9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
I t’s been so long since I’ve actually slept deeply that waking up feels like climbing out of a tar pit. At first, everything is thick and heavy. Peaceful. Then, my mind comes online a little at a time and realizes that my limbs are weighed down.
This isn’t right. I’m supposed to be light and agile at all times. Ready to flee. This feels like a trap.
My brain is still struggling to shift from asleep to awake, so it feels like my body hits me with an internal defibrillator to kick-start the process. My blood buzzes, my limbs tingle, my heart goes from slow to racing with a lurch, and panic floods every crease and crevice of my brain.
“Whoah.”
I hear his voice, but the part of my mind that processes things like that is still slow, because all the adrenaline went to the fight-flee portion of my gray matter.
There’s something on me, so I jerk away from it. It tightens its grip, so I jerk harder. The movement is uncoordinated, an external repetition of the electric-volt-jumpstart that I just went through internally.
The second jerk obviously does the trick, because I don’t feel trapped anymore. But then pain explodes over the length of my body on one side, including my head, and my eyes open to a bloom of color filling my vision.
It only takes a few seconds for everything to become clear, but those seconds are numbing. I’m lost in time and space, with only this fresh pain to convince me I’m alive.
“Gunnar?”
I can see him hovering over me looking panicked, his hands frozen in mid-air like he was reaching for me and stopped halfway. The room is dimly lit, but not dark. The last thing I remember was him pulling me into his arms sometime in the night. Early in the night, I think.
Then I remember feeling peaceful. Kind of, at least. Peaceful enough that I didn’t have to constantly watch my surroundings.
Now I’m here, and it looks like daytime, so I must have slept for a while .
“What happened?”
He stares at me, still looking shook. “I’m not sure. You were sleeping, and then it seemed like you woke up and just launched yourself onto the floor. Are you okay?”
I rub my head where I smacked it. It’s throbbing a little, but I’m sure it’ll pass. Slowly, I try to get my hands under me and lever myself upright, internally inspecting myself for damage as I move.
As usual, everything hurts. I may not have been entirely forthcoming with Gunnar about how much Eamon fucked me up this time, because there’s no way he would want to know the gory details. I wouldn’t.
The aches and pains of bruising are mostly fading. But my ribs are still fucked, and it’s hard to take a full breath, especially when I try to walk. My ankle seems to be getting worse, not better, and the downstairs situation is just the last humiliating straw in a stack of humiliation.
The silence between us feels heavy, but at least he’s not pushing me for an answer.
“I’m okay,” I say once he’s helped pull me to my feet, and we’re both rubbing sleep from our eyes. “I just dinged my head on the coffee table, I think. It’s fine.”
Gunnar frowns, reaching for my face so he can tilt my head and take a look at where I hit it. “I swear, I’m going to ban that word from your vocabulary.”
I can’t really hear the words, though, because I’m too distracted by the feeling of his very fucking large, very warm hand tenderly moving my head from side to side. It makes parts of me flutter that I thought were long-calcified from disuse. He holds me gently, like a child picking up a bunny for the first time when they’re terrified to hurt it.
There’s a moment where he grazes his fingertips over the bruised patch of my scalp. Just barely—just enough to ruffle my hair—and it makes my gut clench while my breath catches in my throat.
It’s so close to the vulnerable prey feeling that I’m used to, but not quite. Because it’s not bad. It’s exhilarating. I didn’t think I could be exhilarated without also being scared half to death, but here we are.
It makes me realize I’m breathing too heavily. My lips are parted, and he’s standing close enough to me that I can feel everywhere his body brushes against mine. He’s still wearing his work clothes he must have slept in—his fancy slacks and a formerly crisp white button down—while I’m drowning in the same oversized PJs I’ve been wearing for days.
I must be gross. I can’t believe he’s willing to stand this close to me, let alone let me snore on top of him for ten hours.
Gunnar seems to realize how close we are at the same time. His eyes meet mine, and I don’t think we’ve ever been close like this without one of us trying not to look at the other or me being in the middle of a meltdown. Or drunk. Or all of the above.
I always thought he had brown eyes. But now I notice he has that thing where a portion of one is blue. I don’t remember what it’s called. But it’s like a quarter of that little ring has been flooded with dye, or something. I guess that’s the kind of thing that’s supposed to be a flaw, but really just makes someone even hotter.
It makes him seem more real and also more unattainable at the same time. He’s this solid, sturdy thing right in front of me. Like four inches taller, of course, so I have to look up, but he’s still right there. I can see all the little imperfections in his skin, as well as the rise and fall of his chest that makes him real.
That doesn’t mean he belongs anywhere near me, though. None of that has changed, just because I’ve been afflicted with the pining sickness, in addition to all my other injuries. He’s still in the world of people who have it together, and I’m still in the world of people who crash on those people’s couches.
“Come downstairs with me,” he says, apropos of nothing.
“What?” I stare at him, leaning back. “You know I can’t.”
He snags my elbow. Still gentle, but like he’s afraid I’ll jerk away again and go ass over until I hurt myself.
“It’s Wednesday. On Wednesdays we—”
“Wear pink?” I interrupt. I don’t know why. My brain can’t stop being obnoxious, even when the rest of me is exhausted, apparently.
Gunnar doesn’t laugh, though. He looks confused, like he doesn’t get the joke.
“What? No. On Wednesdays we open late to deep clean the kitchen. There’s no one down there but us, and the doors are locked. What… pink?”
He is so un-fun sometimes. “Man, how old are you?”
“Thirty-six. Why?”
“You’re literally the perfect age for that reference! Did you grow up in a cave?” I know this isn’t the point, but my thoughts have been derailed. “Also, I thought you were much older. If you’re not even forty yet, then why do you wear all these fancy-ass grown-up clothes? And why do you have so much gray in your beard?”
The side quest that my brain has taken me down must have taken over my senses, because without thinking, I reach up and paw at the beard in question. I’ve been low-key obsessed with it for a while. Thick and always perfectly trimmed, giving him this weird air of authority that kind of compliments his soft-spoken, ‘aw, shucks’ personality.
It’s soft to the touch, and the playful gesture immediately turns into my hand resting on his face the way he was holding mine a minute ago. Except I don’t have a purpose here. I’m only touching him because I’ve been itching to forever, and now that I’m allowed—kind of, when he’s not being a dick about it—it feels like the floodgates have been opened.
Gunnar doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move my hand away, either, which is progress. But I feel his cheek lift under my fingers as he smiles at me.
“Maybe I’m just old at heart, and my beard knows that. And my pop culture references, apparently.”
“ Pffft .” I’m trying to keep it light and not let it show that I’m caught up in staring at him like someone in a Shakespearean tragedy, but I’m not sure if I pull it off.
“Come on,” he says, his voice practically a whisper into the tiny space between our faces. “Micah says you need to move around a little. And I hate leaving you up here alone. You can sit out of sight and keep us company while we clean. Please?”
He looks so imploring; I can’t remember all the reasons I should probably say no.
There’s a decent amount of hallway in between the little kitchen/storage area at the back, and the bar itself. Conveniently, it doesn’t have any windows. It’s right by the door that leads to Gunnar’s apartment and about as far from the main entrance as you can get. Which is where I’m sitting, drinking something fruity that Kasia handed me wordlessly. It’s delicious, but tragically doesn’t seem to have alcohol in it.
Alcohol would really settle my nerves right now. I would drink Everclear. Not a lot. I don’t need to be drunk. But just enough to take the edge off this squirrel-like urge to constantly check and recheck my surroundings would be fantastic.
Booze isn’t good for a lot of things, but it is excellent at making you care less about both yourself and the world around you. It’s pretty much the only thing it brings to the table. My body cares way too much about every single aspect of existence, even if my mind is telling it not to.
Because realistically, this was a good idea. Damn Gunnar and his stupid wisdom. I’m just as secure here as I was upstairs, and it is kind of nice not to be fusing into the couch all alone. Although I’m now much more aware of how much I need a shower, and the thought is making me want to hunker in on myself.
The guys are all busy doing stuff that looks relatively tedious but important. Cleaning things. The kitchen—if you can call it that—is basically just a place where they deep fry shit, throw nachos into plastic trays, and cut up fruit. But it’s nice to see they keep it clean, which is more than I can say for most bars I’ve spent time in.
No one really talks to me. I get the feeling they’re treating me with kid gloves, but I don’t feel like talking, so I’m not mad about it. Sav hardly talks anyway, but he does watch me. Not in a creepy way, though. More like he’s checking I’m still here.
Kasia has never been anything other than tepid toward me. Now, she’s giving me these looks that I think are about as empathetic as she gets, but thank fuck she’s not trying to become friends. She is, however, oozing stress from every pore and seems to be throwing that stress into cleaning ferociously. I don’t love myself a lot, but I’m going to choose to love myself enough to assume her stress has nothing to do with me.
Gunnar is the only one who does speak to me. Mostly making very dorky jokes whenever he walks past, which I also don’t hate. The whole thing is peaceful, and ridiculously normal, and it lulls me into a semi-relaxed state. About as relaxed as I’m going to get, I assume.
Until I hear raised voices coming from the bar. For a second, everything freezes, because I assume the worst. But the doors are locked. I made Gunnar check like a billion times. As the fog of panic recedes a little, I try to pick through the angry sounds and see what it actually is.
Kasia and Gunnar are fighting. Not yelling, exactly. But terse.
My ability to pretend this isn’t about me is waning, but I’m still holding out hope. Not everything is about me, I remind myself.
Curious, I set down the bag of tortilla chips that someone handed me at some point and carefully lower myself off the stool. My ankle throbs whenever it’s not raised, especially when I put weight on it. It’s also starting to feel more stiff than swollen, like a lump of painful rock sitting on the end of my leg. But I’m used to powering through a little pain, and I need to know what’s going on.
“I can deal with it myself, Gunnar.”
“You shouldn’t have to, though. Why won’t you let me help?”
Their voices are clear, because it’s a relatively small space and there’s only quiet music playing right now. I was planning to stay out of sight, but I think this is confirmation that it really isn’t about me.
It’s a misstep. As soon as Kasia sees me limping around the corner, driven by morbid curiosity, she points at me.
“That. That’s why.” Ok, rude. “You have your own problems to deal with. I’m a big girl. I will take care of it.”
“Uh, I’m fine, thanks. I don’t need a babysitter.”
I don’t totally believe the words even as I say them, because I can’t even seem to sleep unless Gunnar is eight inches away from me, but still. The battered remnants of my pride want me to say something.
Kasia’s expression tells me she’s not buying it, anyway.
“It’s not a bad thing, kid. It’s fine. I’ve needed help too, but my days of handholding and weeping into my pillowcase are behind me.”
Gunnar sighs more dramatically than I knew he was capable of. “Jesus Christ, Kasia, no one outgrows vulnerability. You don’t hit a certain birthday and become totally self-sufficient. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove here.”
Apparently, that’s when Sav notices the very loud snark-fest and decides to get involved.
“What’s the problem?”
“Kasia—” Gunnar starts before she cuts him off.
“Don’t!”
“No. If you didn’t want me to be involved, you wouldn’t have told me. You know me better than that. For better or worse, we are all a very weird, fucked-up team and we are going to help.” He pauses, waiting for her to interject again, but she’s silent this time.
His mouth opens like he’s about to speak, but then he looks at me again and gets distracted. Moving across the room with long strides, he passes me, grabs my stool from the hallway and then brings it over to where I’m currently leaning against the wall. Then, without hesitation, he wraps those giant hands around my waist and hoists me up onto it like a child.
It absolutely, 100%, in no way turns me on.
I swear.
“You need to stop standing,” he says, pointing at me before he walks back to where he was before.
“I’m fi—”
“Don’t even.” His expression is so fucking stern, I don’t even bother to mess with him right now. “Anyway, as I was saying. Kasia’s piece of shit ex is trying to drag her through family court for custody. Not because he wants custody, but because he knows she can’t afford it, and he wants to fuck with her. Correct?”
Kasia nods, still sulking—like she’s being called out for secretly wanting help—but not interrupting him.
“You guys weren’t here when all of this went down, but Jorden is actually more than just your average abusive shitheel.” I wince at the words. I’m not sure why. Gunnar is very much on his soapbox, though, so I manage to keep the weird reaction under his radar while he keeps talking. “He also turned out to be a pedophile.”
If anyone wasn’t paying attention before, they are now.
Kasia rolls her eyes, like she’s been over this a million times before and is sick of the sound of the same words being repeated over and over. I can picture what that might feel like.
“I was trying to get away from him anyway, and then I found him talking to teenage girls online. It was bad. I took the kids and left, reported him to the cops and everything, but somehow that slippery fucker managed to keep what he was doing under the radar. He couldn’t hold down a job the entire time I was married to him, but when it came to proxy servers and anonymous internet use, he was suddenly a Mensa candidate. He only got some bullshit battery charges and probation, in the end.”
“So, him trying to get custody is a very big deal. Which is why it is a team effort .” He stares at Kasia while he says the words, and she seems to soften for him. “Sav, Tobias, congratulations. You are now on the team. Please start brainstorming solutions. Preferably ones that don’t include murder. Not that anyone here would do something like that.”
He looks at me and Sav, and it’s so dry and unexpected, I swear to god I almost laugh out loud. Sav doesn’t look offended, at least. He seems to consider it for a second before responding with his trademark shrug.
“Excellent,” Gunnar continues. “We’ll talk about this again later, then. Sav, can you help Tobias get upstairs so we can open please?”
A little piece of me is upset that he’s not going to take me himself, but that feels too pathetic to even acknowledge. It’s a thirty-foot walk.
Plus, before we’re even out of sight, I catch Gunnar leaning in to wrap Kasia up in his arms, and she actually lets him. I know from first-hand experience how comforting it is having that big, solid body wrapped around you. It would be selfish of me not to share.
Just this once, at least.