21. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
B y the time the cops arrive, the race for which feeling wants to take over my body has ended in a photo finish, and I have equal parts hangover, utter exhaustion, and lingering terror behind the wheel.
The fact that Gunnar is still alive, and no one has shown up to hurt him yet, even hours after I left Eamon… it’s promising. But it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Eamon fell asleep and doesn’t know I’m gone yet. Or maybe he had to spend time bailing on the motel in case I sent the cops after him, but he’ll come back to finish us both off later.
We’re never actually going to be free of him. No one can keep us safe.
At least the walk across town and halfway up Route 20—ducking into the bushes to stay out of sight of every car that passed—wore my body out so much that the fear can’t get much of a foothold. I can feel it clicking inside me like an engine trying to turn over, but it never catches. It’s just there. Waiting.
The hangover is bothering me more than the rest of it. Eamon kept me as liquored up as he was for the last three days, if not more, because that’s what he always does. He also had me snorting his mystery drug. There was no sleep, just endless abuse and listening to his paranoia. My body is brittle and dry, my stomach is churning because I can’t remember when I last ate something, and the inside of my mouth tastes like a tar pit.
At least my insides match my outsides, for once. I should really ask Gunnar for food or something, but I can’t bring myself to. I’m too comfortable. After the initial shock of everything wore off, we were just waiting for the cops. He brought me over to a booth in the far corner.
I didn’t want to sit here at first, because I’ve sat exactly here with Eamon too many times. But then Gunnar slid into the corner, propped both legs up on the long bench seat and invited me to lie between them.
That felt good. That felt like a tiny fractured piece of relief from everything else. There’s a glass of water on the table that Kasia refilled before she had to go home to her kids, which Gunnar keeps bringing to my mouth to make me take sips of. I do it to humor him, even though I’d rather not.
I just want to sleep.
Instead, I’m lying here, propped on his chest and cocooned in his arms, when the cops finally burst in. They’re loud and everything they do and say seems too sharp. Almost immediately, I close my eyes and quietly pray for them to go away.
I don’t care if it makes me weak or pathetic. Right now, I’m allowing myself to be weak. I don’t give a shit anymore. I don’t want to talk to cops, who I find about a hair’s breadth more tolerable than the Banna but significantly more disruptive, and I don’t want to make decisions about anything for myself.
Just for today, I want to let someone else be in charge. If that makes me a victim or a shitty person or whatever, then fuck it. What else is new?
“Tobias?” Gunnar whispers in my ear, but I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter in response and turn my face into his chest, like a child.
He doesn’t push. He strokes my hair with one big, warm hand and continues to hold me tightly with the other. I can hear him talking to the cops in a low voice over my head, but I make the conscious effort not to hear what they’re saying.
It doesn’t last for long, though.
“Baby, can you wake up for a second, please?”
Ugh, how can I keep ignoring him if he’s going to be this sweet?
Disgusting.
I peel apart my gummy eyelids, even though it takes the strength of ten fucking men, and let the world come into focus around me.
Two men in uniform are standing in front of me, their faces a mixture of pity, discomfort, and boredom. Fantastic.
“Can you tell us what happened?” the one with darker hair and a slightly more sympathetic expression says. Although he’s still shuffling his weight from side to side like he’d rather be anywhere but here, while his partner drifts into full boredom and looks out the window, his fingers tucked into his body armor.
Jesus Christ, why is experiencing it legitimately almost easier than talking about it?
With as blank of a face and tone as I can manage—because I’ll be goddamned if I let these two chucklefucks see inside my head along with everyone else who gets to peek in there—I answer them.
“Eamon showed up at the hospital. He took me to a motel, padlocked the door from the inside, and kept me there for three days. He drugged me, fucked me, and told me if I tried to leave, he’d kill me.”
Gunnar stiffens beneath me but doesn’t say anything. None of this is news to him, but I guess it’s different when I’m talking about it, instead of it being some abstract concept.
Distantly, I wonder if he watched the security footage from the night I trashed the bar. I look around, memories of that night and everything I did suddenly superimposed on top of how it looks now. Then I picture myself bent over the bar while Eamon grins up at the fucking camera and how wonder disgusted Gunnar must have been to see it happen.
I’ve very carefully blocked all those thoughts out of my mind since the moment it was over, but as soon as the trickle begins, it turns into a flood.
“Fuck,” I say, as my mouth floods with bitter saliva and my body feels suddenly weightless.
I launch myself off Gunnar’s lap, pulling out of his grip and pushing past the two startled cops until I hit the floor on my hands and knees. Then my stomach heaves, over and over and over. All the water I’ve drunk comes up, but that’s not enough. I cough, drool trailing from my mouth and tears streaming from my eyes, even though I probably can’t afford to lose more liquid.
My stomach cramps, then heaves again, like a desperate, dying thing giving a last-ditch shove against some immovable obstacle. Something clenches inside me, and a thin liquid fills my throat before spilling onto the floor.
It’s bright yellow and looks more like snot than vomit. I’ve experienced a lot of disgusting things in my life, but this might be one of the worst. As soon as it’s out, I don’t feel better, but I do feel vacant. The cramping continues, but it eases off enough that I can try to catch my breath.
The world was coming in and out of focus for a minute there, so I’m too late when I start processing information again. One of the officers is already talking into his radio, requesting an ambulance and having it confirmed by dispatch. Gunnar is hovering over me with his hand on my back. When I manage to turn enough to look at him, though, he looks more freaked out than I expected.
“What?” I ask, my voice so fucking raspy I can barely push the word out.
“You don’t look good, Tobias. Maybe we should go to the hospital.”
His hand keeps rubbing my back as he says it, but it doesn’t do anything to tamp down the fear that jolts through me at the thought.
“No!” I jerk away from him, fighting back another wave of nausea.
I know, realistically, that the hospital is just as dangerous as everywhere else. Eamon could be anywhere. But they can’t take me back there when it feels like I just got out.
Gunnar sighs, and I know he’s putting two and two together about why I don’t want to go. Not to mention how little interest I have in being touched by anyone other than him, let alone stripped down and prodded in the name of medicine.
I’m still crouching on the floor, trying to avoid all the vomit, even though it’s mostly water, while also leaning as far away from the cops as I can without having to actually get up and move.
“Oh, you’re going to the hospital, kid,” Bored Officer says. “I’m not being blamed if you suddenly die. Plus, you need a what’s-it-called. A rape kit. If you want to press charges for the sexual assault you were talking about.” He looks at the other officer, and in a lower voice, but still not quiet enough for me not to hear, he asks, “They do rape kits for men, right?”
“Get out. Fuck off. Both of you.”
My eyes snap open and I look at Gunnar. He’s seething, grinding his teeth and barely able to hold back his own rage. I’ve never seen him like this. He looks like he’s ten feet tall, even though he’s crouching on the ground next to me and my puke.
Even the cops are taken aback.
“We need a statement, sir,” Sympathetic Cop says, exhaustion evident in his voice.
“Then you can talk to him respectfully. He doesn’t have to go to the hospital if he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t have to have a rape kit, and the two of you standing over him, bossing him around and asking rude questions isn’t fucking helpful.”
He spits the words out one at a time, like he’d rather be chewing fire than explaining this to them. It warms me a little, even more than the hoodie he put on me when I arrived that I’m still swimming in.
They have a stare down for longer than I think is necessary, but I guess I’ve never thought of myself as an ‘alpha male’, so this isn’t exactly shit I participate in.
Eventually, the cops seem to relent. Gunnar helps pull me back up on the bench seat, while I work on walling off all the thoughts that made me dive off to puke my guts out in the first place. The cops shuffle awkwardly to the side, and everyone seems content to leave my stomach lining on the floor for the foreseeable future.
After that, the cops ask their questions in a dull monotone, and I answer them in as few words as possible. I think I float off somewhere, because I don’t absorb most of the things I’m saying. I can feel the leatherette of the seat underneath me, especially the cracked part where it tucks into the wood, because the cracks are sharp and itchy and digging into my thigh. I can feel Gunnar’s hands on me, weighing me down, because we’re back in the same position as before. And I’m almost overwhelmed by the scent of liquor and commercial cleaner that makes the bar seem similar but also different.
That’s it. That’s all my senses feel like taking in. Everything else is a haze. I think I give the cops a more detailed timeline, as well as a description of the motel. I tell them about how I was able to leave and the threat he made against Gunnar. I tell them how many weapons he has. I tell them I don’t know where he would go, because he’s so fucked up right now and on the outs with the Banna, he could be anywhere.
They make their notes, punctuating the conversation with unnecessary sighs but not saying the words ‘rape kit’ anymore. Eamon is never going to get caught, and if he is arrested, there’s about a million things he’ll get charged for before anyone gives a good goddamn about whether I technically gave or possibly implied consent before he used me.
It’s irrelevant. I’m not talking about it ever again.
I let them take pictures of the worst of my bruises, lifting up my shirt and tilting my face into the light for them, but only to get it over with as quickly as possible. At least no one has to touch me for pictures.
They’d sent someone else to the motel as soon as I gave them the description, so before we’re even done with the questioning, we have news that Eamon isn’t there and the room has been cleaned. Immaculately cleaned. I don’t know what that means, and my brain is too fuzzy to speculate.
The ambulance shows up without sirens, thank god, because for whatever reason I feel like that might have been the thing to throw my last vibrating nerve into a catatonic state. They park by the door and turn on a few blue lights, then pile into the bar.
I unclench a little when I recognize Tristan. The pool of EMT staff in this area is small, and I know almost all of them from how often I’ve had to call an ambulance for Lola, by this point. Tristan has something about him that’s comforting, though. I don’t know what, because his bedside manner is non-existent, and he always looks like he both can and possibly will bench-press me.
Maybe it’s because of the way he seems to dote on her. They’re always whispering to each other like they’re fucking friends, and she needs as many of those as she can get. Distantly, I hope he’s been checking on her in the hospital while I couldn’t, but examining that feeling too closely also opens up the door to more shame than I’m prepared to process right now, so I lock it shut.
And behind Tristan is… Cade. Fuck. Who I barely know but tried to choke me out the last time I saw him.
I deserved it, to be fair. His boyfriend got stabbed, and I was part of the robbery-gone-wrong that caused it. But none of it was ever supposed to go down like that. It was another one of Eamon’s brilliant plans that inevitably ended in everyone but him getting fucked over.
They walk in and immediately scan the scene with sharp eyes. I expect Cade to glower at me, but his face is as neutral as Tristan. They’re both the picture of professionalism.
Which I kind of hate. I don’t want more professionals clomping around and making snide fucking comments. That’s the petulant child in me talking, though.
“Boys,” Tristan says as a greeting, his arms crossed over his chest as he gives both us and the cops a once over. “Everyone having a good day, I take it?”
“He needs to go the hospital,” the dark-haired cop says, tossing his head in my direction.
You wouldn’t notice it if you weren’t acutely attuned to watching men for the small warnings in their body language, but I can see the way Tristan bristles at the command.
“We’ll see. You have everything you need from him?”
The cops both nod.
“Good. You can go.”
Bored Cop looks taken aback, like he’s about to argue, but the other one makes eye contact with him and shrugs. They don’t want to be here any more than I want them here. Take your get out of jail free card and go, assholes.
Tristan and Cade both muscle forward, not-so-subtly occupying the space where the cops were and encouraging them to move away. As soon as they’re standing in front of me like a wall, I feel like I can breathe. Even though I don’t know if I can trust them, I know for sure I can’t trust the men behind them.
They relent. Cop One and Cop Two promise to be in touch, a statement they make with negative enthusiasm, then wander out of the building and back to their cruiser like they have no place better to be.
I take a deep, full breath and let my ribcage expand.
Tristan smiles as he looks me up and down. It’s a sad smile, but more empathetic than pity-filled, so I’ll take it.
“You scared us, kid. We’ve been looking for you. I’m glad you found your way back.”
I nod, because I’m suddenly feeling choked up and words are beyond me. The idea that it was more than just Gunnar trying to find me isn’t something I can swallow right now, even if it’s true.
Tristan crouches down in front of me, the softness in his body language a complete one-eighty from how he was with the cops. Behind him, Cade is fishing medical equipment out of a giant bag, but also has a softer expression than before. He’s not looking at me like he wants me dead, at least.
“Where are you hurt?” Tristan asks.
“I’m fine.”
They’re the only words I manage to squeeze out, and I swear the entire room collectively rolls their eyes.
“He doesn’t want to go to the hospital,” Gunnar says, as if I’m not there.
The sudden surge of anger that hits me stands in total contradiction to how much I was mentally whining about wanting him to take care of everything a few minutes ago. Before I even realize it, I feel like I’m about to crash out, and my mouth is spitting venom.
“I can speak for myself,” I snap.
Gunnar tenses, then relaxes slowly underneath me.
“I know,” he whispers directly in my ear, before placing a kiss against my temple. I realize suddenly that I probably smell disgusting, and I have to fight not to crawl off him all over again. “I’m sorry.”
Tristan and Cade are both watching us with careful, calculating expressions. After a few seconds, Tristan drags over a stool and pats the seat.
“Okay, are you able to hop up here for me?” he asks, before taking a big step back out of my space to let me do it.
I feel stiff and slow, but I gradually unfold myself from the booth and do as he says, leaning on Gunnar a little for support.
Once I’m up, Tristan sits on a similar stool, so he’s looking at me from almost the same height instead of leaning over me.
“Okay, kid. Do you want to avoid going to the hospital if you can?”
I bite my lip and look at the ground, the sudden wave of boldness from before abandoning me. I feel naked without Gunnar behind me.
“Gotcha. How about we check you out and do what we can for you here to begin with. I’m probably going to officially recommend going to the hospital after, because you look like you’ve been through the wars. But you’re always within your right to refuse unless something really fucking serious is happening. Deal? I won’t do anything without your permission, and I’m not going to force you or trick you into doing something you don’t want.”
I let out a long breath. I kind of knew all this already, and I trust Tristan. As much as I trust anyone, really. But knowing it and hearing him say it straight up are two different things.
“Okay.”
“Perfect.” He nods. “Do you want Gunnar to stay, or wait upstairs?”
My eyes flick up, and panic grips my chest.
“Stay,” I say, already looking around for him, even though he’s right here.
“No problem.” Tristan puts his hands out to placate me, while Gunnar perches on the table so he’s more in my eyeline. “Cade’s going to take your vitals, and I’ll ask you some questions. Remember, you don’t have to answer, but it’ll help me if you do. And all of this stays between us. If you change your mind and want Gunnar to step out for a second, we can do that too. You’re in charge here, and we’re not in a rush.”
I’m nodding, but this is rapidly turning into too much information to absorb. I just want it to be over, and if it can’t be over, I want them to tell me what to do. Anything that doesn’t involve going to the hospital or taking my clothes off.
Cade approaches me, warning me he’s going to put a blood pressure cuff on me and letting me nod before he starts. He gets to work once he has permission, taking my blood pressure and putting a clip on my finger to measure something, then listening to my chest with a stethoscope.
He asks me each time before he touches me, and moves around me carefully, but without that hangdog pity look I was expecting. And without bringing up any of the anger I know he still has for me. He just works through it one thing at a time, giving me soft smiles and speaking in a quiet voice. It’s almost soothing, except I’m so nervous that I’m the one who finally flips and says something.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out at random.
He frowns, pulling the stethoscope out of his ears.
“Why?”
“About Silas. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be there. I never wanted to be there. It was all… I made a lot of shitty choices. I’m sorry your boyfriend got stabbed. That sucks.”
Cade’s eyebrows raise, and I feel like an utter moron. That sucks ?
Yes, Tobias. Getting stabbed sucks. How articulate.
After a few seconds, Cade’s face smoothes out and he smiles at me. A real one, not a soft, patient smile like before.
“I think we can call that water under the bridge at this point,” he says.
“How is he?”
I’m mostly asking about his stab wound, but the way Cade’s face clouds over at the words, I can see there’s something more at play there.
“He’s…” The words trail off, and Cade swallows hard while not looking at me and fussing with the equipment. “He’s Silas. Y’know. Life is hard sometimes.”
There’s a little twinge in my heart at the words, because even without knowing the context, I’m very familiar with the feeling.
“Yeah,” I say. “You guys are good, though?”
As much as I don’t know them, I feel a desperate need for them to stay together. Like how people get with celebrities. Like the continued existence of their love, despite both of them being fuck ups, makes the potential for my future happiness more real.
When Cade thinks about his answer, his expression shifts from worried to a broad, genuine smile, and this time he really does look me in the eye.
“Yeah. I love him. Nothing’s changing that.” He tilts his head, like he’s taking me in for the first time. “Now come on, let’s get you fixed up. I think we both have enough other shit to worry about than holding grudges. Deal?”
He holds out his fist, which I bump, and he bops away back to his work looking genuinely content.
It’s the most surreal interaction I’ve had with someone in a while, and I vomited on a cop’s shoes like half an hour ago.
After that, things go more smoothly. Tristan asks me questions about what happened, but he manages to not phrase things like I’m the scum of the earth, which is nice. They tell me I’m dehydrated, which isn’t shocking, so they hook me up to some fluids. Someone—I think Gunnar—finally cleans up the puke. Tristan goes through the pros and cons of going to the hospital for a rape kit, which I stare blankly at the wall for, even if he phrases it all as respectfully as possible. When I refuse again, everyone drops it.
Tristan reminds me about STD testing, and I remember Micah organized that for me last time. Something in the mail.
God, no one would ever think the aftermath of something so dramatic is this mind-numbingly tedious.
By the end of it, I’ve been filled with fluids, given a painkiller which helps me drift even more, signed the iPad to refuse transport to the hospital, and watched Tristan hand Gunnar a piece of paper with a bunch of names of services he recommends, because I’m too tired to concentrate on anything now.
They pack up their shit, and Tristan comes back to lean toward me, now that I’m back in Gunnar’s arms because I was slipping off the stool.
“If anything gets worse, you call me, kid. Even if it’s off the books. We don’t leave people behind.”
I’m obviously too hydrated now, because my eyes are trying to fill with tears and I feel like a dumbass for it.
“Thanks,” I say, even though it sounds pathetic.
Gunnar thanks them both as well, and they let themselves out.
“I think it’s time for you to sleep, little one.” Gunnar looks down at me. “How does that sound? We can deal with the rest of the bullshit tomorrow.”
“Mmm.”
I push my face further into his chest for the millionth time so far today. I can’t truly wrap my head around the fact that this morning I was still in the motel, and now I’m here.
“Shower later. Sleep first,” I say, mumbling.
“Okay.”
Gunnar stands up, scooping me into his arms as he goes. I’m too tired. I can’t care about how bad I must smell or how disgusting I am. I don’t even care if I still have Eamon’s sweat on my skin.
I just want to sleep.
“You’ll watch while I sleep?”
“Of course I will, baby.”
I’m out before we even get upstairs.