When I was twenty-eight, I was a highly sought after hunting guide to Hollywood’s most insane and socially awkard celebrities.

I had always found deer hunting to be the most appetizing of sports. It was where my dad and I walked side by side; sometimes not saying a word. Years of psychiatrists and industrious ambition could never do for me what those years of spending time with the old man did. The thrill of the hunt through the pines and deep marshes, over into the open plains was addictive like a drug. My heart would race and a passion would rise up in me that no woman could ever stir. Hunting was the air that I breathed.

It was raining that Friday morning when Sebastian Sinclair flew in. I knew that the flamboyant, leather clad rock star was going to be trouble . An idiot could see that he was wasted when he stepped off the plane and I forced myself to ignore his lewd outbursts and the careless way he handled his rifle, little did I know the danger he would put us in twenty-four hours later.