, is on me.

  Rolling my eyes, I humor him. “Yes, it’s my dream to grow a vagina. If you have a point, get to it already. You’re wasting precious whiskey time.” The brunette overhears me and mutes a giggle behind her hand.

  “This will get old fast, trust me. You need to stop with these random hook-ups, grow a pair, and tell a certain redhead how you feel. If she tells you hell to the fuck no, then at least you’ve tried.”

  My back instantly arcs up. “I may not have told her in so many words, but she knows how I fe—” I leave the sentence hanging, my mouth suddenly heavy with weepy babble.