• • •

If the tick is the start of our Real Estate Wreck habit, Shane’s question about Keith is the start of us genuinely talking.

About everything.

We don’t spill it all at once, of course, but story by story, we settle into a comfortability that feels like a real, noncontractual friendship by day sixteen.

We cover a wide range of ground. Relationships. Exes. Politics. Religion. How when Shane was ten, his father discovered he slept with a night-light and locked him outside in the dark until sunrise. How my mother is convinced Keith cheated because I don’t want to have children. Nothing is off-limits.

Except the topic of what happens between us when the thirty days are up. I can’t shake the sensation that this is more. That this is dating. But if it was dating, wouldn’t he say something? He would; we’re adults, not high schoolers. So this must be who Shane is. Surprisingly funny, a complete nerd for anything involving robots, and the kind of thoughtful that makes you think he’s into you when he’s simply a nice person.

This isn’t how I saw this contract playing out. I never thought I’d dread the end of the arrangement. I like it here. I like Shane, which is a problem because he sees me as a friend. A friend he pays to fuck. I have nobody to blame but myself, considering I literally crowned myself his official friend.

I need to keep my emotional distance and not get attached. But it’s hard when spending time with Shane feels this right. I have to remind myself that of course it feels good. I’m off work for the summer, fucking around with a hot guy in the woods and watching trash television. I’m basically at adult summer camp. It’s great, but it isn’t real. Even if there are moments where it feels like it might be.

Like when he brings home the obscure brand of frozen yogurt I mentioned loving. Or leaves a can of bear spray on my dresser with a sticky note that says just in case. It’s especially hard to remember when he tells me I feel like fucking heaven as he thrusts into me on the lakeshore. Then I remember how Keith did and said sweet things too, and that meant shit all in the end.

The ultimate proof that this is nothing but a business agreement sits in a folder on my dresser. What’s that saying? If he wanted to, he would. Well, if Shane wanted anything more than this, he’d shred the contract. Or create an addendum, or do something else lawyerly to it.

But he hasn’t, so he doesn’t want more. Doesn’t want me. I try not to let it sting, but it does. Just a little.

THIRTEEN Claire

It’s day eighteen, and I still haven’t given up on my dream of making Shane blow that damn whistle. Besides my moment of clothing thievery, the hunts follow a fairly predictable pattern.

Shane summons me.

I run into the woods.

He trails, chases, catches, and fucks me.

I’m having a fantastic time, but that suspicious little voice in my brain won’t shut up.

Stop being predictable.

He’s going to get bored.

He’s going to replace you.

There’s no doubt that the voice is a jerk. But just because the delivery is shit doesn’t mean the voice is wrong—I could be boring Shane. It waters the seed of insecurity planted by Keith’s betrayal. When I get insecure, I do things. Sometimes these things are wonderful; sometimes these things are ridiculous. Today’s is going to be wonderful.

Hopefully.

At a quarter to eleven, Shane summons me. I have a ten-minute lead, but for once, I’m not bolting in an attempt to get as far away as possible. I’ve been wanting to use a hidey-hole I found when I explored the woods after our first hunt. Today’s the day. It’s all I can do not to skip through the trees. The sunshine is warm, there’s a light breeze, and Shane took the day off, so he should have plenty of time to hunt me. He’s going to need it.

The rocky nook is as secluded as I remembered, a crevice begging to become a hiding spot. Barely off the entry trail, it’s close enough that I should be able to hear him go by, but not so close that I’m in his line of sight. A large, angled rock creates a mini cave, the open side facing away from the trail. Moss clings to the rock, and shrubbery surrounds it. I’m about to slip into the space when I realize I’m not the only one who thinks it’s the perfect place to hunker down. A large spider occupies a spot toward the right side of the gap, working diligently on a web. I feel a prickle of guilt as I herd the spider out with a stick, careful not to break the fragile web.

“Sorry,” I whisper as I slide into the crevice. “I won’t stay long, swear.”

It’s the truth. I’ve barely found a semi-comfortable position when I hear Shane. Holding my breath is unnecessary, but I do. Images of the temporarily evicted spider returning for revenge dance through my brain. Am I willing to get molested by an arachnid to keep Shane interested and possibly win this hunt?

Yes.

It’s hard to tell how much of my motivation is insecurity-based and how much is pure competitiveness. All I know is that when Shane’s footsteps pass me, the butterflies in my stomach grow rowdy. I’ve developed a Pavlovian response to the sound of heavy footsteps crunching through the woods. A whiff of bug spray or the sound of Shane’s boots, and my butterflies are cheering, my pussy waking up because things are about to take a turn for the orgasmic. I’m going to be $30,000 richer at the end of this venture, but I’m also going to have to figure out how to decondition myself. Spending the rest of my life getting wet every time I smell bug spray is not ideal.

I’ll just stay out of the camping section at Walmart.

Shane’s footsteps—sexy, sexy footsteps—fade. I wait a moment to make sure he’s truly moved on and isn’t doing something sneaky. I wouldn’t put it past him to see me and perform some sort of elaborate fake-out. When I’m sure he’s gone, I shimmy out and slink down the trail after him. It’s a gamble because it involves being closer to him than I usually am during a hunt, but I don’t think he’ll expect this. At the very least, it’s something different. I’m also more than a little bit aroused at the prospect of stalking him. Even though I know I shouldn’t get close enough to watch him, the temptation is too strong to resist.

I’m staying a few hundred yards back from him, moving as quietly as I can. Stalking is more challenging than I anticipated, but the rush makes it worth it. It’s been nearly an hour, and his movements are growing agitated. Every so often he stops hard, and I freeze, terrified he’ll look behind him. So far, so good. While I linger near the trail’s edge to increase my chance of being able to slip behind a tree or blend into the scrub, I don’t go entirely into the brush. It’s too dense, making it impossible to be quiet. The longer the hunt goes without him noticing me, the more optimistic I feel that I’m going to make him use the whistle today.

It’s official: stalking Shane does it for me.

This isn’t the same as getting to play the role of predator, but it’s so fun that I understand the appeal of being the hunter. I’m watching him, and he has no idea. It’s wrong. It’s creepy. It’s hot.

So, so hot.

After another half hour passes, I get bold and decrease the distance between us. Only to up the stakes, definitely not to check out his ass. It is a spectacular ass, though. Hugged by his black hunting pants, it calls to me, luring me even closer. Truthfully, it’s begging to be smacked. Part of me wants to run up and swat it, even though it will mean giving myself away. It’s fantastically round and firm.