5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
I only catch snippets of the conversation Gunnar has on the phone, but I’m trying not to focus on it, anyway.
Whatever’s going to happen will happen. I can’t control it any more than I’ve been able to control the rest of my life. Right now, I’m letting the exhaustion wash over me as I sink deeper and deeper into Gunnar’s plush old couch and work on burying all my memories from tonight in the deepest recesses of my mind.
Eamon’s face. His touch. Everything he did. I thought I knew what he was capable of before, but this was so much more than just violence. There was a darkness to it all that I never expected.
I suppress a shudder and wish that Gunnar would come back to the couch. Of course, I don’t say it out loud. But I think it as fiercely as I can, as if the universe will maybe hear me.
The one good thing about how tired I am is that it’s insulating me from feeling embarrassment over how I’ve behaved so far tonight. Not only did I show up on his doorstep in the middle of the night begging for help when he barely knows me, but to cling to him like a little child…
It’s pathetic. But I feel pretty pathetic right now, so I’m giving myself a pass. Hopefully, he understands and isn’t too disgusted with me.
I couldn’t get a job that didn’t make me a garbage human. I’ve been lying to my grandmother, the only person who genuinely cares about me, for longer than I care to admit. And I have never been able to stand up to the redneck asshole who takes his personality disorder out on my ass.
Ugh . I deliberately let my brain soften, kind of like when you make your eyes unfocus for a minute. I can reconcile all these things later. Right now, I just need to breathe and exist.
I must drift off, because it feels like crawling out of the deepest part of the ocean when someone eventually shakes my shoulder. I know it’s Gunnar before I even open my eyes, because he always smells expensive. Like a real grownup. Some kind of cologne that doesn’t come from the drugstore and probably lists its scent as something hyper-masculine, like ‘leather’ or ‘whiskey’ or something.
Knowing it’s him doesn’t stop my skin from humming with fear for a second, but I take a lungful of that cologne as I open my eyes, and it helps my body catch up to my mind and settle itself.
“I’m glad you called,” someone says. I don’t recognize the voice, and it’s barely a whisper in the dark room.
As soon as my eyes focus, I pick out the figures in the blackness. Gunnar is kneeling next to the couch, one hand still on my shoulder, looking at me with the same grimly compassionate expression he seems to pull off so well. Standing a few feet away is Sav, whose face is tight and carefully neutral. Like he’s trying to control his anger.
For my sake, I’m hoping he’s angry for me, not at me, because the man is even more jacked than Eamon and has enough tattoos to tell me he’s higher ranking, as well. The gang cumdump doesn’t get invited to a lot of inner circle meetings, but I know enough about Savage —mostly from Eamon bitching about him—to know that him showing up here was important for the Banna. If he’s really getting out, like Gunnar said, it’s going to be a very big fucking deal.
Next to him is a man I don’t recognize. He’s almost as tall as Sav but more lithe than muscular, and he has the kind of delicate, boyish features that make it hard to guess his age. Older than me, but probably not by that much. He’s pretty. And he’s looking at me with practiced, detached compassion that would scream nurse even if Gunnar hadn’t told me already. He has a little bag that looks like a portable first aid kit slung over one shoulder.
“Hi,” he says as soon as I look at him. “My name is Micah. Gunnar asked me to take a look at you, if you’re okay with that?”
I’m still a little groggy, so the words don’t come out as quickly as they’re supposed to, and Gunnar fills the silence.
“Micah is Sav’s brother, remember? You can trust him.”
“Stepbrother,” they both correct in unison. Probably with more energy than is really required.
“Former stepbrother,” Micah continues. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter.” He walks away from Sav’s side so he can crouch down in front of me beside Gunnar, leaving Sav flexing his fingers in the air next to him and looking uncharacteristically awkward before he decides to back up to the wall and stand there like a gargoyle with his arms crossed.
Once Micah is on eye level with me, he looks at Gunnar briefly before tossing his head. Gunnar takes the hint and also steps back, although he seems even more reluctant than Savage.
When Micah speaks to me again, it’s in a quiet voice. Just between us, even though I’m sure the others can hear.
“Look, I’m sure you just want to sleep right now and the last thing you want is some stranger poking around your space. I’m not going to force you to do anything or say anything, even if Gunnar asks me to. But you do look really roughed up, and we can just take it slow. This is my job. I work in an ER, and I’m also certified as a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner. Which means I’ve seen people who’ve gone through pretty much the worst shit imaginable. I promise not to hurt you or force you to do anything.”
The words are meaningless. But there’s something about the lulling, calm sincerity in his tone that is getting to me. An upswell of emotion threatens to hit me square in the chest, and I hate the thought of looking even more pathetic in front of these people, so I push it down.
“Whatever, it’s fine.” I choke the words out through a throat that feels like it’s swelling shut, my voice more croaky and rough than I expected. “Can we just… Not do this here?”
Micah nods, giving me a faint smile. “Sure. We’ll go into the bedroom. Do you want anyone else in there to sit with you, or just us?”
“Just you. This is humiliating enough.”
Micah makes the same face I’ve seen Gunnar make a lot tonight, like he’s holding in the urge to lecture me. As long as he keeps holding it in, we’re fine. Normally I try to control my tendency to be morbid and self-deprecating, but if there’s any day I get a pass, it’s today.
What part of this situation would scream ‘I’ve got my life together and should be proud of myself,’ to them, anyway?
“Gotcha.”
Nobody says anything else. I feel Gunnar and Savage tracking us with their eyes as Micah helps me up from the couch very slowly and carefully, before helping me limp my way over to the bedroom. He sits me down on the bed and thankfully turns on the bedside lamp instead of the overhead light before closing the door behind us with a snick .
I thought I was okay. I thought I could power through this. But as soon as we’re trapped in here together, it feels so much more exposing than I expected. Like his eyes are on me and he can already see everything, even though my clothes are still on. I see him move a little and immediately flinch, even though he’s nowhere near me.
“Sorry,” I mumble, avoiding eye contact. I blow out a breath and then shake my head, like I can shake out this weird, pulsating anxiety that I suddenly contain. Even though the shaking makes the throbbing in my head that much worse. “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I’m fine. It’s not a big deal.”
Micah looks at me for a moment, and I feel like a puzzle or something that he’s trying to crack. When he speaks, his words are slow and careful. His voice is soft, but he’s not giving me the hangdog pitying look I’m already sick of from Gunnar, which I appreciate.
“When humans go through something traumatic, it often takes a long time for our brains and our bodies to catch up and be in sync again. They’re operating from completely different information sets. Your body is reacting to all the immediate stuff: what just happened, how hurt you are, how much cortisol is tearing through you, etc. As well as the long-term effects of dealing with abuse on a regular basis, which takes a toll.
“But while your body has been chipped away a little at a time, your brain can get used to it. So, your brain is telling you that everything is normal, that you know how to deal with this, that how you feel in your body is clearly an overreaction. But those thoughts can be partially a product of your brain trying to protect you from how bad things have gotten, and partially whatever conditioning the world around you has given to reinforce why you should just take what’s happening. Man up, or whatever. It’s all bullshit.
“Your mind and your body are trying to alert you to how bad it is and insulate you from it at the same time. They’re doing their best. The more you can try to listen to yourself and be honest about how you feel, even if how you feel doesn’t seem like how you think you should feel, the easier it’ll be for you. I promise.”
I only manage to absorb about half of what he’s saying, but it helps a little. I feel steadier. Or maybe it’s just how steady he is while he’s saying it. Like he’s completely unperturbed by me writhing out of my skin over here. It lets me dial back the static in my brain a little and I nod, so we can get on with the next part.
He explains a little about what he’s about to do. We go through the song and dance about the hospital one more time, with him assuring me that if I want to go and have an actual exam with evidence collection, nothing will be reported to the police unless I want it to be. But when I still refuse, it’s clear by his expression that he gets it.
Then he asks permission, and once I nod, he starts to touch me. He pulls gloves out of somewhere that I don’t see, so it’s all very clinical. It’s also all very gentle, with constant stopping and starting to make sure I’m okay and explaining what he’s looking at while he looks. He goes over all my cuts and bruises, listens to a bunch of seemingly random spots with a stethoscope—the works. Each little wound gets cleaned as we go: bandages applied, an ice pack put on my ankle, some painkillers handed to me. And I spend it all in a state of suspended panic and shame.
Then we get to the part I was hoping he wasn’t going to ask about. His questions regarding ‘sexual trauma’ make me freeze up so hard, I can hardly push the words through my lips.
I don’t want to talk about it.
It’s fine.
It’s no worse than anything I’ve had before.
Which is a lie and we both know it, but I’m not telling him the truth. Not him, not anyone. Ever.
“I know this sucks, but it would help if I could take a quick look. To make sure there’s no severe damage. I won’t touch you if that would help.”
Eventually, I nod. It takes us a minute to get adjusted, using the blanket on Gunnar’s bed like a drape over my body for the illusion of privacy. Then he asks me to take off my pants, roll onto my side, and bring my knees up to my chest. Micah looks, but he doesn’t say anything like he normally does, and the pattern of his breathing changes in a way that spikes my heart rate.
“What?” I straighten my legs.
Micah sighs. “What happened?”
Silence hangs between us, veiled and heavy.
“It’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Tobias—”
“It’s fine!” I cut him off, because we are done with this conversation. I flail around until I find the sweatpants Gunnar lent me, tugging them back on under the blanket and dislodging the ice pack in the process. “Are we done? Can we be done? I’m not dying, right?”
Micah blows out a steady breath. “Okay. But I want you to keep an eye on things and let me know if anything gets worse.” He stands up and takes a big step back, so he’s not crowding over me, before saying, “I swear to god, no joke. If you start shitting and/or vomiting blood, you call me. Or go to the hospital. It is not fuck-around-and-find-out time anymore if that happens. Y’hear?”
Until now, he’s been soft spoken, with a mild accent and an unmistakably ‘gay’ lilt to the way he talks. Pronounced, like he leans into it. But as soon as he gets a little heated, it’s like I can see the redneck coming out of him and it’s almost a little intimidating.
Like always, I try my best to hide the flashes of real fear that are running through me. Fear that I might genuinely be fucked up, and fear that Micah isn’t as nice as he seems and will run straight to Eamon after this to hand me over.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Micah rolls his eyes, but doesn’t seem offended. “Don’t be a bitch just because I’m fabulous. Try saying ‘thank you, Micah,’ instead.”
He’s gathering his stuff up, not waiting for a response. It almost catches him by surprise when the words “thank you” actually do slip out of my mouth.
Then I’m back to huddling into my oversized borrowed clothes and praying for this day to come to an end. Finally.
I try to get up when he opens the door, but he turns around to tut at me.
“No. You stay. Be a good boy and ice your ankle. I’ll send Gunnar in to continue his Prince Charming shtick while I see myself out. Oh, and be prepared, I’m ordering you an at-home STD panel, and this one is not optional. I’ll put it under someone else’s name. Don’t worry.”
My mouth is hanging open, but I don’t have the chance to say anything before he disappears through the doorway.
I hear him murmur a few words to Gunnar, but not nearly long enough for him to be giving a rundown on everything he just saw. Thank fuck.
Eventually, the murmuring disappears and Gunnar peeks into the bedroom.
“You should sleep in here,” he says, hovering in the doorway. “I can take the couch. It’s late. Well, early now. Do you need anything else?”
There’s a ping-pong battle in my brain for a minute because I do need something, but asking and getting a ‘no’ might be that final humiliation that makes me crumble away into dust. When I think about it, though, he’s been falling over himself to help me ever since I got here. More generous than I expected, so maybe this whole vibe I’ve been feeling between us isn’t just a delusional fantasy, like I suspected.
“Will you…” I hesitate, almost stuttering at the words, which is embarrassing in and of itself. “Will you sleep with me?”
There it is. Out in the open, waiting to be snatched up or slapped to the floor.
Gunnar’s eyebrows climb up his forehead and his breath catches. His lips begin to form a word, and for a second I think he’s going to say yes. I need him to say yes, because while normally being by myself is my most form, there’s something about the bulk and warmth and smell of him that sets me at ease even more.
“I, um. I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he says, at last. Something churns in my gut, but I try to keep the feeling from making itself known on my face. “You’re hurt, and this is all confusing. I don’t want to do anything that might blur boundaries. I’ll be right outside this door, though. You can keep the door open if you want. Just yell if you need something.”
He starts to move toward me, and I think it might be to stroke my hair back like he did before. But I don’t want him to touch me right now. I feel too twisted. I pull his blanket over me and curl up, making myself into a tight, uninviting parcel as quickly as I can.
Gunnar seems to take the hint and stops moving. After too long of a pause, he steps back through the doorway and slowly moves into the living room.
“Like I said. I’m here if you need me.”