And then the last person to enter my home is someone who wasn’t here before. He’s tall, blond, and leanly muscled, like a coyote that hasn’t had enough meals. He has that weird predatory energy to him, too. His eyes roam over the space, taking everything in, and all my warning bells are immediately set off.
My blood curdles like milk as he steps further into my space; a predator on the prowl.
I’ve spent my short but action-packed nursing career learning to read people quickly, and I’ve spent a lifetime learning how to pick bigots and homophobes out of a crowd, and then determine from their body language which ones were all talk, and which ones would throw down and really hurt me.
And which ones would say all the vicious things, then try to drag you behind a bar to fuck you into submission. Because it’s somehow not gay if the sex is vicious and cruel, even though you’re still taking pleasure in another man’s body. The fact that you’re taking it instead of being given somehow makes it a trophy or a hunt.
Because queer love is disgusting, but hunting “weaker” people for sport is their birthright, no matter where your dick ends up.
I’ve met a few men like that before, especially when I was younger and less cautious about the bar scene. But if there’s any gift Patrick gave me, it’s a finely honed radar for violence in men. I’ve always been able to avoid them in the past. I’ve made a point of it, even though it shouldn’t be mine or anyone else’s responsibility to not “allow” themselves to be in a position to be brutalized.
So why is one of them suddenly standing in my living room?
I don’t know how I know. I just do. Every internal alarm I have is screeching, and the way he’s helping himself to the space, walking around and casually touching everything on the shelves like the dark shadow of a curious child, is only confirming it.
Tadhg and the other two are murmuring to each other, and I was so distracted by my own thoughts I didn’t really hear what they said. Not that they wanted me to. Or acknowledged that I was here.
I watched my mom get treated like this for years. This gangster-wife bullshit, where she’s a shadow until they want a beer or a fuck or a scapegoat for their misplaced anger. And somehow, by agreeing to take care of Tadhg, I’ve ended up falling into that same space in their tiny chauvinistic brains.
When Lucky walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge and grabs a beer, I bristle with irritation. When he twists off the cap, sniffs it and makes a face—probably because it’s a decent IPA that I have left over from a date, and he’s never drunk anything that didn’t taste like ditchwater—I feel my jaw clench. Then he jumps up on my counter, happy as anything, and takes a giant swig.
“Can I fucking help you? Or are you just here to touch all my shit without permission?”
Lucky’s eyebrows perk, but he stays seated and keeps drinking my beer. Blond guy comes closer though, licking his lips and looking at me lasciviously without seeming to give a fuck that the others can see him.
Colm ignores my outburst, turning to Tadhg to point in blond-guy’s direction.
“This is Eamon. He’s the local guy we put in charge of setting up. He’s been helping out your father while you’ve been recovering.”
Eamon takes another step toward me instead of looking at them.
“No one told me that the famous Savage has asister,” he says, his tone dripping with intent.
I’m fucking pissed. I’m not surprised, and I’ve been prepared to hear all sorts of shit out of their mouths for as long as I have to deal with these assholes, but for whatever reason, this guy is rubbing me all the wrong ways.
He’s creepy, he’s invasive, and he’s staring at me like I’m a piece of meat, right in front of all his homophobic little friends. The vibe in here is rapey AF.
I’m about to lay into him, but before I get the chance, there’s a blur of motion in front of me.
Savage
I have that fucker’s throat in my grip before I know what’s happening. I’ve felt completely off-kilter for the past few days. Longer, if I’m being honest. Years. A lifetime.
But this is something I was trained to do. Bashing in someone’s skull isn’t something I’ve ever enjoyed or actuallywantedto do, but in this case, I can make an exception.
How dare he look at Micah like that? In his own fucking home?
I’ll squeeze him until his eyeballs pop out of his skull and then scoop his brain out of the empty holes with a melon baller, loving every minute of it.
The fucking audacity of this piece of shit.
I squeeze hard, already feeling cartilage being crushed beneath my strength. There’s pain screaming from my side and I’m so much weaker than normal, otherwise I would have snapped his spine by now, but I’m not in a rush. I lean my body weight into him, pinning his body between me and the wall. We’re about the same height, but I’ve got more bulk than him and, more importantly, his colossal arrogance has left him unprotected.
Clearly, someone thinks he’s king shit big dick around here, and is about to learn that is not the case. Even though I only said the words in my head, I still punctuate them with a growl as I tighten my fingers even more around his throat. His face is turning an absolutely delicious shade of purple, and there’s serotonin in my body for the first time in months.
I feel light and buzzy, like my blood has been replaced by champagne. I could do this forever. Fuck the pain.
My ears are ringing. I’m so high on adrenaline and the sheer, raw pleasure of destruction. Which is why it takes me a while to notice the yelling. But eventually, the ringing becomes hollow and then echoes out, replaced by the flat, intrusive sounds of the real world.
