Chapter Twelve
Savage
I t’s been one week since The Incident?. I’m finally over the hump of my medication withdrawal, thank fuck, but that doesn’t change the fact that Micah has permanently installed me in his bedroom instead of the couch.
He claims it’s to support my “healing”, and it was a mistake to leave me out there in the first place. But if he meant physical healing, then I feel like he’d be taking the couch instead of sleeping in here with me. He wants me here so he can spy on me and make sure I’m not rummaging through the kitchen knives or something.
If he thinks I haven’t noticed the sudden absence of sharp things and overdosey things inside his apartment, he’s underestimating me. I’m a wreck, but I’m not an idiot. He’s watching me every minute of every day that he’s not at work, like I’m a block of C4 with a really, really long fuse that we’re both waiting to finally go off.
But it’s whatever. I hate feeling like I’m being babied, but I don’t hate the company. It’s making me realize that I’ve been lonely basically since the day he left me the first time, so having his warm, solid, confident presence around is settling something turbulent inside me. Day by day, hour by hour, the knot in my gut untwists. Like every time he hands me a bowl of pasta or a fucking peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I one-up in the “normal” column and get another inch away from the murderous, violent version of myself I hate so much.
He can babysit me all he wants, if it makes him feel better.
As well as being farther from the precipice of insanity, I’m also back to being mostly a functional person physically. I don’t think I’ll be lifting dead bodies anytime soon, but that’s fine by me. At least I can get up and walk around without looking like a plague victim on the verge of collapse.
The downside to all this is that I’m fucking bored . Not only am I functional again, but all the twitchy, anxious energy I had that pushed me to take the damned meds in the first place is back in force. It’s like an itch in the back of my brain that I can’t scratch, constantly telling me that I need to be up and moving, that I should be on the lookout for some kind of threat, but it refuses to give me any additional information.
It has me checking the perimeter of Micah’s shoebox apartment twenty times a day, which is worse than useless and only makes me feel more like a prisoner.
My dick is waking up as well, which is another crisis that I don’t have the energy to deal with. I’ve fought a lifelong battle with that motherfucker. It never works when I need it to, and then it perks up at the most inconvenient possible moments.
After more than a decade of feeling hollow and betrayed whenever my cock wilted on the spot while I was trying to use the fucker, I didn’t mind the side effect of the meds making it worse. It already felt numb and useless half the time anyway; what’s wrong with escalating that to all the time? I was already having to fabricate my sex life for the sake of my reputation.
I’d rather make up lies for the rest of the Banna, then have it get back to them from some girl that I soft-cocked halfway through sex, had a panic attack and kicked her out. That shit is more humiliating than anything else my trash brain and broken body can throw at me.
Except now I’m waking up with boners every morning. Thank fuck Micah is working swing and nightshift, so we’re mostly on an opposite sleep schedule. It’s bad enough having to talk myself down from the ledge of trying to jerk off, because I know it won’t work, and I’ll just be disappointed again. I don’t want Micah to see me going through the stages of grief every morning and asking me what’s wrong, when I’d rather put a rifle in my mouth than tell him the truth.
That I’m not just an evil man, I’m a useless one as well.
My dad always told me I was a worthless piece of shit, and it turned out he was right. He’s an asshole, but he probably knows me better than anyone else. He’s the only one that sees through my mask of Savage, the mafia enforcer , and sees the weak, scared kid that he loved to beat on. It’s only for the sake of his reputation that he doesn’t let the men know the truth about me, I’m sure.
Which is why I won’t ask him for help with my other problem: money. Micah’s asleep, after getting home from his shift sometime in the wee hours. So, I’m out in his kitchen, making myself breakfast with his food, wearing clothes he bought me, all with money he makes at a job that I can now see runs him fucking ragged.
The guilt creeping in about being a leech on my little brother is threatening to drown me. I can’t access my legal bank accounts, because I’m off the grid. All my cash stashes are back in Oklahoma. And normally I would be getting cash for work, but I’ve been benched.
I can’t go to my father for a fucking hand out. I’d rather turn myself over to the Aryans. But I also can’t keep stealing Micah’s money forever, considering he works himself to the bone for it and I’ve been nothing but a burden since the day I showed up on his doorstep.
Shoving a piece of burned toast in my face, I decide to do something about it. Once upon a time, I was a person in the world. I’ve never had a real job, but I did do things other than lie around all day convalescing and despondently staring at the wall like a crated dog waiting for its owner to come home.
I’ve already showered, so it doesn’t take me long to dig out the jeans that Colm brought me to go to the meeting where I lowkey threatened to off myself and got excused from duty indefinitely. Like a dumbass.
Pulling them on felt like a prison the first time. It was this stiff, harsh contrast to all the soft fabrics and gentle touches that Micah had been surrounding me with. But this time it feels better, like I’m taking action on something. When I walk out of the front door, Micah’s keys in my hand and a scribbled note left on the kitchen counter, I feel more like myself—the better side of myself—than I have in years.
I still have to move slowly, because I’m stiff where I’m healing, but it’s not enough that anyone would notice unless they were looking. When people I walk past stare at me, it’s for the normal reasons. The tattoos, my build, the permanently angry set of my face—they all scream criminal . They’re scared of me. Which is a hell of a lot better than pity.
Micah drives a white VW Jetta, which is not only a stupid car to have in the first place but also makes me feel ridiculous crouching down and folding myself in half to get inside. He may be a lot slimmer and a few inches shorter than me, but he’s not that small. I have no idea how he drives this thing every day without feeling like he’s wearing it.
Hopefully, the rest of the Banna are too busy doing real work to notice me driving around town in a girly-ass car. If it gets back to Father, not only will it remind him that I exist and potentially make him want something from me, but it’s also bound to trigger his no gay shit internal barometer.
I’m too tired to catch a beating today. I just want to find a way to make some money under the table that doesn’t require me to maim, mangle or dismember anyone.
After two hours of driving, I’ve gotten used to the Jetta. I’ve even found a tolerable radio station to listen to, and I haven’t seen anyone I recognize that might report me back to Father. But I’ve learned a few things about this area: it’s pretty, it’s fucking empty, and there are absolutely no jobs.
Micah lives in a medium-sized town called Mission Flats, but it only took me a couple minutes to figure out that all the jobs here were real. Every business here is part of a chain, and corporate offices need social security numbers, which is not something I can do.
So, I go through the smaller towns in the surrounding area, looking for anything ramshackle that might need help. There’s a town called Mishicot that seems like an overgrown trailer park, and as soon as I see someone batch cooking meth on their bicycle, I know the chances of there being work are fucking slim.
Another town is Possum Hollow, which is a dumb, hick fucking name. I ask in a couple of places: feed stores, small farms, even a mechanic outside of town where I get side-eyed and the silent treatment, but no one’s hiring.
By the time afternoon hits, I’m exhausted. I haven’t been out of the house and moving around this much since the meeting, I’ve had zero fucking success, and by now, Micah is probably awake and potentially pissed I took his matchbox racer without asking.
Not ready to go back a complete failure, I look for a bar or something. I just want a little more time to feel like a competent adult out in the world, not being supervised or cared for. And I haven’t had a beer in weeks.
It doesn’t take long to find one. One that looks classy enough—by the standards of the area, at least—that I’m not likely to run into any of my guys. It describes itself as a “bar & lounge” on the sign, there are no motorcycles in the parking lot, and I can’t see a single person wearing a cut. No motorcycle club affiliation isn’t necessarily a mark of quality, but a beer’s a beer and I just don’t want to run into fucking Eamon or my father.
Once I’ve parked in the gravel lot, I walk across to the entrance. It’s kind of… cute. That would be the best way to describe it, not that that’s a word I use very often. The Feral Possum. There’s a little logo with the fucking rodents on it, and a bunch of cartoons on their little A-frame advertising drinks specials outside.
I wonder if Micah drinks here. It seems like the kind of place where nice people might hang out.
When I see a rainbow flag in the window though, I freeze. It’s a small flag, relatively discreet, and even more evidence that this might be Micah’s kind of place. But could potentially be a problem if I got caught here.
I take a peek through the door though, and it looks normal . No more flags, nothing that looks like I would picture a gay bar looking, not that I have any idea. I decide to shove my concerns to the back of my brain for the sake of getting out of the fall afternoon sun and getting something cold to drink.
Inside, it’s exactly like every other bar I’ve been in, except a little cleaner with a slightly nicer clientele. I definitely stand out because of my tattoos, but not to the point that people are pointing and staring.
It’ll do. I take a seat at the bar, drumming my fingers on the wood and shoving down the unease crawling through my gut for some reason I can’t put my finger on. It doesn’t take long for the bartender to notice me, because it’s still early and the place is mostly empty. He wanders over, a polite customer service smile on his face, and puts a cardboard coaster with the possum logo on it in front of me.
“What can I get you?”
If anyone stands out in here, it’s him over me. I may look a little on the thuggish side, but he’s not dressed like any bartender I’ve seen in real life. He’s wearing clothes like he walked out of a cologne ad—pressed slacks, a white shirt and a fucking waistcoat. His hair and dark beard are meticulously styled, and everything about him looks way too expensive to belong in a town like this.
I get distracted by it, so it takes me a second to answer, and when I realize I was staring, I stammer a little because I feel like a dumbass.
So much for reclaiming my confident former self.
“Draft of whatever is fine,” I say, lowering my eyes and trying to remember how to be around normal people.
He just nods, ignoring my awkwardness. “Lager?”
“Yeah, sure.”
We go through the rest of the exchange in silence, him pouring me a draft and me handing over some cash that I also took from Micah, like the leech that I am. But the first sip tastes like cold, hard relief, and I immediately know that coming here was a good idea.
I can face Micah and my failures in an hour. They’ll still be there.
It’s slow, so the bartender isn’t very busy. He mostly cleans and fiddles with the little tubs of things behind the bar, or chats with the woman who seems to be working with him. He doesn’t strike up a conversation with me, but that’s not surprising. Nothing about my appearance was designed to be inviting.
I’m halfway through my beer and feeling more light-headed than I should, because apparently a couple weeks of near-death and medication purging have turned me into a lightweight. It also makes me relaxed enough to loosen my tongue.
I gesture to the bartender, and he moves toward me, his expression placid and calm in that way only deeply confident, emotionally stable people can really master. It makes me a little jealous.
“Is this a gay bar?”
They weren’t the words that I intended to come out of my mouth, but they’re the ones my brain shoved out before anything else could get there.
The man’s expression becomes guarded, and I can see him taking me in, like I just crossed the line from customer to potential threat.
“No, but we’re welcoming to everyone, and I like to make sure people know that. There aren’t always places around here where people can be themselves, and this is a safe space for that. Is that a problem?” His tone is measured and even.
I shake my head. “No. My, uh. My brother’s gay. I was just asking.”
That makes him look a little shocked, his eyes widening slightly, and I see him give me another once-over subtly before he leans back.
“Okay. Well, he’s more than welcome here. Along with anyone else who isn’t going to be an idiot and cause trouble.”
Pointed, but sure.
“Is there any chance you’re hiring?” I spit out, because my brain to mouth filter has been nullified by half a fucking beer, apparently.
He cocks his head at me. “Your brother needs a job?”
“Not him.” I shake my head, looking down at my beer and then up again. “Me. I’m looking for work, and I’m having trouble finding anything.”
He pauses for longer than is socially acceptable, like he’s turning something over in his mind. Eventually his eyes narrow, and he moves closer before he responds in a quiet voice.
“I thought you already had a job,” he says, tapping his neck in the same spot that my Banna tattoo sits.
Ahh. So, he’s less innocent than the waistcoat and fancy cologne made me assume.
The trouble is, it’s impossible to explain my situation to anyone, let alone when I can’t actually say anything.
“I…” I trail off and look around, even though I know there’s no one near us. My throat feels tight for some reason. When I look back at him, there’s this kind of weird empathy on his face. Not like pity, which I fucking hate, but like he gets what I’m about to say. “Not right now. I’m on sabbatical, I guess. I just want a real job, but I can’t do paperwork or anything like that. I can work, I swear. I don’t cause trouble. I just need something… normal. Please.”
He nods, and that empathetic, understanding expression stays on his face.
“Well, I already know you’re not a cop, so I can do under the table. The pay is shit but if you want to be a barback for me, I could use the help. It’s easy. Safe.”
The last word hits me like a kick in the gut, and I blink a couple of times before I know how to answer him.
“Yeah. Yeah, uh, thank you. That would be great.”
“I’m Gunnar,” he says, offering me his hand to shake.
I take it, and he squeezes it, reaching out to cover it with his other for a second, like I’ve seen grandfathers and shit do on TV.
“I can’t have trouble here,” he says, holding my gaze. “But I know what it’s like to need a little help sometimes. If you just need to get distance from something. If you show up and behave yourself, I’m happy to help as much as I can.”
Well, shit. I don’t know what to say to that, and the man is still holding my hand while he looks me in the eye, making my nerves crawl into my throat and seal it shut.
I cough a little, pulling my hand back to safety.
“Yeah. Thanks.” It’s stupid, but it’s all I know to say. I tell myself I don’t know what else he’s trying to imply, and the pressure behind my eyes is exhaustion from being out all day for the first time.
Nothing else.