Chapter Twenty-Five
Savage
T obias is missing.
He was doing so well, and now he’s gone. Right out from under Gunnar’s nose. There’s no evidence, but also no doubts about why that might be or who’s behind it. It made me realize how selfish I’ve been, though.
All this time, I’ve been sitting around obsessing over my own shit. Did Father lie to me about the Aryans? Can I kill Eamon, and do what Father wants me to? Or do I ignore that order like Micah begged me not to? Am I so irredeemable at this point that whatever violence I continue to inflict is meaningless anyway, and only keeping Micah safe matters?
These are the thoughts that have been a maelstrom inside me, while I hide in Bambi’s apartment and avoid confronting the truth.
And in the meantime, people like Tobias are suffering. Young kids who aren’t so completely fucked that they can’t be saved.
It’s selfish. I’m selfish.
The words continue to rattle through me, vibrating my bones as I drive all the way out to the Banna farm in the search for my father. Micah is at work, thank fuck, so he doesn’t know what I’m doing. He can’t know.
I don’t even really know what I’m doing. I still have no idea if I’m here to beg for my freedom or to tell him I’ll murder Eamon for him after all, just to free the kid.
Whatever I’m doing, it has to happen now. I can’t wait any longer. I can’t string Micah along any longer.
The guys guarding the perimeter all look surprised to see me, but wave me in. I still belong here, after all. That won’t change unless Father decides to put a bullet in me for my betrayal. I park as close to the front door as I can, as if there’s any chance of me making a quick getaway if I need to. As soon as I open the door, the sound of screaming fills the air, and a dull memory slaps back into my consciousness.
Little yappy screaming fox things she sells on Facebook.
That’s what Colm had said. I was so out of it with withdrawal last time I was here that I could barely process the sensory information being crammed into me, but now I remember. The cages line the wall of the house, and the stench and sound of trapped, frightened living creatures seems to take over the entire area around them.
I shiver, trying not to look too closely at them. I don’t give a flying fuck about animals. But the thought of spending your life in a dirty cage so some MC club president’s widow can rent out your uterus to keep her coke habit afloat really creeps me the fuck out.
“Savage? Is that you?”
I don’t know who I was expecting to see in the doorway, but it wasn’t Micah’s mom. It occurs to me that this whole time I’ve been in Missouri she hasn’t shown up at the apartment once. Micah briefly mentioned that they’re not estranged or anything, but they’re also not close.
Which tracks. He didn’t say as much, but I’m assuming he’s still pretty pissed about all the times she passed out or went out partying and left him alone with only me to protect him from Patrick and the elements. Congratulations on getting sober or whatever, but mortgaging someone’s childhood for liquor and ice is hard to truly get over.
She looks more like him than I remembered. The same dark hair, the same skin tone. The same delicate build, only on her it looks almost frail. Bird-like, with weathered skin that’s stretched too tight over bone, while Micah’s body is infused with strength and vitality in every cell, even if he’s not bulky like me.
“Hi, Cheryl.” My voice sounds stiff and awkward as I move toward the house.
I’m not built for these kinds of social interactions; my entire body wants to flinch away from them. Or any social interactions that don’t involve torture, I guess. She stands there anyway, leaning against the doorframe with her arms over her chest and a carefully neutral expression on her face.
“We weren’t expecting you. Is everything okay?”
Nodding, I step into the doorway with her. The least I can do is get close enough to use my size to my advantage before she tries to intimidate me away from my own father. I really would never live that one down.
“Everything’s fine. I need to speak to Father. Is he inside?”
“Cheryl? Are you okay?”
A blonde woman steps out of one of the fox cages and moves toward us, interrupting the conversation. She has the same weathered look as Micah’s mom, but her skin is a deep, deep tan color that’s almost tawny, her hair is bleached to be as light as Cheryl’s is dark and she’s plump in all the places that Cheryl looks like she’s wasting away.
This must be the widow. The fox breeder. Fox-widow, I’ll call her.
“It’s Pat’s son, Briggs. He’s fine.”
Fox-widow dusts off her hands, which I’m assuming are covered in fox shit, and continues moving toward us. She gives off overwhelming “fuck-off” vibes that I really don’t have the energy to handle right now.
For just a second, I consider talking to them. Being rational and trying to get them on my side. They’re not blocking the door or anything, they’re just glaring at me like I don’t belong here.
But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? I don’t belong here. At the same time, I belong here a fuck-ton more than they do. I’m sure I’ve shed more blood from it, as long as we’re not counting slaughtered livestock. I reach deep down inside myself and pull on the true Savage mask, letting it slide back into place with a soft click that settles so much of the anxiety that was churning inside me.
I don’t say anything. I’m sure my demeanor changes all on its own. I don’t have to move or do anything, just let the atmosphere shift until is drips with unspoken threat. These are women who’ve spent their lives handling violent men, but I still have to be able to scare someone, goddammit.
It’s satisfying. Micah would hate me for it, but I don’t care right now. I can’t be so fucking worthless that even my sins have abandoned me.
The ugliest side of myself is also the most effective at getting things done. That’s always been my problem.
Without any more conversation, I head into the house. Cheryl does call out after me, though.
“Tell Micah to call me, Tadhg.”
I don’t know if she thinks calling me by my real name is more motherly or something, but it doesn’t work. Fine. I’ll tell him. He won’t, though.
Inside the house, there are a few guys scattered around. Mostly eating or lounging. Some of them I know, some of them I don’t, but I absolutely don’t care about a single one of them. I ask to be pointed in the direction of my father, and it isn’t long before I end up in some room he obviously uses as a kind of office.
It’s spacious, with natural light streaming in from a big bay window and a large teak desk taking up one wall. The desk is scarred up and has clearly seen better days, but it’s almost regal. Like something a ship captain might have used in an old-timey boat where the furniture is all way too big for its purpose.
I’m not sure why I’m fixating on the desk instead of the man sitting behind it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father sit at a desk like that before. He’s normally more of a pacing and yelling kind of boss, not a sit and do paperwork one. He must have inherited all this from the MC President he took the house from, and that guy must have had real intense fucking illusions of grandeur.
His wife does not match the decor, but I’m sure he didn’t either.
“Hey, Sav,” Colm says, prompting me to notice him standing in the corner of the room for the first time, because apparently I’m completely oblivious today. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
Father is still where he sits behind the desk, but he watches me with a predatory glint in his eye that I haven’t seen in a long time.
“Close the door,” is all he says.
I obey but can’t avoid the clench of fear that hits my gut. I strode in here feeling so much like my old self. Not just myself from six months ago, but my old -old self. Before I allowed myself to accept how wrong this all felt. And with three words in that familiar clipped tone, all that confidence unravels within me.
“I’m assuming you’re here with good news? You took care of the problem I talked to you about.”
Ah. Yeah. That.
I really should have had a game plan before I marched in here, and now I feel the whole situation withering under the light.
Someone needs to help Tobias. Someone needs to keep Eamon from causing anymore destruction. I think maybe I was subconsciously planning to tell Father I would do it as long as he told me the truth about the Brotherhood and whether they really put a contract out on me or not.
Now that I’m looking at him, though, all I can picture is Micah’s face when he begged me not to kill Eamon.
He wants me to keep my hands clean. He genuinely believes I’m a good enough person—or capable of becoming a good enough person—that I don’t have to keep doing my father’s dirty work to earn my keep.
A desperate, hopeful part of me wants to at least try to be that person for him. Even if I don’t really believe it’s possible.
“I’m not doing it.”
It feels like someone else says the words, and I’m watching it all happen from the other side of a piece of glass. But no—that’s me. Standing there like a dumbass with no follow up while Father and Colm both stare at me.
“What?” Father snaps.
“I’m not… I’m not,” I say, starting to stutter as the nerves belatedly sink in. I fight hard not to let the feeling show and keep standing tall, but I’m not sure how successful I am. This is the one person who always seems to be able to turn me into a whimpering, frightened animal if he wants to. “I’m not doing it.” I shake my head. “I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I’m done. I’m just… I’m done. I won’t.”
Jesus Christ, Sav, stop fucking talking.
Father doesn’t say anything, and the heat and energy of my anxiety quickly morphs into cold, slick fear dripping down my spine.
Instead, he stands, leaning over his desk with a broad stance. Colm hasn’t moved. I don’t even know if he’s breathing. But he’s watching us both intently, waiting to see how this will play out.
I think we both already know, unfortunately.
“I’m going to pretend that you just had a stroke, and everything that just came out of your mouth was a product of your brain shutting down. Because I don’t remember asking you to do a goddamn thing, Savage. I told you to take care of him. You didn’t do it then, and now he’s running around town playing queer kidnapper and making the Banna look like a bunch of morons who can’t tell their ass from a tree stump. I don’t know where this new entitlement is coming from, Sav, but you’d better nip it in the bud. I did not raise you to act like a little flamer. Do your fucking job.”
By the end of his speech, he’s rounding the desk to move toward me.
I’m bigger than him. I’m much stronger than him now. If it came down to a pure physical fight, I could win. But knowing that doesn’t matter one little bit as he stalks closer to me, drawing himself up until he seems larger than life.
It doesn’t stop me from cowering. Instinct and muscle memory squeezes my throat shut and I go silent. Words are useless at this point. He’s going to do whatever he’s going to do.
The first blow isn’t even really a blow. He slaps me in the face. It’s not that hard, but his goal here is to humiliate me rather than hurt me. It would work if my pride weren’t long dead and buried. I keep my face turned at an angle, my eyes open but pointed at the ground, my expression neutral.
He slaps me again.
“Answer me.”
Another one. My cheek is starting to sting as he puts more force behind it.
“You are my son, Savage. I raised you to be my legacy. Just like my father raised me. That’s the point of all of this. Do you think my father and uncles let me run around doing whatever I wanted? No. The reason I’m a strong leader is because they kept me in line. Clearly, I’ve failed to do the same thing with you.”
Another slap. This time, it’s hard enough to make me inhale sharply through my nose and rock back on my feet a little.
“Maybe I should have killed the boy while I had the chance. Before he got his weakness all over you.”
At that, my gaze snaps to meet his. He’s working hard to look detached, but I can see the excitement in his eyes. This is what he wants. He’s trying to get me to react. He’s testing to see if Micah is the right button to push.
He’s right, of course. There’s no sense wasting time lying about it.
“Don’t talk about him,” I say through clenched teeth.
The old man raises his eyebrows but doesn’t react in any other way.
“He’s been a bad influence. He always was, but I thought you’d have outgrown being so suggestible by this point. I obviously overestimated you. I’ll tell you what, boy.”
His hand—still surprisingly strong despite the signs of age that seem more obvious in him every day—wraps around my throat and squeezes hard enough to make me sputter and suck saliva into my trachea.
“You do as you’re told and take care of Eamon—and I mean right this fucking second—or I will wipe the little brat off the face of the earth and tell Cheryl it was a car accident. Or an overdose. Or he was raped to death by someone he met off one of those disgusting apps. I’ve tolerated him out of deference to the woman, but if he’s actively interfering in my business by turning you into an even more useless lump of flesh than you were already, I don’t have a choice.”
I lunge toward him, but he was definitely expecting it because his grip on my throat tightens enough that black spots swim in my vision.
I’ve never attacked my father in my life, but right now all I can think about is how he’s threatening Micah. Nothing else matters.
He fucking laughs , and that’s enough to spur me forward. With new resolve, I bring up my forearm and smash it into him hard enough and abruptly enough to break his grip on me. I use the momentum to barrel forward, grabbing his shirt with both hands and not stopping until I have him pinned against the wall.
I’m breathing rage in a way I never have before. I’m suffused with it. But as soon as I see his placid face, still looking at me like I’m dirt and he’s untouchable, I waver. I don’t want to. I want to be strong for Micah, like I promised I would. But being strong for him always, always, always meant taking the beating and learning not to stand up for myself. Trying to do the opposite now is making too many pieces of me clash, until all my internal organs want to screech to a halt.
He doesn’t hesitate, of course. My one moment of weakness is all the opening he needs, and apparently my show of disrespect was enough to push him over the edge and teach me the kind of lesson he hasn’t needed to for a very long time.
The experience blurs together with every other time I’ve caught a beating in my life. It’s easier that way. I hunker like a child, shielding my head and neck as he hits me with a closed fist instead of the little love taps he was giving me before. As soon as I hit the ground, his feet find my ribs as well. The pain blooms in a familiar pattern.
Short, sharp breaths. Fight the nausea. Keep your consciousness, but don’t focus on what’s happening. Ride it out.
Pain is temporary.
Just keep breathing until he stops.
I repeat it to myself again and again, my old mantra that lets me float on the sensations without latching onto any individual one, or trying to catalogue what he’s doing to me. Or saying to me. I hear the shape of words. It’s just enough to know how hateful they are, so I don’t listen. He won’t care either way, once he goes this far.
All I can do is wait until he tires himself out.
Which is why it’s disorienting when the violence stops. Not dwindles or tapers off, just stops cold. There’s more noise now, so I try to wind my brain back into human mode and lock into what’s actually going on around me.
Colm has my father pinned against the wall exactly like I did a minute ago. He’s the same size as me and just as strong, except there’s no hesitance in his movement. There’s also no rage. Or at least it’s a controlled rage. He’s restraining Father but not hurting him, whispering something in his ear while wearing an expression I know he’s used on me a million times that I think means ‘ my boss is a fucking child ’.
Eventually, Father shoves Colm off, but there’s a note of finality to it. He doesn’t come for me again, even though I’m still cowering on the floor like a weak thing he could tear apart.
Colm stands back with his hands raised, letting Father go. But I don’t miss the subtle way he angles his body in between the two of us. It’s so small, I’m sure Father doesn’t notice. I only do because it’s something I’ve done for Micah a hundred thousand times.
My heart squeezes, and I feel a pressure behind my eyes.
Father looks down at me with more contempt than I’ve ever seen.
“Kill the queer, Savage. Today. Or I will make that boy pay the price.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. The world is an intractable fuckhole and I’m never getting off this ride. You don’t need to rub it in.
“Yes, Father.”
He turns to go, but I take advantage of the fact that I’m still riding the endorphin wave from my beating, and I don’t really care what happens to me one way or another anymore.
“Wait. I have one question.” He half-turns, one eyebrow lifted, but he doesn’t leave. “Do the Aryans really have a contract for me, or was that a lie?”
Father jerks back, as if the words slapped him.
“Why would I lie about that?”
“To keep me on the sidelines. Or scared. I don’t know. It just seems weird that they’ve had a contract on me all this time, and not one of them has even come close to tracking me down. There’s Brotherhood territory all around this place. I’m not advertising my presence, but I also haven’t exactly been hiding in a root cellar. I know they’re dumb, but they’re not that dumb. They should have found me by now if they really wanted me dead.”
There’s a long silence while Father mulls the information over. It’s so obvious once the words are out of my mouth, though, and he clearly knows it. From the look on Colm’s face, he’s thinking the same thing.
“Well, it sounds like that would be something to ask Eamon about before you off the bastard.”
I don’t say anything, but I’m sure my question mark is written all over my face. Colm is turned away now, chewing awkwardly at his lower lip like he knows something I don’t.
“He’s the one who found out about the contract in the first place, Savage. If anyone is lying, it’s him.” Father takes a deep breath and walks a few more steps away until he’s at the door. “Now go do what I trained you to do.”