Chapter Twenty-Nine

Frankie

Hunter.

It’s late. After one a.m.

Hunter.

It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s a first name.

I also know he’s well-versed in world literature, and that he’s a student of language. His favorite musical is Camelot. His favorite novel is The Great Gatsby. He kisses like a dream.

And his first name is Hunter.

Not Erik with a K, although I suppose he could still be the person I spoke to in the chat room, since I asked for pseudonyms.

But already I know he’s not.

I know because when I ask a question he doesn’t want to answer, he doesn’t lie to me. He just doesn’t reply.

Interesting.

I’m exhausted, so I wash my face quickly and head to bed. And I hope to dream about a masked man named Hunter.

…

Morning comes quickly, and I get up for my jog—

And I remember.

Crap.

I’m supposed to meet Tom Carson for a jog in Central Park.

I could easily break the date. I have his number, and I could text him. But I’m not a rude person. And Hunter and I… Well, he’s agreed not to have sex with anyone else as long as we’re having sex, but he didn’t agree not to go jogging with anyone else.

So why should I agree to that?

I take a quick shower, dress in my running shoes with some leggings and a sports bra, and I head to Central Park.

Tom is already there, stretching. “You’re not known for your punctuality, are you?”

“Nope, just running a little bit late.” I give my hamstrings a stretch. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem. Let’s go.”

“What route do you like to take?”

“The full loop is about six miles. So a quarter? A mile and a half and then back? We can keep track with our apps.”

“Sounds great to me,” I say. “Let’s go. Last one there’s a rotten egg.”

I have no idea why I said that. I never race when I jog. We end up keeping pretty much apace with each other, and it gives us a good chance to not talk.

I’m used to doing Five K runs, so this is easy. The run takes only twenty minutes, and soon we’re back where we started, wiping off with towels and taking deep drinks from our water bottles.

“How about a cup of coffee?” Tom says.

What the heck? I could use some caffeine, and coffee is just coffee. “Sure. Sounds good.”

We walk a few blocks to a Bean There Done That and enter. I grab my credit card out of my phone case, but Tom shakes his head at me.

“Please. My treat.”

“No, let me. You paid for dinner last night.”

He smiles. “Okay. But just this once.”

It may only be this once, but I don’t say that. “Black coffee for me,” I tell the cashier. “Whatever he wants.”

“I’ll have a cinnamon mocha,” he says.

Ugh. He likes froufrou coffee drinks.

Not that I don’t like a cinnamon mocha on occasion, but it’s mostly just empty calories. Of course, Tom is training for a marathon, so he doesn’t have to worry about calories.

I slide my credit card through the reader and add a tip while the barista pours my black coffee. “The cinnamon mocha will be up in a few minutes.”

“Sounds good.”

I turn and find Tom at a table by the window. I join him. “Your cinnamon mocha will be up soon.”

“Great,” he says, “and thank you again.”

I pull the lid off my coffee and inhale the aroma from the steam that rises. “I love the smell of coffee.”

“Do you? I can only drink the stuff when it’s loaded with cream and sugar.”

“And cinnamon and chocolate,” I say.

“Yeah, that helps.”

“I like it just black like this. Been drinking it since I was a kid. This new coffee shop is even better than Starbucks, in my opinion.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he says. “They all taste the same to me.”

“Definitely not a coffee connoisseur.”

He laughs. “No, I’m not. But I can give you good bourbon any day. Or a single malt scotch.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Yuck.”

“What can I expect from a woman who likes martinis and black coffee?” He smiles.

I take a sip of the coffee, let its robust goodness slide across my tongue and down my throat.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” I ask. Then I want to kick myself. He’s going to think I want to get together.

“Unfortunately, I have to go into work for a few hours.”

Saved by work. “Yeah, I should work as well.”

My group chat with the five sources is scheduled for tomorrow, but I need to get my materials and questions together.

I take another sip of my coffee. It’s the perfect temperature now. It’s always too hot when I first order, so I always take the plastic lid off of it and let the steam escape. A few minutes later, it’s the perfect temperature—still hot but not scalding.

“Black coffee, please. Leave room for just a touch of cream.”

I jerk at the voice coming from the counter.

I know that voice.

Deep and husky and—

I see only his back. He’s tall, and he’s dressed in running shorts and an Under Armour T-shirt.

His legs are long, covered in the perfect amount of dark hair, and oh my God, his calves… Did he swallow a couple volleyballs?

Broad shoulders, the sleeves of his T-shirt are tight around his biceps, and—

The barista hands him a cup of coffee, and he turns—

Those eyes.

I’d know those dark eyes anywhere.

Phantom.

Hunter.

That jawline, those full lips.

And oh my God… Seeing him without the mask? He’s everything I imagined he would be and so much more.

High cheekbones, perfect black stubble, a few creases on his forehead, and a straight Grecian nose. His dark hair is slightly wavy—not slicked back like he wears it with his costume—and sticks to the sides of his face.

I gape.

I can’t help it.

His eyes widen when he recognizes me, and he heads straight for the door of the coffee shop.

I rise abruptly, nudging the table and nearly spilling my coffee. “Excuse me for a moment,” I say to Tom.

I race toward Hunter just as he’s exiting.

“Hunter!”

He doesn’t stop, but his shoulders tense.

Only subtly, but I notice.

I close the distance between us with rapid steps and touch his arm. “Don’t run away from me, Hunter.”

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“You really want to pull that?”

He says nothing for a few moments, and we simply stand there, staring at each other—he holding his coffee—about ten feet from the entrance to the coffee shop. Through the window, Tom watches us.

“I can’t lie to you,” Hunter finally says. “I don’t lie.”

“Good. I don’t want you to.”

“You were never meant to see my face.”

“Well, now I have. Does that mean we don’t have a date tonight?”

“Seems you already have a date.” He cocks his head toward Tom through the window.

“He’s just a friend. We went on a jog together this morning.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that? He’s the guy from last night, isn’t he?”

None of his business. “Believe what you want. But look at how I’m dressed. How he’s dressed. How you’re dressed, for that matter.”

“I run every day,” he says. “I already told you I enjoy running. I’m training for a marathon.”

“Are you? So is Tom. I’m not, though. I only run Five Ks at a time.”

He doesn’t reply for a moment, but then, “Don’t let me keep you from your companion.”

“Why are you doing this?” I blurt out.

Again, no response. At least not at first.

Until—

“I’m uncomfortable, as you can well see. This isn’t how I…” He rubs at his forehead, “Damn it!” He sets his coffee on a window ledge, grabs me, and presses his lips to mine.

I open for him instantly. Our tongues tangle. Yes, we’re making out, right here in public in front of Tom and everyone else in the coffee shop.

And I don’t care.

I absolutely don’t care.

Until Hunter breaks the kiss abruptly. “Forgive me,” he mumbles.

“Forgive what? Did you see me resisting?”

“I’m not good at this,” he says.

“And that’s why you hide behind a mask?”

“I’ve already told you why I wear a mask,” he says. “It’s part of the fantasy for me.”

“Fantasy,” I repeat. “What’s your reality, Hunter?”

“I don’t discuss my reality with sexual partners.”

“What if I were more than a sexual partner? What if I were a friend?”

“That’s not the way I do things,” he says simply.

“Why is that?”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“I think there’s usually a reason for most things you do in life, whether you realize it or not.”

Two young women walk by us. “Hi, Professor Stone,” one of them says.

Professor Stone? He knows literature. He’s a student of language.

Of course. A professor.

“Good morning,” he says, waving to them.

“Professor Stone…” I say.

“Frankie…”

“Professor Hunter Stone. Someone who knows literature. Someone who’s a student of language. I’d say you’re an English professor somewhere.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“So I’m right, then. Where do you teach?”

“Frankie…”

“Hunter, I can easily search for you on the Internet. Professor Hunter Stone. I will find you.”

He gazes at the coffee shop window. “Don’t you have someone in there you need to attend to?”

I glance over to the table where Tom was sitting. He’s gone.

“Apparently not. I guess he saw us kissing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? I’m not. I told you he’s just a friend.”

“If he were a friend, he’d still be there. Apparently he wanted a little more from you than friendship.”

“He’s not going to get it. I’m only interested in one man, and it’s not him.”

“You don’t even know the man you’re interested in,” Hunter says.

“I’d like to.”

He sighs. “Come on.” He takes a seat at one of the outside tables and motions for me to join him.

I sit across from him, give him a good once-over. He’s clearly been exercising, as his hair is messy and slicked down with sweat at his hairline.

“I’m a professor of English literature at Mellville,” he says.

My alma mater, no less. “I see. Where did you study?”

“Mellville.”

“So you didn’t stray far from home, then.”

“No. I’m comfortable there. It’s a good school.”

“I know.” I smile. “I went there too.”

“Oh? What did you study?”

“English and journalism. But I only got my bachelor’s. I went straight into the workforce after I graduated.”

“When did you graduate?”

“Are you asking me my age? I graduated five years ago. I’m twenty-seven.”

“And you’re already a junior editor at a major magazine? That’s pretty amazing, Frankie.”

“Believe me, I’ve paid my dues. I did nothing more than get coffee for the first two years. But I’m happy with how things are going.”

“Good.”

“What about you? When did you graduate?”

“I finished my PhD five years ago. In English and comparative literature.”

“The Great Gatsby.”

His brown eyes brighten. “You remembered. My favorite book.”

“So that doesn’t really tell me how old you are, Hunter. People finish graduate work at all different ages.”

“I’m thirty-five.”

“How did you end up as a professor back at Mellville?”

He doesn’t respond at first.

“The cat is already out of the bag, Hunter.”

“This is difficult for me,” he says. “No one at the club—other than the owner, who had to approve my application, and Claude—knows who I really am. I keep that part of my life separate.”

“I understand. Your secret is safe with me.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“That’s good, because I signed that nondisclosure agreement. So even if I wanted to, I couldn’t say anything.”

He doesn’t reply.

“And I don’t want to, Hunter. I would never do that to you. I’d never do that to anyone.”

“What about your ex-fiancé?”

“I can’t tell anyone else I saw him there, but I can definitely mention it to him.”

“Will you?”

“No. I don’t want to talk to him—especially not at the club.”

“Does this mean our date is off? Are you uncomfortable at the club?”

“No. I don’t want it to be off, Hunter. I’d like to go.”

“What if he’s there again?”

“It doesn’t matter. Not if we’re in our own private room.”

“You don’t care if he sees you there?”

“I assume he signed the same NDA that I did.”

“He would’ve had to.”

“Then what does it matter?”

“I don’t want to be a pawn in some kind of game,” Hunter says. “Maybe you want him to see you there.”

I shake my head. “Did you really just say that?”

“It’s a valid concern.”

“Penn and I are over, Hunter. He admitted to me that he had been cheating on me, and now I know where it went down.”

“Did you and he…?”

“Do anything kinky? No, we didn’t. Totally vanilla sex, usually in missionary. In fact, he was pretty boring.”

“Does it bother you that he never wanted to do more with you?”

“You want me to be honest?”

“Of course.”

“It irks me a little. But honestly, I’m over him. It was a lot easier getting over the loss of him than it was getting over the humiliation of the whole thing.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Yes, so I’ve said. And I’m not a liar, Hunter, and I resent the implication that I am.”

“I wasn’t implying any such thing.”

“Weren’t you?”

Anger nips at my neck. I like this guy. I really like this guy. What’s going on with him? He clearly had a good time with me, or he wouldn’t have asked me out again.

“Why were you convinced that my name was Erik with a K?”

Okay… That’s a little out of left field. But why not level with him?

“I’m doing an article on the BDSM lifestyle in Manhattan for the magazine, and I—”

“You’re what?”

“Researching an article, and—”

“Frankie, you can’t do that.”

“Why not? Everything will be anonymous.”

“I don’t want to be the subject of any article.”

“I didn’t say you would be, Hunter.”

“How can I not be?” He takes a sip of his coffee and then sets the paper cup down so harshly that some of the hot liquid spills onto the table.

“You won’t be. I won’t—”

“This part of my life is personal,” he says. “I’ve already shared too much with you. I should’ve known better.” He rises and tosses his nearly full coffee cup into a nearby trashcan. “It was nice knowing you, Frankie. Don’t bother going to the bar tonight.”