The Hunt

POV: Rebecca

I stretch with a yawn and slip my tips into the cash box tucked away inside my locker. Faint classic rock still drifts through the wall from the bar, and I can’t wait to step into complete silence. Another shift done.

“Good night, Becca. You try to get some rest, sweetheart,” Mrs. McAllister says with a warm smile.

“Night, Rosie!” I call after her, but the plump old woman is already waddling off down the hallway.

I catch my reflection in the mirror. Long strands of golden-brown hair have escaped my loose ponytail, framing a face that looks more exhausted than I’d like to admit. Dark circles shadow my deep brown eyes, betraying another sleepless night.

I let out a quiet sigh.

The local pub isn’t even the worst place I’ve ever worked. The pay is decent, and my coworkers are good people. If you don’t count the occasional arrogant guy who has no concept of personal space, I actually enjoy working here sometimes.

Lately, though, I’ve started to feel stuck.

I need to make more in tips. Every dollar, every coin I manage to squirrel away brings me one step closer to the chance of leaving this place behind for good. Someday, I’ll make it far away from here.

I pull the hair tie from my ponytail and massage my scalp, running my fingers through my tousled hair. Shrugging into my jacket, I push open the door and step outside.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the crisp September air. The evening is cool, and the chill wakes me instantly. After hours of clinking glasses, laughter, and music, the silence is almost deafening.

I walk over to my pickup truck, climb inside, and close the door behind me.

When I get home, I ease the front door open as quietly as I can. Some late-night talk show blares from the television. I set my keys on the dresser, slip off my shoes, and gently push the door shut behind me.

A glass bottle thuds against the coffee table.

Damn it.

“Where the hell have you been?” a drunken voice growls.

“At work, Jim,” I sigh, making my way toward the living room.

My eyes sweep across the room. Empty beer bottles. Dirty dishes. The stale smell of alcohol hanging in the air.

I keep my expression blank.

“The hell you were.” Jim hauls himself upright on the couch. “You think I’m stupid, woman?”

“I was working.”

“Oh, yeah?” He jabs a finger at me. “If you’re working so damn much, where’s all that money, huh?”

Down your fucking throat, I want to say.

Instead, I bite my tongue. Starting a fight would only make things worse.

“I’ll show you how to make some real money,” Jim sneers as he stumbles toward the front door.

“Jim, where are you going?” I ask, unable to keep the exhaustion out of my voice.

He brushes right past me.

“Where are the truck keys?”

My gaze darts to the key ring lying on the dresser.

Too late.

Jim snatches it before I can move.

“Jim, please!”

I reach for the keys in his hand.

“Get your damn hands off me, bitch!” he roars, shoving me backward.

I stumble, barely saving myself from hitting the wall.

Without another word, he yanks the door open and disappears into the night.

I barely sleep that night.

I toss and turn, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the worst.

Part of me is worried about him. The other part... the other part almost hopes that this time he’ll drive into a ditch and—

The thought dies before it can finish.

Guilt crashes over me.

I shouldn’t think like that.

By the time the sun begins to rise, exhaustion finally pulls me under.

I wake around nine to the sound of the front door opening.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid.

I lie perfectly still, waiting to hear Jim stumble into the bedroom.

Instead, there’s the heavy thud of his body collapsing onto the couch.

I don’t move.

A few seconds pass.

Then I hear it—the steady, thunderous sound of his snoring drifting in from the living room.

Only then do I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

I let it out slowly and finally allow myself to breathe.

I have to work from four until midnight today. Maybe I can get another couple of hours of sleep. It’s the last thing I think before exhaustion drags me back under.

I wake with a start and glance at the clock.

One o’clock.

One in the afternoon.

And Jim never woke me up.

A knot forms in my stomach.

Is he dead?

I climb out of bed and pull on some clothes. Cracking the bedroom door open, I creep toward the kitchen.

My heart skips a beat.

Jim is sitting at the kitchen table.

“Made coffee. Have some if you want.”

He doesn’t even look at me. His eyes stay fixed on whatever’s outside the window.

What... the hell... is going on?

Too stunned to speak, I pour myself a cup and lower myself onto one of the kitchen stools.

Jim says nothing.

Neither do I.

The silence stretches between us, thick and uneasy.

After a minute, he gets to his feet, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out my truck keys.

Without a word, he sets them on the table.

Then he walks out the front door.

I don’t move.

I just stare at the keys, trying to decide whether I should feel relieved... or terrified.

After breakfast, I wash the dishes, tidy up the living room, and even manage to throw in a load of laundry before work.

Those few extra hours of sleep made more of a difference than I expected. I still feel tired, but not bone-deep exhausted.

Jim is nowhere to be seen.

I get ready for work and leave a little early.

The shift starts off slow, giving me plenty of time to catch my breath between customers.

As the afternoon slips into evening, I realize I’m in a better mood than I’ve been in for weeks. I find myself chatting with customers, smiling without forcing it, even joking around. For the first time in a long while, I feel like myself again.

By evening, the bar is buzzing. Glasses clink, laughter fills the room, and tips keep finding their way into my apron pocket.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

Caught up in the rush, I don’t notice him at first.

Not until Mrs. McAllister rests a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Becca, darling,” she says.

Something in her voice makes me turn immediately. The usual warmth is still there, but it’s edged with unease.

“Is something wrong, Rosie?” I ask.

“I reckon it’s probably nothing, sweetheart.” She lowers her voice. “But there’s a man over in the corner asking for you. Specifically.”

She gives a subtle nod toward the back of the room.

I follow her gaze.

And freeze.

A pair of eyes is already fixed on me from across the bar.

His gaze is so intense it seems to erase the distance between us.

He’s sitting alone in the corner, yet everything about him commands the room. The straight set of his shoulders, the broadness of his frame, the unhurried way he slowly turns a glass of whiskey in his hand—it all draws the eye.

He isn’t doing anything to demand attention.

He doesn’t have to.

“Okay, then,” I say to Rosie, though my eyes never leave his.

I can’t tell whether it’s because I can’t look away... or because something in his stare dares me to hold it.

Challenge accepted.

I make my way across the bar.

The closer I get, the clearer he comes into focus.

Dark hair. A strong jaw shadowed with a day’s worth of stubble. Piercing blue eyes that never once leave mine.

He’s the kind of man people notice the moment he walks into a room.

The kind they remember long after he’s gone.

He isn’t smiling.

Not because he looks angry. If anything, his expression is unreadable. Calm. Patient.

Like he’s expecting me.

A shiver crawls across the back of my neck.

I should look away.

Instead, I keep staring.

Something about him pulls me in despite every instinct telling me to keep my distance.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask.

My eyes immediately drift to the whiskey in front of him.

The glass is untouched.

He sets it down with deliberate care.

“Maybe.”

His voice is low and smooth.

Despite my confusion, I keep my expression neutral.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was told you specifically asked for me.”

“I did.”

Nothing more.

He leans back in his chair, studying me as though he has all the time in the world.

I wait.

When he doesn’t elaborate, I finally break eye contact, smoothing the front of my apron as if the gesture were entirely casual.

“Alright...” I say. “So, is there something you’d like?”

For the first time, the corner of his mouth lifts in the faintest hint of a smile.

His eyes travel over me—not hurriedly, not hungrily, but with quiet confidence, taking in every detail before returning to my face.

They linger on my lips.

“Yes.”

A beat passes.

“You.”