4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
B eing a night owl is part of the bar-owner territory. There isn’t space downstairs for an office, but the upstairs was already zoned for residential space when I leased the building, and it didn’t take much to turn it into a functional little apartment. It also doesn’t have space for an office, but there’s an open-concept living room that is split into a TV-and-couch area, plus a desk-and-computer area.
It’s enough. I’ve been sitting here for hours trying to get caught up on boring shit like inventory and payroll, but no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps wandering. At least yesterday’s migraine isn’t making a repeat appearance. The petulant, unloved child in me wants to blame Mama for it, but I quash the thought every time it slips into my mind.
What’s the point? Old grudges are better left to wither away, unfed by your current anger.
I’m staring at the screen, letting my eyes unfocus and the lines blur, when I hear something weird downstairs. At first, it sounds like an animal. There’s an entrance to the apartment from inside the bar, which I normally use, but there’s also a door and some stairs at the back of the whole building that no one ever comes to, because it’s difficult to spot. It is closer to the dumpster and the tree line edges right up onto it, so it’s not unusual to get raccoons or possums digging around back there after dark.
And it’s well after dark. It’s only when the noise makes me snap out of my daze that I realize it’s past 3am, and I should probably give up for the night. I look longingly toward the bedroom at the same time as I stall at the thought of how much work it’s going to be to get there, until I’m interrupted by another, louder noise.
This one sounds like something hitting the door. Maybe on purpose, maybe not. There’s another thud—even louder—so I finally get up and tread carefully to the back.
The staircase is outside the building, and the door is at the top. Normally, wildlife doesn’t venture up here. All the trash and bar scraps are down on the ground. But I can definitely hear something moving just on the other side of this piece of plywood, which suddenly feels much thinner and more friable than it usually does.
Then there’s a noise that makes me jump, because it’s unmistakably a rapping sound. Made by human knuckles. Whatever fears I have coming from late night paranoia get shoved to the back of my brain, because this is most likely Sav or Kasia or someone else I know in an emergency.
All my hesitance disappears as I throw open the door to darkness. It’s dark in here, too, lit only by the glow of my computer screen, so it takes me a second to see who’s there. Before I get the chance, though, the figure collapses through the open doorway like they were leaning against it, and I have to scramble to catch them before they hit the floor.
It’s too small to be Sav and too male to be Kasia. I’m not sure who else would come to me like this, but I pull down the dark hoodie covering their head to look. This elicits a groan, even though they keep their entire weight slumped into my arms while I do it.
“Jesus Christ, Tobias. What the hell happened?”
Even as I say the words, I put two and two together and know exactly what happened. Because what else could it be?
He doesn’t say anything, which is good because I already feel like an idiot for asking. He’s trembling through his whole body, too weak to hold himself up, and what I can see of his face is a swollen mess of cuts and bruises.
It only takes a few attempts to help guide him over to the couch to give up. He’s completely failing in any attempt to walk. It’s like the second I opened the door, whatever adrenaline or hope had powered him here evaporated. Instead, I lean down and scoop one arm under his legs to pick him up bridal style, desperately hoping this isn’t too invasive.
Normally, I would ask permission, but he hasn’t said a word yet or even been able to focus his eyes on me. I need to get him lying down before he completely collapses.
The swift movement upwards makes him gasp. Something in his lower body must be hurting, because he lets out a painful groan. I try to get through it as quickly as possible. As soon as I kick the door shut, I cross over to the couch with long strides before leaning over it to lay him down as gently as I can.
When I pull back, I feel resistance I wasn’t expecting. It only takes a second to realize that he’s holding onto me; trembling hands digging into the soft fabric of my sweater and refusing to let go. Some piece of my heart breaks off and floats away right there and then, and I know I’ll never really get it back.
I’ve seen some of the truly horrible shit that people can do to each other. But for whatever reason, this is hitting me harder than most of it.
Instead of standing back up, I fold up my body and slowly slide to the floor in front of the couch, keeping myself close enough to him that he can hold on to me. It makes me loom over his prone form awkwardly, but it’s what he seems to want, so I’m not going to deny him.
He was breathing normally through all of this, although a little fast, like you would expect from someone in pain. But as soon as we’re both settled in our final positions, his chest begins to heave. Big, body-shaking breaths that come quickly and with too much force.
“Hey, hey,” I say softly. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”
I don’t know what else to say, and his eyes are wild enough that I’m not sure if he’s really hearing me, even though he’s not trying to get up and still clinging to my sweater. Instead, I put one hand flat on his chest. Gently, with no real pressure, but enough so he can feel it.
“It’s okay, Tobias. You’re okay. Take some slower breaths for me. In and out, one at a time.”
I can feel his chest rising and falling under my hand. The rest of his body is ramrod tight, so stiff his back is bowed, but his breathing is still so labored. I hold his gaze for a minute and take a deep, slow breath, trying to get him to copy me.
He does his best, and we repeat it. In and out, one after the other, until his body finally catches on and slows down.
Unfortunately, it seems like that energy still has to go somewhere. Instead of breathing like someone on the verge of a panic attack, his body seems to settle on taking all that trembling and dialing the notch up to eleven. The tremor becomes a shake, and then the shaking becomes so violent, racking his entire body, that for a second I’m scared he’s having a seizure.
But he’s still looking at me. Still holding onto me. It’s just the rest of himself he can’t seem to control.
I’m at a loss for what to do, but the urge to try to fix it is too powerful to ignore. I make yet another risky decision without waiting for permission, which I can feel guilty about later. Once he’s not shaking so hard, I’m scared he’s going to fall off the couch, while looking at me like I’m the only person in the world who can help him.
I lean closer to him, put my hands behind his shoulders, and lift him up a little. His body is pretty slight; not just his frame, but also like someone who maybe skips too many meals. It’s easy to lever him up and then slip myself underneath him.
It takes a little maneuvering, but I’m able to settle him in between my legs, both of us looking up at the ceiling and my knees bent on either side of his hips, so he can’t roll off the couch. I have to twist his hands out of the fabric they’re clutching, but I quickly thread his fingers through mine before wrapping both our sets of arms around his chest to hold him against mine. His head rolls back to rest on my right shoulder, his face turned into my neck as he maybe tries to hide the way his teeth are chattering with stress or fear or something , but then I have him completely contained.
Our bodies move in sync, chests rising and falling together as he mirrors my rhythm. Little by little, the shaking calms down until he’s barely moving.
The whole process seems to take forever. In reality, it probably only takes minutes. But I’m so relieved when it’s done, I take the first calm breath of my own since he fell through my open front door.
I don’t push him to talk at first, because I want to cement this new state of comfort that we’ve achieved. Eventually, he seems to drift a little. Not truly sleeping, but dazed, and finally out of the panic-flee-fight mode that he was in before. Once we’ve been there for a while, though, I let out the question that I’ve been holding in all this time.
“How badly are you hurt?”
Tobias doesn’t answer. He stays still, as if he hadn’t heard me, continuing to mirror my slow, careful breaths.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” is what he says when he eventually opens his mouth. His voice is raspy, like he’s been crying a lot or shouting. But there’s a teasing lilt to it that makes me feel optimistic that the Tobias I know is still in there, buried under all this hurt.
I let myself do a little half-smile/exhale combo, because that’s all the mirth I can muster.
“I wear contacts when I’m working. This is after-hours Gunnar. Lots of old-man cardigans, glasses and complaining about how tired I am.”
Now it’s Tobias’s turn to snort.
“You’re not old. I like the glasses. They’re very distinguished.”
“See, I feel like ‘distinguished’ is just a fancy, polite synonym for ‘old’.”
He doesn’t reply, but he tugs on my arms until I’m holding him a little tighter. How we’ve ended up like this—when we’ve never even touched before and less than a day ago, I said I was going to leave him alone—is surreal. I’m trying not to make myself crack that nut open until I have to.
“You didn’t answer my question.” I jostle him a little, so I know he’s paying attention.
“It’s not that bad.”
The words are a whisper, and I know without a doubt they’re not true.
“I don’t know you very well, Tobias. But I think I know you well enough to know that’s probably code for ‘I’m basically dying’. Will you let me take you to the hospital to get checked out? We don’t have to tell them anything.”
Tobias tries to sit up, but immediately cringes and gasps in pain, so I hold him against my chest and don’t let him move too much.
“No! As soon as he realizes I’m gone, that’s the first place he’ll look. He could already be there, for all I know.”
It’s telling that neither of us pretends I need an explanation of who ‘he’ is or what happened. Tobias is fighting against me a little as he speaks, but at the same time pressing his face against my neck, like he’s seeking comfort there. It’s the weirdest dichotomy, but I refuse to do anything that might limit his ability to take what he needs from me.
I know I should suggest he goes to the police, but what’s the point? He would definitely refuse, and he’d probably be right to do so. Police have a hard time protecting women from their abuser when it’s just some schlub. But two men, which already throws most people through a loop? When the abuser in question is a violent, intelligent criminal, living in a network of criminals?
No. The cops won’t protect Tobias, and making waves will put him in even more danger than he already is.
I sigh, not bothering to hide it from him. I know his face is a mess, but I can also feel wetness on his clothes that I’m hoping isn’t blood. Although hope isn’t going to get me far in this situation. He needs more care than I can provide.
“Maybe I could—” he hesitates. “Would it be alright if I took a bath? I think I’m dirty and shaken up more than anything. If you help me into it, I can get myself cleaned up and then it won’t look so bad.”
“Okay.” I manage not to sigh again.
I peel myself out from under him, even though we both seem reluctant to let go, and pad over to the bathroom to turn on the water. While the tub is filling, I grab whatever soft clothes I have that might not be too insanely big on him and lay them on the lid of the toilet before finally turning the water off. It’s warm, but not so hot it’ll be a shock to him when he’s already shaky.
My mind is cranking in the background, trying to figure out any options I have for getting someone to look at him that he won’t immediately refuse. But I guess I can focus on this first, and maybe get a better evaluation of how bad his injuries really are.
This time, when I help him up from the couch, he’s able to walk. He still leans heavily into me, but together we get him limping over to the bathroom. For once, I’m grateful my apartment is so small. Once we’re standing next to the tub, I help him slip out of his worn sneakers that don’t have socks underneath and then his pants. He’s got worn black boxer-briefs on, and I leave them on so he can remove them himself once I’m gone.
I try not to stare at his skin where it’s revealed, but it’s hard. I can already see that he’s at least sprained one ankle, because it’s twice the size of the other, and there’s bruising coming up everywhere.
Tobias moves to step into the tub, even though his hoodie is still on, and lets me brace him on my arm. He’s shaky, but he makes it. As soon as he’s standing in the water, he turns to look at me.
“I think I’m good. Thank you. I won’t be long.”
Part of me is terrified to leave, like he’s going to fall or drown or pass out or anything else. But I’m also hyper aware that his boundaries have probably been shredded beyond belief, and the last thing he needs is me—practically a stranger—pushing them.
More than I already have.
“Okay. I’m going to close the door, but don’t lock it, just in case you need help. I’ll be in the living room, so just shout if you need me. There are clothes here and a towel. Take your time.”
He nods, giving me a look of gratitude that would be hard to express in words. I slide out of the room, shutting the door behind me before I have the chance to second guess myself.
While I wait for him, time seems to slow down to a glacial pace. I’m spending so much energy telling myself to calm down and not be an overbearing asshole that I lose all sense of how much time is actually passing, because everything seems surreal to me right now.
Then I notice a slight shift in the tone of darkness streaming in through the windows. Not like dawn, but the first hint of it. The kind of thing you become attuned to when you spend more of your life awake at night than during the day.
I look at my watch then and realize I’m not being crazy. He really has been in there too long.
In a heartbeat, I’m over there and knocking on the door. I call out to ask if he’s okay a couple of times, but there’s no response. My heart feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, slowly tightening with every passing second, so as soon as I’m sure he’s not responding to me, I don’t hesitate to throw open the door.
“Aw, hell.”
The words are muttered under my breath while I lunge for Tobias and pull him higher out of the water. His face wasn’t in it, and he’s still breathing, but it looks like a close call. He’s so deeply asleep, I think ‘passed out’ would be a much more accurate term.
Tobias’s eyes flutter open once I shake him, although he looks disoriented and a little afraid.
“It’s okay. Tobias, wake up. It’s only me. You fell asleep in the water.”
I try to keep the frenzy that I’m feeling out of my voice, but I don’t know how successful I am.
The water is ice cold and more than a little pink. He’s bleeding from somewhere, I can say for sure, now. And it seems like it’s still going. There’s more bruising than I saw before, including a huge, mottled one covering half his ribcage. I hate it. And now that his face is a little cleaner, I can see clearly that his lip is split open and already scabbing over.
He seems to almost choke on air as his consciousness settles back into his body. He’s shivering again, and I want to get him out of the water as soon as possible. Grabbing the towel I put out for him, I somehow manage to half drag him out of the water while wrapping it around him, so he’s not totally exposed. There’s another towel hanging on the rack, so I grab that as well, even though it’s not clean.
Who fucking cares? I throw it around his shoulders and then pick him up again like before, because the water seems to have drained what little fortitude he got back from resting before. It doesn’t take long to return him to the couch, then snag those clothes and swap the towels out for them, one by one, keeping his modesty more or less intact. There’s a soft knitted blanket on the back of the couch that I cover him with as well.
Once we’re both settled, this time with him lying on his back and me sitting on the other end of the couch with his legs draped gently across my lap, I don’t let him avoid the subject any longer.
“I get why you don’t want to go to a hospital, but you have to do something. You are hurt, Tobias. You could be bleeding internally. I’m not going to watch you die slowly on this couch and do nothing about it.”
His head is thrown to the side. I don’t like it when he won’t look at me directly, even though I’ve been the one to avoid eye contact most of the time we’ve known each other. As if he’d be able to sense how fixated I’ve always been with him.
The dampness from the bath means his hair is a little curlier than usual, falling in his eyes in dark ringlets. His eyes are just as dark, staring at something only he can see, and his skin has lost its cool undertone, looking pallid and drained instead.
“What’s the point?” he mutters, still not turning to look at me.
Yep. There goes another chunk of my heart, cracking and falling into the ocean like a fractured iceberg.
The urge to gather him to me and hold him is almost overwhelming, but his body language is much more prickly and insular than when he was grabbing at me before.
I settle for taking his hand, slowly and carefully, and holding it gently enough that he could easily pull away. It gives me another swell of hope when he holds me back, though, squeezing my fingers a fraction as he continues to stare at the faded gray fabric of the couch.
“I know you’re not going to like this, but if you refuse to go to the hospital, I’m calling Sav.”
His eyes go wide as his gaze snaps up to meet mine.
“Wha—”
I cut him off before he can panic anymore. “I know he’s part of the Banna. But I also know some shit you might not. He’s getting out. Really. You can’t tell anyone, but I know he is. And he hates Eamon more than anyone in this world. I can’t tell you why, but I know your location will be safe with him, without a doubt. His brother’s an ER nurse. I’ve met Micah a few times, and he seems sweet. I think he would be happy to help. These are your options, Tobias. I call them or we go to a hospital. We can go to one out of town. Hell, out of the state if you want to go to Arkansas. But I’m not letting you bleed to death and I’m not letting you leave until you’re safe. Got it?”
I’m breathing a little hard after my rant, and Tobias is still staring at me, wide-eyed.
For a second, I think he’s going to argue with me. I almost want him to, because it would show me that he’s still got some fire in him. But then his shoulders sag and his gaze drops, and he looks so fucking exhausted I want to gather him into my arms and never let go.
“Fine,” he mumbles. “Call them. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like he’s not going to find me and kill me eventually, anyway. Why not speed the process along? But I don’t want to go anywhere.”
The resignation in his voice is heart-wrenching, and I would normally want to fight with him over his myopic take on the situation, but I know this isn’t the time. He’s tired, he’s coming down from what must be a colossal adrenaline crash, and he’s probably in more pain than I can imagine.
Instead, I suppress my natural urge to lecture and focus on him. My hand travels across the space between us of its own volition, and before I know it, I’m smoothing back all that damp hair that’s fallen into his face. I keep my touch gentle, because he’s bruised everywhere, but he sinks into it all the same and seems to luxuriate in letting me pet him like a cat.
Time stretches out and then folds in, distorting itself. I lose my focus watching him relax, bit by bit, until I’m jarred out of my weird moment of serenity by remembering I’m supposed to be calling someone right now. Waking them up, most likely.
I’ll owe Sav some overtime or something. This is worth a few IOUs.
Before I call, I make one last imploring pitch to Tobias.
“Can you just trust me for a few hours? You came here because you needed help, right? Let me help you.”
The words come out in a pleading tone that I’m also not proud of, but I can’t stop myself. The only thought worse than him not letting me get him medical attention is him getting up and leaving, possibly to go back to that piece of shit.
There’s a moment where I think he’s going to fight. A certain kind of tension sitting around his mouth. But then he shrugs again and looks at me with a world-weary ‘what does it matter’ expression that doesn’t belong on the face of someone so young.
“Just trust me,” I repeat, grabbing his knee with my free hand before reaching for my phone. “For a little while. Please. Everything’s going to be okay.”
I don’t get a response, but it’s still better than him running away, so I’ll take it.