When a Hitman Gets Haunted by a Ghost
Chapter 68: Aggressive Piece of Advice

Chapter 68: Aggressive Piece of Advice

Hunter set two cooled beer cans on the table. Kant glanced at him, furrowing his brow, but reached out to take one anyway.

"What are you grabbing at?" Hunter slapped Kant’s hand away. "Stabbed men don’t drink."

"Then why take out two?"

Hunter popped open a can, smirking. "Both are mine."

Kant leaned back in the chair, watching him chug the beer.

It had been about two weeks since he’d been crashing at Hunter’s place. The wound was healing alright, mainly a dull throb, occasionally a sharp pain. Not much to complain about, aside from someone strumming his nerves like a guitar.

"You don’t drink anyway." Hunter rummaged through his cupboard, pulling out a random box of tea that he threw to Kant. "Better not fly into one of your alcoholic episodes again. You’re a shitty drunk."

"I wasn’t bothering anyone," Kant muttered.

"Yeah, right. The whole chicken shop was bothered," Hunter grumbled, setting the teapot on the stove. "Even Jones was on edge. Who wouldn’t be? The guy who avoided alcohol like the plague started swimming in it."

Kant looked away with a controlled exhale. Another great day at the motel Hunter’s Place, where his worst moments were pictured and framed.

Hunter didn’t say anything else for a while, just sipping his drink with a grimace, though it had nothing to do with the taste.

"Got smashed by yourself, then wandered around the ass of the town. Acted like the whole world crashed for you alone, when it did for all of us."

Kant’s gaze snapped up. "What do you want me to do, Hunter? Go back in time and reverse it?"

"I want you to cut the ’woe is me’ bullshit for a start. What are you moping around these days for? ’Cause I know for a fact it’s not just because you couldn’t kill a guy."

"Tch."

"Don’t ’tch’ at me. How long are you gonna beat around the bush?"

"Fine! I have someone I care about. Happy?" Kant snapped back.

"I knew it." Hunter took a swig of his beer, satisfied to have pulled a confession out of him after days of prying. "Who is it?"

Kant ran a hand across his face, trying to hold onto whatever was left of his privacy. "Someone I definitely don’t deserve."

Hunter’s expression pinched with objection, but before he could open his mouth, the teapot let out a loud whistle, announcing the water had reached its boiling point. He turned away and grabbed an empty mug. When it was filled, the teapot was set down with a loud clang.

Kant grimaced at the noise, feeling like the boiling point of his own patience wasn’t far off.

"You think you can only have what you deserve?" Hunter set the mug in front of him. "Life ain’t fair, it throws plenty of agonizing shit in your face, doesn’t mean you deserve it every time."

"I’ve caused enough agonizing shit with my own hands," Kant muttered. "What goes around, comes around."

A sarcastic scoff, a hand slammed on the table. "Then what the fuck did you do as a kid to deserve a deadbeat father?" Hunter demanded, staring Kant down as if his mindset was personally offending him.

Dumbfounded, Kant leaned back. "Why are you bringing that up?"

There was a pause as Hunter stared at him, then straightened and downed his beer. He cracked open the second can and glared into the depths of it. But instead of another snark or a curse, his glare morphed into a pensive stare—a rarity to witness.

"Thinking up another poem?" Kant asked flatly, breaking the tense silence. "Last time it was moths, what’s it gonna be this time?"

Hunter looked up, his voice more leveled. "A piece of advice."

Kant raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

"If you suffered through the dark shit, might as well accept the few good things coming your way." Hunter kicked Kant’s chair to make his point. "Stop brooding and be fucking grateful someone wants your messed-up self."

"Real motivating."

"You’re welcome."

Fast forward an hour—and double the empty beer cans—the aggressive, unsolicited advisor was slumped at the corner of the kitchen table, staring forlornly at an old picture he’d pulled from his wallet. Its edges were worn from being handled so much.

Kant, on his second cup of stale herbal tea, had managed to find enough peace within to try for a normal conversation. He leaned a bit to catch a glimpse of the photo, even though he didn’t need to see it to know who was in it.

Even though Kant was never close to Alice, he couldn’t help but feel a sinking feeling deep down whenever Hunter brought her up.

"She was beautiful."

"Yeah. Stunning." The corner of Hunter’s mouth twitched and he shot Kant a look, stressing his earlier point. "See, I knew she was too good for me, but I turned myself inside out to treat her right. You could learn a thing or two."

Kant held back his sarcasm and nodded, looking past the snark. He could act mature for once. "I remember you circled Alice every time you ended up at the clinic."

Hunter chuckled, his finger habitually flicking the corner of the picture. "But she kept me at an arm’s length for a long time. Getting on her good side was tough."

"Because you kept cursing. She couldn’t stand that."

"Except when she got real pissed." Hunter shook his head, amused. "Some of the things I heard from her were far beyond my vocabulary."

Kant watched him, trying to find something to say next to keep the conversation going. They never really talked like this, not sincerely, not too deep.

"When did you realize you loved her?"

Hunter sighed, his gaze wandering somewhere far off as he dug through the memories. Judging by the microscopic shifts in his expression, there was as much happiness as regret.

"Early when we started dating, Alice liked taking pictures," he started. "When our first anniversary was coming up, I tried to avoid getting punched in the face."

"Tough task for you," Kant commented dryly.

Hunter’s shoulders shook as he laughed. "Shut up. Can’t even argue with that. I got caught in a brawl right the day before our anniversary. Got my brow split."

He pushed his fringe to the side, touching a well-healed scar on his eyebrow that had been there for as long as Kant could remember. "It was hideous, swollen, my eye was all purple. Christ, I thought she’d kill me."

Kant crossed his arms. "But she didn’t."

"No," Hunter smiled at the picture drunkenly. "Must’ve smelled the fear on me," he joked. "Didn’t kick me out, just held me and said she was glad I didn’t lose an eye."

"What about the anniversary?" Kant tilted his head, a little bewildered at how little he knew about Hunter’s relationship despite having shared a room with him for a few years.

"We went out to eat—a cheap spot since the money was tight, but it was alright." Hunter ran a hand through his hair, letting it fall back over his scar. "She took the picture, ugly as it was. I still have it around here somewhere." His smile faded as his thumb rubbed the worn edges.

Kant looked away, letting him have his privacy.

When it was quiet, the emptiness in the homely kitchen became more noticeable—like a house left vacant during a long vacation. Hunter had left it mostly unchanged since Alice was still alive.

Hunter set the picture down, pressing his fingers against the curled edges. "You know how she liked reading sappy shit," he nodded to a bookshelf with neatly lined poetry books. "I was never into that. But every time we argued, she’d start using metaphors to get the upper hand. Forced me to stop and think."

Kant scratched his brow, recalling Hunter’s face going blank with confusion mid-argument with Alice. He had never been close enough to hear why, but now that he knew, it was pretty funny.

"Any examples?" Kant asked, figuring he might as well, since the other was in a talkative mood.

After some drunken thinking, Hunter said, "There was one time she told me, ’You invited me for lunch but slammed the door before I could cross the yard.’"

Kant snorted. "Did you get it?"

Hunter crushed an empty can in his hand. "I’m not an idiot. I figured it out."

"Sure. Eventually," Kant teased.

Hunter huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned back, his gaze distant. "People like us don’t leave the gate open. No one steps onto the yard by accident." He stood, gathering the cans. "So if someone’s knocking on your door, quit acting like you didn’t want guests."