Which is why I won’t ask him for help with my other problem: money. Micah’s asleep, after getting home from his shift sometime in the wee hours. So, I’m out in his kitchen, making myself breakfast with his food, wearing clothes he bought me, all with money he makes at a job that I can now see runs him fucking ragged.
The guilt creeping in about being a leech on my little brother is threatening to drown me. I can’t access my legal bank accounts, because I’m off the grid. All my cash stashes are backin Oklahoma. And normally I would be getting cash for work, but I’ve been benched.
I can’t go to my father for a fucking hand out. I’d rather turn myself over to the Aryans. But I also can’t keep stealing Micah’s money forever, considering he works himself to the bone for it and I’ve been nothing but a burden since the day I showed up on his doorstep.
Shoving a piece of burned toast in my face, I decide to do something about it. Once upon a time, I was a person in the world. I’ve never had a real job, but I did do things other than lie around all day convalescing and despondently staring at the wall like a crated dog waiting for its owner to come home.
I’ve already showered, so it doesn’t take me long to dig out the jeans that Colm brought me to go to the meeting where I lowkey threatened to off myself and got excused from duty indefinitely. Like a dumbass.
Pulling them on felt like a prison the first time. It was this stiff, harsh contrast to all the soft fabrics and gentle touches that Micah had been surrounding me with. But this time it feels better, like I’m taking action on something. When I walk out of the front door, Micah’s keys in my hand and a scribbled note left on the kitchen counter, I feel more like myself—the better side of myself—than I have in years.
I still have to move slowly, because I’m stiff where I’m healing, but it’s not enough that anyone would notice unless they were looking. When people I walk past stare at me, it’s for the normal reasons. The tattoos, my build, the permanently angry set of my face—they all screamcriminal. They’re scared of me. Which is a hell of a lot better than pity.
Micah drives a white VW Jetta, which is not only a stupid car to have in the first place but also makes me feel ridiculous crouching down and folding myself in half to get inside. He may be a lot slimmer and a few inches shorter than me, but he’s notthat small. I have no idea how he drives this thing every day without feeling like he’s wearing it.
Hopefully, the rest of the Banna are too busy doing real work to notice me driving around town in a girly-ass car. If it gets back to Father, not only will it remind him that I exist and potentially make him want something from me, but it’s also bound to trigger hisno gay shitinternal barometer.
I’m too tired to catch a beating today. I just want to find a way to make some money under the table that doesn’t require me to maim, mangle or dismember anyone.
After two hours of driving, I’ve gotten used to the Jetta. I’ve even found a tolerable radio station to listen to, and I haven’t seen anyone I recognize that might report me back to Father. But I’ve learned a few things about this area: it’s pretty, it’s fucking empty, and there are absolutely no jobs.
Micah lives in a medium-sized town called Mission Flats, but it only took me a couple minutes to figure out that all the jobs here were real. Every business here is part of a chain, and corporate offices need social security numbers, which is not something I can do.
So, I go through the smaller towns in the surrounding area, looking for anything ramshackle that might need help. There’s a town called Mishicot that seems like an overgrown trailer park, and as soon as I see someone batch cooking meth on their bicycle, I know the chances of there being work are fucking slim.
Another town is Possum Hollow, which is a dumb, hick fucking name. I ask in a couple of places: feed stores, small farms, even a mechanic outside of town where I get side-eyed and the silent treatment, but no one’s hiring.
By the time afternoon hits, I’m exhausted. I haven’t been out of the house and moving around this much since the meeting, I’ve had zero fucking success, and by now, Micah is probablyawake and potentially pissed I took his matchbox racer without asking.
Not ready to go back a complete failure, I look for a bar or something. I just want a little more time to feel like a competent adult out in the world, not being supervised or cared for. And I haven’t had a beer in weeks.
It doesn’t take long to find one. One that looks classy enough—by the standards of the area, at least—that I’m not likely to run into any of my guys. It describes itself as a “bar & lounge” on the sign, there are no motorcycles in the parking lot, and I can’t see a single person wearing a cut. No motorcycle club affiliation isn’t necessarily a mark of quality, but a beer’s a beer and I just don’t want to run into fucking Eamon or my father.
Once I’ve parked in the gravel lot, I walk across to the entrance. It’s kind of… cute. That would be the best way to describe it, not that that’s a word I use very often. The Feral Possum. There’s a little logo with the fucking rodents on it, and a bunch of cartoons on their little A-frame advertising drinks specials outside.
I wonder if Micah drinks here. It seems like the kind of place where nice people might hang out.
When I see a rainbow flag in the window though, I freeze. It’s a small flag, relatively discreet, and even more evidence that this might be Micah’s kind of place. But could potentially be a problem if I got caught here.
I take a peek through the door though, and it looksnormal. No more flags, nothing that looks like I would picture a gay bar looking, not that I have any idea. I decide to shove my concerns to the back of my brain for the sake of getting out of the fall afternoon sun and getting something cold to drink.
Inside, it’s exactly like every other bar I’ve been in, except a little cleaner with a slightly nicer clientele. I definitely standout because of my tattoos, but not to the point that people are pointing and staring.
It’ll do. I take a seat at the bar, drumming my fingers on the wood and shoving down the unease crawling through my gut for some reason I can’t put my finger on. It doesn’t take long for the bartender to notice me, because it’s still early and the place is mostly empty. He wanders over, a polite customer service smile on his face, and puts a cardboard coaster with the possum logo on it in front of me.
“What can I get you?”
If anyone stands out in here, it’s him over me. I may look a little on the thuggish side, but he’s not dressed like any bartender I’ve seen in real life. He’s wearing clothes like he walked out of a cologne ad—pressed slacks, a white shirt and a fucking waistcoat. His hair and dark beard are meticulously styled, and everything about him looks way too expensive to belong in a town like this.
I get distracted by it, so it takes me a second to answer, and when I realize I was staring, I stammer a little because I feel like a dumbass.
So much for reclaiming my confident former self.
“Draft of whatever is fine,” I say, lowering my eyes and trying to remember how to be around normal people.
He just nods, ignoring my awkwardness. “Lager?”
“Yeah, sure.”
