For a second, I wonder if the atmosphere is about to turn. Like I managed to not cross any invisible lines with the incredibly shithot, kinky sex we just had, but I did with one dumb, insensitive question. But he keeps looking at me, and a smile steadily grows on his face.
“I like your dick, Bambi. Does that count?”
I smile back. “It’s the only thing that counts, doll.”
It isn’t too far to stretch, so I reach down and grab a generous handful of his bare ass as it’s presented up to the world. His crease is still slick with lube and cum, so I let my fingertips slip and slide as I do it. Playful, though, not to go anywhere.
Tadhg gasps anyway, his pupils dilating before my very eyes.
I lean in until I’m almost brushing up against his lips with mine, still holding eye contact even though we’re too close to focus properly. While I speak, I jiggle the piece of him that I’m holding on to.
“And I love this pussy, doll. Along with everything it’s connected to.”
I kiss him, so he doesn’t have to find words to answer me. We’ll go to bed eventually. Right now, I feel like I need more of this. I need to feel like it’s solid, and no one can take it away, before I’ll be ready to face the real world again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Savage
For the next few days, everything feels frozen. I don’t want to move or breathe too loudly, like it might bring more of Father’s attention down on us. I’m following his orders. With the help of Colm and some of our trusted guys, we’re trying to figure out just what Eamon’s intentions are, and how far he’s willing to fuck the Banna over to accomplish them.
But we’re doing it quietly, because the last thing I want right now is a gunfight. My father favors speed over a light touch, but I’m hoping that with this one, I can get by.
Plus, the less time I spend neck-deep in Banna bullshit, the more time I have to spend with Micah. I’m still convinced that this is all going to be whipped away from me at a moment’s notice. I want to take advantage of whatever time I have with him, and I’m more than happy to let him pretzel my body in any way he wants in the name of this intense new intimacy between us.
Until we inevitably get interrupted. Although tonight, of all nights, I’m happy to be interrupted, because Micah’s been probing me with questions about my mental health for barely fifteen minutes and I’m ready to flee the premises.
I agreed to answer his questions because he asked, and I’m incapable of saying no to him, apparently. He asked me if I got a diagnosis, and I told him. Persistent Depressive Disorder, PTSD, and a plus-minus on something called Avoidant Personality Disorder because apparently you can’t effectively apply diagnostic criteria to people who torture others under threat of their own death for a living.
My actual willingness to engage or not engage in social situations is hard to gauge, apparently.
Micah snorted when I relayed this to him, although most of it was verbatim from the shrink, apart from the torturing part. That slipped out by accident, and it’s clear we’re both making a very conscious effort to pretend it didn’t.
He changed the subject to my meds, and when I could only remember the name of one of them, he pulled up about a thousand different pictures and names of pills on his iPad until I was able to remember the other and scrape the dosages from the recesses of my memory.
The whole conversation has been fucking exhausting, and completely pointless. It’s also left me feeling more exposed in front of Micah than I would if he were literally staring at my asshole. Which isn’t something I ever thought I’d have to weigh, but it’s true.
“Why are we still talking about this?” I snapped at him, my anger threatening to boil over.
Micah has just looked at me, cool as ever. “Why are you so unwilling to let me help you?”
That’s when the phone call came, and I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption in my life. Now it’s four hours later,we’re alone in the car again and I’m trying to think of what I want to think about less: my fucking mental health, or the shit we’ve just seen in Gunnar’s apartment.
“How did he look?”
I don’t bother to turn on the engine while I wait for Micah to answer. I think we could both stand to sit in this car in the Feral Possum parking lot for a few minutes of darkness and peace before we worry about heading home.
Not that I’m some wilting flower. I’ve literally eviscerated men. When I got called to my boss’ apartment for a late-night 911 assist, I expected violence. When he asked me specifically to bring Micah, I expected maybe the aftermath of violence. An ER nurse is always useful in those situations.
And it was the aftermath of violence. Just not quite in the way I was expecting.
Tobias—the baby-faced Banna recruit that Eamon has been ‘sticking it to’, as Father put it—showed up on Gunnar’s doorstep in the middle of the night, beaten half to death and showing signs of chronic physical and sexual abuse. It’s not a surprise. I know Eamon, I know men like Eamon, and I saw the way he treated that kid like his personal property the one and only time we met at the bar.
The fact that Tobias had the balls to run surprises me more. Good for him. And to run to Gunnar—who actually wants to help and seems like a decent fucking human being from the limited time I’ve spent around him—is even more surprising. When you’re beaten down for that long, it can become an instinct to run from one shitty situation into another equally shitty one. Anything else seems inconceivable, and therefore not to be trusted.
I should know. I’ve spent my life cowering in the belly of one monstrosity after another.
Tobias looks so small and fragile from the outside, especially right now that he’s a walking bruise, but I can’t imagine how he scraped together the willpower to actually do it. There’s always an open window somewhere. Forcing yourself to go through it is the hard part.
