Chapter Twenty-Three
Savage
F or the next few days, everything feels frozen. I don’t want to move or breathe too loudly, like it might bring more of Father’s attention down on us. I’m following his orders. With the help of Colm and some of our trusted guys, we’re trying to figure out just what Eamon’s intentions are, and how far he’s willing to fuck the Banna over to accomplish them.
But we’re doing it quietly, because the last thing I want right now is a gunfight. My father favors speed over a light touch, but I’m hoping that with this one, I can get by.
Plus, the less time I spend neck-deep in Banna bullshit, the more time I have to spend with Micah. I’m still convinced that this is all going to be whipped away from me at a moment’s notice. I want to take advantage of whatever time I have with him, and I’m more than happy to let him pretzel my body in any way he wants in the name of this intense new intimacy between us.
Until we inevitably get interrupted. Although tonight, of all nights, I’m happy to be interrupted, because Micah’s been probing me with questions about my mental health for barely fifteen minutes and I’m ready to flee the premises.
I agreed to answer his questions because he asked, and I’m incapable of saying no to him, apparently. He asked me if I got a diagnosis, and I told him. Persistent Depressive Disorder, PTSD, and a plus-minus on something called Avoidant Personality Disorder because apparently you can’t effectively apply diagnostic criteria to people who torture others under threat of their own death for a living.
My actual willingness to engage or not engage in social situations is hard to gauge, apparently.
Micah snorted when I relayed this to him, although most of it was verbatim from the shrink, apart from the torturing part. That slipped out by accident, and it’s clear we’re both making a very conscious effort to pretend it didn’t.
He changed the subject to my meds, and when I could only remember the name of one of them, he pulled up about a thousand different pictures and names of pills on his iPad until I was able to remember the other and scrape the dosages from the recesses of my memory.
The whole conversation has been fucking exhausting, and completely pointless. It’s also left me feeling more exposed in front of Micah than I would if he were literally staring at my asshole. Which isn’t something I ever thought I’d have to weigh, but it’s true.
“Why are we still talking about this?” I snapped at him, my anger threatening to boil over.
Micah has just looked at me, cool as ever. “Why are you so unwilling to let me help you?”
That’s when the phone call came, and I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption in my life. Now it’s four hours later, we’re alone in the car again and I’m trying to think of what I want to think about less: my fucking mental health, or the shit we’ve just seen in Gunnar’s apartment.
“How did he look?”
I don’t bother to turn on the engine while I wait for Micah to answer. I think we could both stand to sit in this car in the Feral Possum parking lot for a few minutes of darkness and peace before we worry about heading home.
Not that I’m some wilting flower. I’ve literally eviscerated men. When I got called to my boss’ apartment for a late-night 911 assist, I expected violence. When he asked me specifically to bring Micah, I expected maybe the aftermath of violence. An ER nurse is always useful in those situations.
And it was the aftermath of violence. Just not quite in the way I was expecting.
Tobias—the baby-faced Banna recruit that Eamon has been ‘sticking it to’, as Father put it—showed up on Gunnar’s doorstep in the middle of the night, beaten half to death and showing signs of chronic physical and sexual abuse. It’s not a surprise. I know Eamon, I know men like Eamon, and I saw the way he treated that kid like his personal property the one and only time we met at the bar.
The fact that Tobias had the balls to run surprises me more. Good for him. And to run to Gunnar—who actually wants to help and seems like a decent fucking human being from the limited time I’ve spent around him—is even more surprising. When you’re beaten down for that long, it can become an instinct to run from one shitty situation into another equally shitty one. Anything else seems inconceivable, and therefore not to be trusted.
I should know. I’ve spent my life cowering in the belly of one monstrosity after another.
Tobias looks so small and fragile from the outside, especially right now that he’s a walking bruise, but I can’t imagine how he scraped together the willpower to actually do it. There’s always an open window somewhere. Forcing yourself to go through it is the hard part.
Maybe that’s why I’m still reeling with shock at the evidence of just how Eamon’s been tearing him apart, even though I’m so accustomed to violence.
Or maybe I’m just jealous that he managed to do something I never did at his age, when Father was still laying into me regularly for failing to live up to his expectations, but I no longer had the excuse of protecting Micah to hang around for.
“Tadhg?”
Bambi’s voice cuts through the thought and I turn to see him watching me from the passenger seat, his eyes shining in the soft moonlight.
“Yeah?”
“You asked how he looked, and I said I’ve seen worse, but he’s still pretty messed up. Then you didn’t reply. Where did you go just now?”
I shake my head, trying to physically banish all the memories that were threatening to creep in.
“Nowhere.” There’s a pause while neither of us speaks, but I still don’t turn the engine over. “I feel bad. I wish we could help him more.”
Micah tilts his head to the side, like he’s taking me in from a different angle.
“Me too,” he says, his voice gentle. After a second, he slips his hand over the center console in the darkness and laces his fingers through mine, settling something inside me. “We’ll do what we can. He’ll heal on the outside. Gunnar can probably help him make a plan. I don’t know him very well, but he seems like the kind of person who will immediately get over-invested in the situation. At the end of the day, he has to choose to not go back, though. That’s the hard part. Especially if no one can fix whatever circumstances drove him to the Banna in the first place.”
Micah’s words echo what I was just thinking about, but I can’t help but feel like choosing to say “the Banna” instead of “Eamon” was deliberate here. Like Micah is trying to draw parallels for me that my mind has already etched out in neon lights, thank you very much.
I’m already aware that this college-aged kid has made more significant steps toward securing his freedom than I have, with a lot less fucking help and in the face of much more intense obstacles. I get that.
Pointing out what a coward I am is redundant, at this point.
I don’t say that to Micah, though. I can’t find the words and the thought of fighting about it exhausts me to my core. The thought of not fighting about it and listening to him placate me with random gibberish about me being strong or good or whatever he can pull out of his ass exhausts me even more.
Instead, I grunt my acknowledgement, hoping that he’ll drop it, and put my eyes on the parking lot, pulling my hand from his. If I focus on driving us home, we can cut this conversation off at the knees before it even gets started.
And if there is a god, then as soon as we get home, I’ll be able to get some fucking sleep. Because right now, that’s the only thing that I can think about without wanting to crawl out of my skin.
Micah’s eyes are on me for the entire drive. I can feel them. This fervent gaze that’s poking at me, trying to peel back the corners of my skin. But my skin is heavy, stiff with anger and hatred and misery, so he can’t get any purchase on it. We continue to ride in silence, letting the inevitable misery of our future spread out in front of us like hot asphalt.
Micah
There’s something wrong with Tadhg.
That seems to be how a lot of my thoughts start, these days.
Tadhg, Tadhg, Tadhg.
Maybe I should resent it for him, but I can’t bring myself to. It feels too important. Like taking care of him is as much of an intrinsic part of me as his need to be taken care of is a part of him. So, I let my mind spin out the whole way home on all the different things that might be upsetting him.
Seeing Tobias was rough. He was torn up, for sure, even if he was putting on a brave face. I examine SA victims regularly as part of my job, and I’ve seen a wide range of hurt. Sometimes it’s more obvious on the outside, sometimes the inside, sometimes both. Tobias was carrying a weight of pain, that’s indisputable.
But I felt okay leaving him with Gunnar. The man has a savior-complex the size of Texas, but his heart is in the right place and frankly, my rescuing plate is full.
Because my stupid, insular brother won’t tell me what’s bothering him. Ever.
As soon as we get home, he mutters something at me and heads to the shower. I don’t want to jump him while he’s feeling off, but it seems like his walls are always down the most during sex, so I might as well try my luck and see if he’s feeling it.
Sometimes he’s keeping quiet because he doesn’t want to talk, but most of the time it’s because he wants me to drag it out of him. And the easiest way to do that seems to be with some rough touch, some gentle touch, and a lot of dirty talk.
Barely a few minutes pass between when I step into the steam-filled bathroom and when I get Tadhg facing the shower wall, leaning his face into his arms to muffle his grunts and curses as I kneel behind him and eat his ass.
With the way his body is trembling and writhing under the attention, you’d think he’d never experienced sexual pleasure before. But then again, I really don’t think he had. I still don’t totally understand how his brain works when it comes to attraction and how he identifies, but I’m not going to push him to figure it out. He doesn’t need a label unless he wants one.
The important thing is that I’m the only one who’s able to make him moan like this.
“Please, Bambi,” he groans, when my hand wraps around his cock and balls.
He’s mostly soft, because he struggles to get hard more often than not. But that just means I fondle him in my hand instead of stroking him. Sometimes he’ll get hard later, once he’s distracted enough not to overthink it. Sometimes not, but I can coax an orgasm out of him anyway, with a little patience. Orgasms and erections are on two different sets of wiring, and I have all the time in the world for both, when it comes to him.
Soft, hard, I don’t give a fuck. He’s still shivering and taking deep, heaving breaths like my tongue in his hole is the second coming.
“Who do you belong to?” I pause my ministrations to ask him.
“You.”
His voice is so soft I can barely hear him over the water falling around us. I push two fingers into his softened hole and then join them with my tongue for a minute, enjoying the way he clenches around me.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“You, Bambi.” He’s a little louder this time.
“Perfect, doll. That’s it.”
Standing up, I press every inch of myself against his back. He’s squirming a little, the way I’ve noticed he does when he gets anxious about his lack of an erection, but there’s a very easy way to distract him from that.
“And what are you?”
Tadhg shivers again while I wrap one arm around him, grabbing his pec with my left hand as my right hand braces the base of my cock. I keep lube in the shower for exactly these sorts of occasions, and it’s reason number one million I’m thankful I live by myself.
“Your slutty pussy,” he answers.
“Mmm.” I don’t give him the chance to breathe before I push in, and he makes this high-pitched, squeaking sound while I quickly and relentlessly impale him on my cock. “Perfect. You don’t need to worry about getting hard for me because I have this perfect pussy right here.”
I don’t get an answer in the form of words, but he begins to make guttural, animal noises as I fuck into him. Hard and fast, with no time to get used to the stretch. My babygirl needs to get out of his head a lot of the time, and I can help him with that.
I let myself drift, losing track of time as I continue to fuck into him over and over while telling him what a perfect slut he is for me. How tight his little snatch is. How I wish I could have my hands on him all the time.
And he moans, and begs, and comes apart in my arms.
“Do you need my cum, doll?”
“Please, Bambi.” His voice is hoarse now.
“Good girls deserve to be filled up,” I whisper in his ear, snapping my hips against his as I pick up the pace.
I reach around and feel that he’s more than half-hard now; his cock stiffer and pointing at the ground where he’s angled over at the waist.
“That’s it, doll. Are you going to get the floor wet for me? Spill yourself everywhere when I fill you up?”
Tadhg doesn’t answer, he just makes a raw, anguished sound as I gently shuttle my hand over his erection, pressing my fingers into all the little sensitive spots that I know make him shiver. The velvet heat of his skin is such an overwhelming sensation, it pushes me the last little bit I need until I can’t hold back my own orgasm anymore.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” I say in a broken whisper as I jerk my hips forward a few more times and finally spill my seed deep inside of him. I don’t let my hand stop working him over, though. I’m grinding deep into him, putting as much pressure on his prostate as I can and enjoying his breathy ah-ah s until he finally clenches around me and seems to come with his whole fucking body.
A spray of cum hits the floor, mixing with the cooling shower water to be washed down the drain, while his cock throbs hot in my hand and his hips continue to twitch against me.
I massage his balls again with my other hand, making sure he’s getting touched everywhere he needs, putting pressure against his taint until it pulls out that same little squeak from before. I have to bite the scruff of his neck to keep from laughing, because he would definitely think I’m laughing at him and get upset.
I’m not. I’m not laughing at him at all. I’m laughing because there’s no way the universe made someone this fucking perfect for me and then left him sitting under my nose this whole time, under the guise of a stepbrother, so he’d be the last place I’d look.
When we finally detach from each other to get cleaned up for real this time, it’s not long before Tadhg goes quiet again. And not the quiet of having his brain cells fucked out of existence. The heavy, anxious quiet he often carries with him.
Again, I don’t press. We have time. We both wash and pull on some clean underwear. Then I force him to come to the kitchen with me for a snack and some water, before we both fuck ourselves into chronic dehydration.
Then, when we’re finally in bed in the calm, dark silence, I decide to push my luck. I can only hope he’s still fucked out enough to let me.
Savage
“What’s wrong?”
The question comes out of nowhere, and I’m jolted from my initial descent into sleep.
Micah is on his side, facing me with only a few inches separating us on the bed. It’s dark in here, but not so dark that I can’t make out the shadow of his features. I see concern there. Real concern. It’s an expression I’ve gotten very accustomed to seeing on my brother’s face when he’s around me.
“Why?”
Micah sighs a little. “I think something’s wrong. There’s something you’ve been worrying about all night, even though I’m pretty sure I just made you see god in the world’s ugliest rental bathroom. You don’t have to tell me, obviously. But I’d like you to. Maybe I can help.”
I frown. Is there something wrong? It’s hard to tease apart real problems from abstract ones from the overwhelming blanket of existential dread that can be heavier and lighter depending on the day but is always present.
I’m probably not the best person to ask if something’s wrong. The answer is always going to be yes, but what’s wrong is almost always not important and just a broken fragment of my brain sticking into the gears of all the other parts.
“I don’t know.”
I say the words slowly, like they’re unfamiliar in my mouth, even though it seems like a sentence I say fucking constantly.
Now Micah’s the one frowning, but his expression quickly turns to thoughtful.
“Was it Tobias? I know that was hard to see. And I know you and Eamon have this whole rivalry going on.”
I don’t know why I say what I say next. It’s possible that his question hits a little too close to the truth and I’m deflecting. It’s also possible that this has really been on my mind, and I just haven’t realized it.
Either way, instead of answering him like a normal person, the words I blurt out are, “Do you wish I was a girl?”
Micah’s eyes go wide. Too wide. He already has those giant Bambi eyes, now I’m worried his eyeballs are going to just roll right out of his skull.
Then he laughs a little, but it’s an uncomfortable sound.
“What? I don’t understand. What do you mean?” He hesitates, his face scrunching up in a way that’s distractingly adorable before realization begins to dawn. “Oh shit, do you mean because of the ‘good girl’ dirty talk stuff?”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just nod.
There’s an uncomfortably long pause while Micah considers his words. He doesn’t look uncomfortable, though. Instead, he looks like he’s taking in every inch of me with searing accuracy.
Finally, he speaks. But it gives me more questions than answers.
“I’m gay, Tadhg. Sexuality is a spectrum, but I’m like… Kinsey-six gay. I don’t wish you were a girl. You’re perfect. That’s not what it’s about for me. I’m sorry, we should really have talked about this sooner. I was letting it slide because you seemed so into it, but…” He pauses, and I swear he’s doing it for dramatic effect because my heart is already thump-thumping too hard in my chest. “Do you wish you were a girl? Or does it make you feel something about it?”
I pick through my consciousness to find whatever parts of my brain are lighting up in response to his question. It’s hard. I’ve spent my entire life avoiding self-awareness, because it was dangerous. Secretly wanting to be a girl—or already being a girl? I don’t know how people describe it—seems like exactly the kind of thing I would be dumb enough to keep secret even from myself.
It doesn’t click, though. When Micah’s saying those things to me as he touches me, it sets every nerve ending I have on fire. It makes my individual cells trip over themselves to be good for him. It makes me desperate and needy and basically dissolve into a wanton, slutty puddle on the floor for him.
When I think about it outside of that context, it leaves me cold. Like no part of my brain is interested.
So, I guess I don’t know a lot about myself, but that much seems clear?
“No,” I finally say, the word sitting heavy on my tongue. “I don’t—That’s just for you. I don’t know why, though.”
Micah nods, as if what I said made perfect sense. “Okay. It’s okay either way, you know. You can always tell me how you feel.”
The thought of that seems so unabatingly vast that I can’t look directly at it. I shrug and avoid Micah’s gaze.
He just shuffles closer, until he’s inhaling the smell of me from the crook of my neck and then running the flat of his tongue over my stubble and the hinge of my jaw.
“I’m attracted to everything about you, doll,” he says, his voice low and husky now. “It’s like you were made just for me. And all this maleness is a part of that. This muscle.” He squeezes my bicep, and I fail to resist the urge to flex for him. “But I’ve always loved having a big, strong man begging on his knees. It turns me on. I would say”—he moves down lower, sucking my nipple into his mouth and pinching it between his teeth hard enough to make my cock twitch before he finally lets it go—“that it’s not about you being a ‘girl’ for me. It’s about you being a slut for me. And because you are always such a perfect slut, with your perfect pussy and your perfect tits, that makes you my good girl.”
He takes the nipple back in between his teeth and continues to abuse it, making me hiss again. My hips rock toward them, seeking friction of their own accord even though I feel completely drained.
He pops off again to continue talking, and I want to be done with the talking portion now, so he’ll keep sucking. “But mostly I just like to see you blush and squirm around until you come. And I’ll say whatever you want me to say to keep that happening.”
I hate that the words hit me like a spark of electricity. I hate that I can already feel a blush climbing up my cheeks, even though he can’t see it. And I hate that my traitorous, unpredictable cock, which took so long to get into that action earlier, is getting hard again already.
Micah climbs up my body, both of our hands fumbling around in the dark to grab at whatever parts of each other we can reach. I roll my hips against his, feeling how hard he is in return, and he captures my mouth in a filthy kiss.
Just as I think it’s worth saying fuck sleep to escalate this for round two of the night, Micah breaks off the kiss. He hovers in front of me, his mouth still only inches away, and our breath mingles together. It’s silent for a long time while I see his gaze flicking around, like he’s taking in the sight of me.
“What?” I ask, finally sick of the suspense.
“There was something else I wanted to talk to you about before you distracted me with the reminder about all your perfect, juicy little body parts I get so much pleasure out of.”
His tone is light, as usual, but I can tell from his face that this is serious.
“You can tell me anything, Bambi.”
It scares the shit out of me, but I mean it.
He takes in a deep breath and lets it out. Then another. Then another. The more he seems to be working himself up to something, the more apprehensive I feel.
“Please don’t kill Eamon.”
Oh.
I’m not sure what to say, so I stay quiet and let him follow up with some hushed babbling.
“I know he deserves it. And you probably want to. Fuck me sideways, I want to. We all do. And there’s probably an element of what he’s done to embarrass the Banna or your father or blah blah fucking blah. But in the holy name of Sasha Colby, please don’t do it, Tadhg. Helping Tobias get freedom or revenge or anything else can be someone else’s priority right now. My priority is helping you. And you’re never going to be free if you keep doing this shit. Do you understand?”
There’s a familiar feeling of my internal organs desiccating under this kind of scrutiny so they can blow away in the wind, and it’s happening right now.
I have to kill Eamon. I would anyway, just because the prick fucking deserves it, but Father will not let me live if I don’t. I know that.
As much as it makes a twinge of happiness hit me that Micah cares enough about me to want me to keep my hands clean, it really just serves as a reminder that he has no idea how truly, irreversibly dirty I am. I can’t escape this. Even if I can physically escape the Banna and keep Micah safe, I still can’t free myself from the weight of all the violence I committed on their behalf.
One more body in the ground isn’t going to make a difference, and if Micah thinks it will, it just shows how naive he is about the situation.
Numbness spreads through my chest as the reality of the situation takes hold.
“Okay, Bambi. If that’s what you want,” I lie.
His brow furrows, like he’s not sure if he believes me, but I try to sell it with a weak smile.
When Micah leans in to kiss me, I don’t let him deepen it this time. That energy from before is gone.
I just need to sleep. I need to sleep for long enough that tomorrow never comes, and then I won’t have to deal with any of the problems that seem to be stacking up on my doorstep.
Micah and sleep. It’s all I want.