My voice comes out raspy, because it’s still fucked up from all the nasty vomit I inhaled days ago. I’m okay with that though,because it fits with the image I’m trying to present of someone you don’t want to fuck with.
Father looks at me, his eyes scanning my face for longer than they need to, until I wonder just what it is he’s looking for. I really need to sit down, but the chairs are all full and I’d rather open a fucking vein than ask someone to give up their seat for me like a cripple.
My knees start to buckle under Father’s discerning gaze, so I lock them and swallow back another wave of nausea.
“Our informant tells us that the courthouse attack wasn’t about your testimony, which makes sense. Everyone knew you weren’t going to say shit. It was just a convenient time that they knew where to find you. It turns out there’s a contract taken out on you for something else, but they couldn’t rustle up much more information than that.”
“Oh.”
It sounds stupid, but I can’t think of what else to say. The list of people who would like to see me dead now includes Father, myself, and every member of the Aryan Brotherhood.
Yippee.
Of course, Father has never said it outright. I’m just inferring from context.
“We’re not going to let that happen,” he says, like it’s a given, which it definitely isn’t. “But there’s a larger question of what to do in the meantime. Our forces are still splintered. We’ve only just established ourselves here, and it would take a long time to pick up and head back to Oklahoma, as much as I’m already sick of this goddamn hick town. It isn’t a good time to be getting into an all-out war with them over one minor attack.”
On your son, but sure. Whatever.
“At the very least,” Colm interjects in a level voice, “Sav needs to stay out of it. He’s still too injured to defend himself, and if hestarts messing around with Banna business, all he’s going to do is draw more attention to our new location.”
On instinct, I bristle at the implication that I’m weak. Of course it’s true, but it didn’t need to be said out loud.
Not when I can see Eamon, his throat purple and yellow from the bruises I left him, eying me like I’m a human obstacle to his ascension in the chain of command.
Standing is making me feel lightheaded. I need to get out of here. Father is still watching me as well, and my pulse is racing.
“I can do whatever you need, Father. I’m healing.”
The words come out of my mouth like it’s muscle memory.
Some of the guys are looking at me, some at Father. But what’s worse is thatsomeof them, including a few I don’t recognize who must be locals, are looking to Eamon. That condescending fuck.
These are my men, and they’re looking at him like he’s some kind of authority figure whose example they’re going to follow. After the way he spoke about Micah, he’s lucky he still has a fucking jaw.
The next time it happens, I’ll remove it from his face and see how many funny jokes he can spit without it.
The image of that blond fuck walking around without his lower jaw, tendrils of raw flesh hanging down, trying desperately to make his shitty, homophobic comments all while eying Micah like a piece of meat, makes me laugh.
No, not laugh, fuckinggiggle.I’m too on edge. I’m too full of adrenaline and my sanity is officially on a razor wire that’s tethered between my consciousness and the rest of the universe, with me dangling underneath, trying to talk myself out of letting go.
“I mean, you could also just fucking hand me over. If that’s what you want, Father. Drive me out to the woods, bring the Aryans to meet you, put me on my knees, and watch them puttwo bullets in my head so we can all be fucking done with this. Amirite?”
I look around, a smile on my face for the first time in days. It’s such a simple solution. It would save everybody all this trouble.
But nobody agrees with me. A couple guys are smiling like it’s a joke. Colm’s gaze is burning into me with naked concern. Eamon looks fucking smug, of all things, and Father is watching me with calculating intensity. But no one is getting that it’s an easy out.
“Seriously! Let’s say fuck the war. Give me to them and move on with our lives. Well, your lives. Who wants to have more of these fucking meetings, anyway?”
The distant sound of foxes screaming is still a horrific backdrop to my thoughts. I gesture for emphasis, but it makes me lose my balance, and I stagger, catching myself on the back of someone’s chair in front of me. Colm takes a step toward me, but I wave him off.
“What’s the fucking point in a war? I’m half-dead anyway, as you can see. Let’s fuckinggo.Come on, Father. If you call them now, we can have all this over with before dinner. I’m fucking…”
My words trail off, and I realize I’m slurring a little. Maybe they’ll think I’m drunk instead of so incredibly deep in withdrawal and my own insane train of thought that the world kind of looks upside-down right now.
“What?” I ask, because they’re still staring at me in silence.
The silence that fills the room is thicker and more impenetrable than the imaginary plexiglass from before.
