Page 42 of Hunter

Sofia stretches beside me, letting out a tiny squeak of a meow when I scratch behind her ears. I lie there for a minute longer, staring at the newest painting across the room. Hunter’s face stares back, half-shadowed, mouth slightly parted like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

I don’t feel embarrassed this morning. Not the way I did last night.

I feel…hungry.

Not for him exactly, but for the version of me that painted that canvas without overthinking it. The version that let the music drag everything ugly out of my body on the pole and then admitted, out loud, what I wanted.

I sit up slowly, sheets pooling around my waist, and run a hand through my messy curls. The city is already loud outside. And I can’t wait to get dressed and be part of it.

Five hours of sleep isn’t a miracle, but it feels like one today.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad to the kitchen, Sofia trotting after me with her tail high. While the coffee drips, I glance back at the painting again.

Maybe I won’t hide the collection forever. It is the best stuff I’ve done. I bet it would be even better if I had my muse planted right in front of me while I painted him. But that would be letting him in.

Sofia gets my attention, and I make her breakfast as she zig-zags through my legs, meowing to let me know I’ve taken way too long to feed her.

After I place Sofia’s dish on the floor, I add creamer and sugar to my coffee and move over to my couch to enjoy the rare quiet in my head.

The first sip is perfect. Sofia attacks her food like she hasn’t eaten in days, tiny crunching sounds filling the apartment. I pull my knees up, resting the mug on one of them, and let my gaze drift across the room.

The thought slips out uninvited and lingers, soft and dangerous. I don’t push it away like I usually would. I just let it sit there for a second, turning it over in my mind like one of Mrs. Lovelady’s slightly damaged paint tubes. It doesn’t feel like a threat this morning. It feels… curious. Like testing a bruise to see if it still hurts.

Finishing my coffee, I rinse the mug out in the sink and set it on the drying rack. Then I move to my dresser, pulling open the drawer that holds my favorite clothes.

I don’t have work, or pole, or therapy…the whole city is mine, and it’s one of those perfect late-spring days where the air feels alive instead of oppressive.

I pick out my cropped black t-shirt—the one that stops just above my belly button—and a pair of ripped jeans that look painted on. Fresh eyeliner, a little heavier than normal because why not. A pair of small silver stud earrings catch the light when I turn my head. I look like trouble. The good kind.

I’ll go wherever the vibe takes me today. Central Park, maybe, to people-watch and sketch under the trees. Or the zoo to visit the snow leopards—they’re still my favorite. And when Lucy gets off work, we can grab dinner and hit the club. It all sounds perfect.

I love no-plan days. No pressure to be anywhere. Just me and the loud, messy, beautiful city that never once told me I was broken for being gay.

Sofia winds between my ankles one last time, purring like she approves of the whole outfit. I scratch under her chin, grab my sketchbook and a couple of charcoal sticks, and head for the door.

The late spring sun hits my face the second I step outside. The breeze feels nice on my bare stomach and arms, cool enough to raise goosebumps but warm enough to tell me it will be warmer later. I start walking, no particular direction in mind.

What’s that saying? The day is my oyster? I don’t like oysters… but yeah. Wide open with possibilities.

I’m three blocks from my building, humming under my breath, when I see them.

A small group on the corner—three older women in conservative dresses and one man in a cheap suit, holding signs and Bibles. They’re doing the thing. The prayer-over-strangers thing. As people walk past, they reach out, voices rising in that familiar cadence.

“Father, deliver this one from lust!”

“Jesus, cleanse her of vanity!”

Before I can pivot in another direction, the man spots me, and his eyes narrow immediately. My cropped shirt. The eyeliner. The way my jeans hug my hips. I can see the judgment click into place before he even opens his mouth.

“Young man!” he calls out, stepping toward me with his hand already raised like he’s about to lay it on my shoulder. “You are walking in sin! The Lord sees your painted eyes and your feminine ways. Repent! Let us pray the demon of perversion out of you right here!”

The words feel like I’m being dunked into cold water.

Deliver us from perversion.

The prayer room flashes behind my eyes. Those are the exact words those monsters used on me.

My chest tightens. My breath catches.