It was just Hunter. We’d lived together in his tiny one bedroom for months. I sucked in a breath. Hunter. Bruce. Istill remembered his halting introduction and even after he explained afterward, I used HB as a nickname. That was months ago.
With another breath, I opened the door to see him trudging down the hall, a duffel slung over his shoulder and a box under his arm. Looking up at me, his normal grin was fleeting.
“Hi ya. Sorry, I meant to call first, but things got away from me.” He peered into my apartment.
I looked away as I stepped back to let him in. The familiar scent of butterscotch candy and hair product wafted over my senses.
“Izzy just called me. Would you like some tea?”
“Tea would be great. Thanks,” Hunter said a bit too quickly. He dropped his duffel at the door.
I shifted away from him, realizing I stood too close. Gesturing at the futon for him to sit, I dragged my reading chair out from the corner for myself, then I remembered the tea and jumped up again.
His hair had returned to its natural sandy brown, newly cut short on the sides, still enough length for a stubborn cowlick, and a bright purple streak at the side part. His faded blue jeans fit his slim frame well without the usual splits at the knees. A newer black T with a logo I didn’t recognize stretched tight across his chest. I rarely knew any of the bands in Hunter’s vast collection of T-shirts.
He had always been thin and angular and stronger than he appeared. But now he was different. Fit. Definitely fit. I mentally counted back to the last time I saw Hunter, realizing it had been almost two months ago. Was he working out now? Why did he look so… bloody good. I wiped my hands on my jeans.
“So…the Fulbright? Izzy said people were homeless?” I set a mug of tea on the thrifted coffee table, a plastic honey bear next to it.
He nodded his thanks and stirred honey into his tea.
“I’ve been researching to find the owners. Turns out, it’s a corporation. Westridge Unlimited,” Hunter said, his focus on his tea. “But it’s a shell corporation, so I’m still digging. It sold nine months ago, just after real estate values dropped. I think they’re hoping the neighborhood will gentrify.”
“HB?” I interrupted, falling back into our usual jargon. I didn’t even have to ask. Hunter knew me all too well.
His forehead crinkled. “Right. Um, gentrify means they spruce a place up, sell to a major business like Starbucks or McDonalds, and gradually the whole neighborhood changes and property values rise.”
“With a corporation of shells?”
Hunter smiled but didn’t laugh. He never laughed at my struggle with the language. “No. A shell corp is not a business at all. Or only on paper—usually the owners wish to remain anonymous, so they set up a corporation and do business that way.”
“Why would they want to be anonymous? Is it an unlawful business?”
“Sometimes. But also perfectly legal. They do it mostly for the tax breaks. Westridge bought this property, but none of the big names moved into the neighborhood. Too much crime, I guess.”
“Can you find the real people behind it?”
“I’m working on it. But I have a gig tomorrow. It starts at seven.”
“In the morning?” My eyebrows went up. Working at the bar had turned me into a bit of a night owl. Hunter as well. Or so I’d thought.
Hunter’s mouth quirked. “Yes. In the morning.”
I turned to Hunter. We stared at one another for a moment. “I wasn’t expecting company, so there’s not much in the way of food.”
“We can order a pizza.”
“Pizza delivery is too expensive. I have eggs.”
What money I had was earmarked for groceries. And rent. And a metro card.
He shook his head. “My treat, Reg. After all, I’m invading your space. And I’ll contribute to groceries too.” Then he smiled. “Still won’t spend any of Theo’s money, huh?”
Avoiding an answer, I took my empty mug into the kitchen. He followed. Moving around the coffee table and taking the four or five steps to get to the kitchen area.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what? The hotel blowing up? For giving away your own apartment? There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
