Savage
Considering we’re off a rural highway in the middle of nowhere, this place is packed.
I’m grateful for it. I need the noise and bustle to distract me. It couldn’t have come at a better time. I need to turn my brain off and do nothing more mentally or emotionally challenging than running a commercial dishwasher for a few hours.
This is heaven.
“Sav, we need more garnish!” Gunnar calls from somewhere in the middle of the bar. The bar itself is a square in the middle of an open space, with one opening that allows staff in and out. Most days, the building seems huge, and patrons can linger in various corners. But right now, there are enough people—andenough rowdy people—that it’s an overwhelming cacophony of noise and pheromones.
The floor is sticky. Every time I lift up the bar runner to try to wipe it down, it smells like stale lime juice, no matter how often I clean it. The whole place is thick withhumanity.
As long as everyone has a drink in their hand and no one’s causing trouble, I guess it doesn’t really matter.
I dip into the little kitchen in the back, finding the fridge completely bare. I guess I underestimated how much to prep when I got here. Grabbing a sharp, curved knife from the block, I pull out a tub of mixed citrus and start slicing it as quickly as I can without making too much of a mess or sacrificing a finger.
I’ve never really cooked before, but I’m no stranger to fileting things. Gunnar told me I learned quickly when he first taught me how to do this prep, while giving me one of those sidelong glances of his that tells me he probably knows what I’ve done with knives other than cut up fruit, but we both know we’re never going to talk about it.
It’s peaceful, despite the noise. My blade hits the board over and over, and the limes and oranges fall into easy, matching slices. Something about the task gives me this sense of completion that I’ve never really had before, but it soothes me deep down in some part of me that’s been ignored for too long.
I start the task. I finish the task. I have a little tub of fucking lime slices to show for it. And nobody got hurt in the process.
Fucking glorious.
People don’t appreciate the purity of these things, I swear.
As soon as I’m done, I dip back out to the floor and into the bar, reloading the little black containers at each bartender’s station. Gunnar nods at me, while the other one—Kasia, a woman in her late twenties or thirties who dresses like the nineties never ended—gives me the friendliest smile I’ve gotten out of her since I started.
I feel good. I feel normal. These normal people seem to accept me, at least, so that’s a start.
I’m ducking out to go grab more longnecks for the fridges when I see something that makes my feet forget how to work, though.
Eamon.
What the fuck is he doing in a queer-ish bar? And not just here, but there’s a kid next to him in their corner booth, and there’s a lot less fucking space between them than I’d think anyone that worked for my father would allow.
His eyes flick up and he notices me. And instead of looking like he’s been caught in the act, that fucker smiles. An unctuous smile that makes me shiver with disgust. Eamon reaches out to wrap one arm around his companion, who looks like he’s barely old enough to drink, and then leans in and ostentatiously nibbles on the kid’s ear while maintaining eye contact with me.
Who the fuck does he think he is? My father is going to eviscerate him.
It’s a weird clash to have the Banna in here. I rub at the sudden tightness over my chest, realizing how much I’d been fooling myself into thinking I could keep playing pretend like this.
Even the kid has a Banna tattoo on his neck, I notice, when he tilts his head to give Eamon better access. His eyes are heavy-lidded, like he’s been drinking for a while, although I’m sure I would have noticed if they’d been here for long.
I’m not sure entirely why, but my feet move before I can think it through. I devour the distance between us and plant both hands on the table, leaning over them in a movement that would set most men to quaking in their boots.
The kid looks wide-eyed and scared, but he’s also so fucked up the fear is sluggish in coming to the surface. He shrinks awayfrom me, but also doesn’t get any closer to Eamon, the way you would expect.
Eamon, of course, just stares at me with the same self-satisfied smirk he always wears.
The prick.
I hate that he’s here. It feels like tiny fissures are already forming in the world around me, and red-raw hands are reaching through them to snatch me back to a reality I’d successfully been hiding from. I knew I couldn’t hide forever, but I thought I had at least a little more time. Instead, here he is, with his smug face to remind me that this is all temporary.
I don’t belong here any more than he does, and eventually Father will drag us both home.
“What the fuck are you doing here? Are you following me?”
Eamon lets out a dry chuckle that chafes every inch of me and takes a dainty sip of his beer before he replies.
