Chapter Sixteen
Micah
I ’m still not a hundred percent clear what’s going on in my brother’s head right now, but it’s obviously a mess. I think our fight last night was a come-to-Jesus moment for him, though.
After we talked it out—more or less—he limited himself to slumped posture and short, muttered answers. But it was more like he was wrung out than being obstinate. He’d gotten a little drunk while he was out trawling for someone to bring home and shove in my face, and once I realized, I spent some time feeding and watering him before he eventually collapsed into bed like a wet rag.
I also made a mental note to scold him about drinking and driving later, but it was obvious it wouldn’t have sunk in at that moment.
Since then, he’s mostly slept. All night and a decent portion of the day, only waking up to take a shower, eat some more food that I shoved in front of him and then crawling back into bed.
He’s just exhausted. Between the physical toll of his injuries and the broken brain chemistry that his body is trying to fix, it makes sense. That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard to watch, though.
I’d stayed up last night, trying to keep my sleep schedule something close to organized, and then slept during the day. Tadhg hadn’t even twitched when I slipped into bed next to him. He’d continued to snooze away, and I had laid there for too long watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the soft expression he wears in sleep when he’s not having nightmares.
I feel like I should be more put out by the amount of space he’s taking up in my life. Even if I’m happy to do it, it should feel like an imposition to give up more than half my bed to his oversized body, and spend all my time worrying about his mood swings. It doesn’t, though, which is almost more worrying.
I like having him close, where I can reach out and touch him. It’s like I constantly need to confirm that he’s still there and in one piece. Getting him back has unlocked all the weird anxieties I used to have about him when we lived together. The ones I’d shoved deep, deep down when me and Mom ran away, and assumed I’d never have to examine again.
Instead, they’re all shoved right in my face now. Front and center. All my constant gnawing concerns about his well-being, combined with my concerns over just how concerned I am. Because if there’s one thing I’ve always been with Tadhg, it’s over-attached.
I can’t help it. As soon as my mom walked me into that house, I was afraid. I could sense what kind of man Patrick was before I was even old enough to really understand what I was frightened of.
But with just as much conviction, I knew that Tadhg would protect me. And he took one look at me and seemed to know the same thing. It was set in stone, right from the start, and as kids, neither of us ever questioned it.
It feels like now it’s my turn to protect him, and I’m terrified I’m going to miss something and fuck it up.
He deserves better.
I’m getting ready for my shift tonight when Tadhg finally emerges from his third sleep of the day. He looks a little like a zombie. There’s a deep pillow crease running down his left cheek, his tawny hair is sticking up in every direction and curlier than he usually lets it get—I will never understand why some straight guys have a thing against having curly hair, as if it’s innate effeminate or something instead of hot as fucking hell—and he’s got an eye crusty that I’m dying to reach out and clean for him.
He’s a mess. But he’s my mess.
“Sleeping Beauty finally rises, I see,” I say, before filling the apartment with the sound of my NutriBullet as I make a smoothie for the road.
Thank fuck, Tadhg wipes that crust away before it drives me insane. He’s rubbing his eye with his fist in a gesture that’s endearingly juvenile but looks so out of place with the rest of him.
I swear, he’s mostly naked in this apartment more than he’s clothed. Right now is no exception, because he’s stumbled out of bed in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs that I accidentally bought a size too small, and his canned-ham thighs are straining to bust out of them.
I’ll never totally get used to it. I mean, I’ve seen a lot of hot guys naked. My tastes specifically mean that I’ve seen a lot of hot, masc, muscular men on their knees for me, begging for my cock.
Something about Tadhg is different. He’s masculine, sure. But between the muscles, the tattoos and the sheer size of him, there’s a certain lethality to his body that always seems to hammer home for me just what he’s been doing with it since we last knew each other.
The men I fuck build their muscles in the gym, and then I like to make them cry and have messy orgasms. Tadhg spends his time building muscle by lifting dead bodies or kilos of cocaine or god knows what else. Honestly, a good weeping orgasm on his knees would probably do the man wonders, but that’s not my place and it’s certainly not something he’s ready to emotionally cope with.
“You going to work, Bambi?” he asks when the blender finally stops whirring.
“Yep.” Okay, I’ve been thinking about asking him this all day, and I think I just need to do it. Rip off the Band-Aid, and if he has a hissy fit about it, so be it. “And I was thinking that you could come with me?”
Tadhg doesn’t say anything, but he does freeze, standing in the middle of the living room, his hand unmoving where he was just scratching his stomach a moment before.
“What for?”
I start to move toward him, but when he instinctively flinches away, I think better of it and stay in the kitchen.
“Maybe we could get some bloodwork done and check if your electrolytes are fucked up from your detox. Maybe we could get your prescription transferred to a pharmacy here and get a refill. I know you couldn’t go for the gunshot because of the paper trail, but this is different. No one’s going to care about some random guy coming into the ER for a medication detox issue. No one’s checking RX fills.”
I can tell before he even speaks that it’s going to be a hard ‘no’ . His face immediately turns to stone, and it’s like my sweet brother has been swallowed whole by the mafia monster that his father created in his place.
“Are you insane?” he spits. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? I might as well walk up to the Aryan Brotherhood—wait, I might as well walk you up to the Aryan Brotherhood with a bag over both our heads and beg them to kill us. Fuck no. My name is not going on any fucking paperwork, and my face is not going anywhere like that where someone might recognize it. All it takes is one nurse, one pharmacy tech, one person in the waiting room who has a connection and overhears the wrong thing and then they know where I am. Not to mention the shitstorm that would follow if my father heard.”
He’s bristling, standing tall as he leans into this growly, aggressive side of his personality that I hate so much.
I’m not going to push it. He sounds beyond paranoid, but I know that fighting him on it isn’t the answer. I’ll think of something. Maybe I can get the meds prescribed to myself through one of those online services or something.
It should probably be a cause for concern that I don’t even hesitate before planning to commit what is technically medical fraud, but I don’t care. The second he pointed a gun at his own head, my ethics went out the window. I could give a fuck, to be honest. It’s actually a little scary how few fucks I give about right or wrong at this point.
Before I get the chance to backtrack though, Tadhg spins on his heel and heads toward the bathroom, muttering something about going to work.
He’s barely started this new job at the Feral Possum, but so far it seems good for him. He comes home when I’m still at work, so I don’t get to see the immediate aftermath, but the next day, he always seems more calm than usual. It’s Friday night, so they’re bound to be just as busy as the ER will be tonight.
Hopefully, it’ll distract him from whatever anger I just stirred up in him like a hornet’s nest. At least Gunnar will be there to attempt to keep him out of trouble. I don’t know the owner well, but every interaction I’ve had with him has been very chill, and he seems uniquely suited to keeping mouthy assholes in line.
I take a deep breath in and out, the condensation under my fingers making me aware that I’m still clutching my smoothie.
It’ll be fine. He’ll go to work, I’ll go to work, we’ll both be run off our feet, and we can revisit this topic tomorrow in the light of day.
And this weird pang of something that I get because I have to leave him? The feeling that’s creeping into my awareness more and more with each passing day, but I can’t possibly name or begin to understand? Yeah, that’s a stone that’s going to remain unturned.
Savage
Considering we’re off a rural highway in the middle of nowhere, this place is packed.
I’m grateful for it. I need the noise and bustle to distract me. It couldn’t have come at a better time. I need to turn my brain off and do nothing more mentally or emotionally challenging than running a commercial dishwasher for a few hours.
This is heaven.
“Sav, we need more garnish!” Gunnar calls from somewhere in the middle of the bar. The bar itself is a square in the middle of an open space, with one opening that allows staff in and out. Most days, the building seems huge, and patrons can linger in various corners. But right now, there are enough people—and enough rowdy people—that it’s an overwhelming cacophony of noise and pheromones.
The floor is sticky. Every time I lift up the bar runner to try to wipe it down, it smells like stale lime juice, no matter how often I clean it. The whole place is thick with humanity .
As long as everyone has a drink in their hand and no one’s causing trouble, I guess it doesn’t really matter.
I dip into the little kitchen in the back, finding the fridge completely bare. I guess I underestimated how much to prep when I got here. Grabbing a sharp, curved knife from the block, I pull out a tub of mixed citrus and start slicing it as quickly as I can without making too much of a mess or sacrificing a finger.
I’ve never really cooked before, but I’m no stranger to fileting things. Gunnar told me I learned quickly when he first taught me how to do this prep, while giving me one of those sidelong glances of his that tells me he probably knows what I’ve done with knives other than cut up fruit, but we both know we’re never going to talk about it.
It’s peaceful, despite the noise. My blade hits the board over and over, and the limes and oranges fall into easy, matching slices. Something about the task gives me this sense of completion that I’ve never really had before, but it soothes me deep down in some part of me that’s been ignored for too long.
I start the task. I finish the task. I have a little tub of fucking lime slices to show for it. And nobody got hurt in the process.
Fucking glorious.
People don’t appreciate the purity of these things, I swear.
As soon as I’m done, I dip back out to the floor and into the bar, reloading the little black containers at each bartender’s station. Gunnar nods at me, while the other one—Kasia, a woman in her late twenties or thirties who dresses like the nineties never ended—gives me the friendliest smile I’ve gotten out of her since I started.
I feel good. I feel normal. These normal people seem to accept me, at least, so that’s a start.
I’m ducking out to go grab more longnecks for the fridges when I see something that makes my feet forget how to work, though.
Eamon.
What the fuck is he doing in a queer-ish bar? And not just here, but there’s a kid next to him in their corner booth, and there’s a lot less fucking space between them than I’d think anyone that worked for my father would allow.
His eyes flick up and he notices me. And instead of looking like he’s been caught in the act, that fucker smiles. An unctuous smile that makes me shiver with disgust. Eamon reaches out to wrap one arm around his companion, who looks like he’s barely old enough to drink, and then leans in and ostentatiously nibbles on the kid’s ear while maintaining eye contact with me.
Who the fuck does he think he is? My father is going to eviscerate him.
It’s a weird clash to have the Banna in here. I rub at the sudden tightness over my chest, realizing how much I’d been fooling myself into thinking I could keep playing pretend like this.
Even the kid has a Banna tattoo on his neck, I notice, when he tilts his head to give Eamon better access. His eyes are heavy-lidded, like he’s been drinking for a while, although I’m sure I would have noticed if they’d been here for long.
I’m not sure entirely why, but my feet move before I can think it through. I devour the distance between us and plant both hands on the table, leaning over them in a movement that would set most men to quaking in their boots.
The kid looks wide-eyed and scared, but he’s also so fucked up the fear is sluggish in coming to the surface. He shrinks away from me, but also doesn’t get any closer to Eamon, the way you would expect.
Eamon, of course, just stares at me with the same self-satisfied smirk he always wears.
The prick.
I hate that he’s here. It feels like tiny fissures are already forming in the world around me, and red-raw hands are reaching through them to snatch me back to a reality I’d successfully been hiding from. I knew I couldn’t hide forever, but I thought I had at least a little more time. Instead, here he is, with his smug face to remind me that this is all temporary.
I don’t belong here any more than he does, and eventually Father will drag us both home.
“What the fuck are you doing here? Are you following me?”
Eamon lets out a dry chuckle that chafes every inch of me and takes a dainty sip of his beer before he replies.
“Self-involved much? I know you think the world revolves around you, Your Highness , but some of us actually have a life outside of work. We like it here, don’t we, Tobias?”
Tobias nods almost imperceptibly, his eyes never leaving my face and every muscle in his body poised to flee, despite how intoxicated he is.
“Does my father know you’re here? Either of you? Wearing this on your neck”—I tap my own tattoo—“while fucking… snuggling?”
I keep expecting Eamon to falter and realize how much shit he’s in, but nothing’s getting through that impenetrable shell. Instead, his smirk turns into a full-on grin. He even leans over the table to get closer to me, and somehow, despite the fact that I’m looming over him, it’s as if he’s the one who has the upper hand all of a sudden.
“Your father,” he starts to speak, but even as he does so, I can see his hand sliding up Tobias’ back to rest possessively on the back of his neck. I can also see the way the kid is trying very hard not to flinch at the movement, which hits my own memories in a painful way I’d rather not acknowledge right now. I stuff all that down in my brain and focus on keeping myself as menacing as possible. “He respects me, because I’m a real man. And real men take what they want. Tobias here is a good little worker for us. He’s excellent at crawling into small spaces undetected, which comes in handy in our line of work. He does his job.”
Eamon’s hand shifts from the boy’s neck up to his dark, messy hair. It’s long enough for him to grab a fistful, and he does it suddenly enough that it makes Tobias gasp as Eamon yanks his head back and bares his throat to both of us. I can see the muscles work as he swallows, and it’s clear how hard he’s working to keep himself still, letting himself be jerked around.
“It’s also his job to keep his superiors happy. I saw something I wanted, and I took it.” Eamon tightens his punishing grip. “Now it’s mine. Padraig understands that. It’s not about fucking rainbows or any of that bullshit,” he continues, waving his free hand at our surroundings. “It’s about ownership.”
My eyes narrow. I can’t believe that my father would buy this bullshit. I mean, I don’t buy his homophobic bullshit, because honestly who cares who people fuck, but he’s stuck to his guns on it as long as I’ve been alive. The thought that I might have been wrong about that… that I might have misinterpreted what he meant or who he fucking hates and why… it makes numbness spread through my limbs so quickly they threaten to drag me to the ground.
I guess it doesn’t really matter if he hates fags or not. He’s always hated me, and I never did shit. Right?
Eamon’s voice continuing to drone on knocks me out of my painful reverie.
“Maybe one day I’ll own your baby brother, too. He looks like he’d put up a fight. I like that.”
I don’t think. I’m across the table, glasses knocked onto the floor and my hands around Eamon’s neck before I know what’s happened.
Tobias immediately skitters away, and noise erupts around us as people notice what’s going down. My fingers are tightening, feeling the seductive give of Eamon’s flesh beneath my grip. But he’s still grinning at me. So wide, I think he’d be laughing at me if he had enough breath.
He’s not even fighting back, which makes it even more frustrating. Blackness is tinting the edges of my vision like I’m the one who’s getting choked, and he’s basically laughing at me.
After a few more seconds, the sounds of my name being shouted from across the room finally break through my dim awareness. Then there are hands on me, pulling me off him.
It’s Gunnar. He gets in my face, tossing me off Eamon with more strength than I would have suspected and then walking me toward the back with both hands planted on my chest. I’m still roiling with anger, but I let him. I feel too ragged to focus on anything right now, even killing that piece of shit.
It feels like I blink and then I’m back in the little kitchen. My spine is pressed into the cold metal door of the walk-in, and Gunnar’s hands are still on my chest, pinning me there. I was expecting him to yell at me, but he’s not.
He’s talking. Repeating the same things over and over again, while my brain struggles to catch up.
“Take a deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Think. Breathe.”
Over and over and over.
I must not have been breathing right, because when I do connect his words to my brain and then down to my chest, it aches to fill my lungs with oxygen.
But I do it. And then again. All while he holds me steady. His presence is much more calming than I would have expected anyone to manage in this situation, but something about his sharp gaze on me makes me feel like I’m rooted to the spot, and I have the chance to catch my breath.
When I finally feel under control, Gunnar seems to sense that and leans back, releasing me from his grasp.
He blows out a breath as well, running his hand through his hair. It’s disheveled for the first time since I’ve met him, and I can see how he’s already trying to comb it back into place with his fingers.
“Look, Sav, I hate that piece of shit, too,” he says, making my eyes widen. I wasn’t aware that he knew Eamon, but okay. I guess I’m still the new guy here. “But that can’t happen here. I can’t have bar fights here at all, and especially not ones that might draw the attention of his boss.”
He emphasizes the word “his” too much. As if we aren’t both fully aware that it’s my boss, too. Gunnar probably doesn’t know that said boss is also my father, but it’s enough.
“He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually. But not here.”
Gunnar’s repeating himself, but it makes sense that he’s not sure how much of what he says is sinking in. After a few more beats, I let out another long breath and scrub a hand over my face, feeling all the lingering tension and anger drip dry out of me and soak into the floor runner.
“I’m sorry.” They’re the only words I manage to force out of my mouth right now, but they’re a start.
Gunnar studies me for a minute, then gives me a sharp nod.
“Stay here.”
Of course, I don’t. I trail after him, watching from the edge of the employee area as he heads back on the floor. Kasia appears to have gotten most people settled. It’s not like this town is a stranger to bar fights, and no one was really hurt.
I’m too far away to hear what gets said, but I see Gunnar get in Eamon’s face and speak to him in tightly controlled anger.
They’re about the same height, and both of them are towering over poor Tobias, who is pulled into Eamon’s side in a death grip. He looks like he wants to be anywhere else, but he’s still spaced out enough that I’m beginning to think he’s had more than just alcohol tonight.
After a few clipped sentences are exchanged, Eamon shrugs and heads for the door, Tobias trailing behind him. But before he crosses the threshold, he turns and points his fingers at Gunnar like he’s holding a pistol and gives him a wicked smirk.
Gunnar just rolls his eyes and reaches out for Tobias. It’s a split second, but he grabs the kid and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it is, it’s enough to make the boy’s eyes go wide before Eamon drags him out the door, and he casts one long look at Gunnar over his shoulder as they disappear into the parking lot.
This whole situation is a shitshow and I’m suddenly exhausted.
When Gunnar walks back in, I’m not even surprised that he tells me to leave. I am surprised that he doesn’t fire me, but that’s probably coming later when he thinks I’m less homicidal. I’m kept penned in the kitchen by Kasia—who already hasn’t taken a shine to me, and spends the whole time watching me with a wary expression that I probably deserve—until everyone’s sure that Eamon has cleared the premises, and then I’m dispatched with orders to go straight home and accrue no trouble on my way there.
It’s a weird feeling. I’m pretty sure all I’ve done since I showed up is bring problems for these people, but they still speak to me like I’m a real person. I don’t know how to handle it.
I don’t know how to handle any of this, really, but what else is new? Figuring out what the fuck is wrong with me seems like a tomorrow problem. Right now, I just want to shower until I forget that Eamon exists and then sleep until Micah comes home.