Page 20 of Hunter or Hunted

But when I sipped the cocoa, my mind quieted. As I spooned ladleful after ladleful into the carafe, my stiff shoulders loosened, and breaths came easier.

As I lifted my tumbler to my lips for another sip, a hand landed on the small of my back. The smell of Simone’s fruity perfume hit me before the sound of her voice. “How many cups have you had so far today, sweetie?”

“Two. The first and the last.” I spooned another ladleful into the carafe and chuckled. Simone didn’t. “My mom used to say that.”

“Not even a ballpark estimate?” she asked.

No matter how kind her expression, how sympathetic her voice, I couldn’t help my eye roll. “I don’t know. A lot.”

“Maybe you should get something to eat then?” She held up a plate of finger sandwiches and cookies. “Just something to soak it all up.”

I didn’t want to soak it all up. I liked how quiet my mind was. That I couldn’t hear my heartbeat. How loose my neck felt over my shoulders. Even the slight sway of my legs beneath me. Couldn’t say the slur at the edges of my words bothered me either.

“I’m good. Thanks.” Hand clenched a little too tightly around the ladle now, the meditative lull of dumping spoonfuls into the carafe dwindled. I still had two full pots to get through.

Grabbing the first by the handles on either side, I lifted it over the carafe. Just as I started to pour, Simone gasped. Both her hands flung to mine. She pulled, trying to bring the pot back to the tabletop.

Liquid splashed, landing on my chest.

I gasped at the heat and blurted, “Son of a bitch, Simone!”

I hadn’t intended to yell, but it came out that way.

She released her hold on my hands. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

More steaming chocolate droplets crashed onto the backs of my hands as I lowered the pot to the table. Jaw tight, I looked down. Chest bright pink, speckled in chocolate, but no boils or blisters stared back at me. Hot, but not scalding.

Doubted I would’ve felt it regardless.

The Pat Benatar T-shirt that hung off my shoulders had survived worse stains. I blew out a deep breath that released my clenched teeth. “I’ll live.”

“I’m sorry,” Simone said. “It just looked like you were gonna spill it.”

“Well, I did.”

Mostly on myself though. Only a few droplets had landed on the table. I patted them up with a paper towel, blinking to see them clearly. Maybe it was the flickering fluorescents overhead. Or maybe Simone was right, and I needed to go a little easier on the cocoa.

“But I was fine,” I said. “I work with hot drinks every day. Please just let me do my job here.”

“You’re usually not shit-faced drunk when you’re working.” She lowered her voice a few octaves. “I’m just worried about you, Gwen.”

I appreciated the sentiment, but… “I’m not shit-faced.” Both hands on the pot again, I lifted it over the carafe. The liquid spilled out in a slow, steady stream. “Just a little tipsy.”

“You can’t even stand straight.” She put a hand on my back again. “I’m not judging, but⁠—”

“Really?” The pot returned to the tabletop with a thump. Shuffling behind the rec center doors quieted. “Because that’s usually what someone says when they’re judging.”

Simone frowned. As she opened her mouth to speak, a rush of cool wind blew in behind me. I didn’t look over my shoulder to see who it was, but Simone offered a small smile and a wave.

I held her gaze as the padding of their feet vanished into the rec center. She refocused on me. “I’m not. I get it. You’re upset. I just think we both know this isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism.”

“I’m sorry, are you really going there right now?” Brows furrowed, I scoffed. “The day I got here, the day you brought me here, we got plastered in my cabin, and you colored my hair. You said it was good. A cathartic release. A way for me to let loose and process what the hell my life had become.”

“I did, yeah. I’m really not judging or anything. I just think you should take it easy and be careful.”

“Be careful about what?” I blinked hard. “My friend’s dead, and I’m sad, so yeah, I’m getting a little drunk. I haven’t judged you for all of the times you had a bad day and got shit-faced at the end of it, so what’s the problem, Simone?”

Voice earnest, eyes soft, they flicked around behind me. Evidently realizing no one else was around, she continued. “When we drink, our inhibitions are lowered. Words just come out. We say things we shouldn’t. Things we regret later. And I’m just thinking about the things you’ve done. Things no one can know about.”