Chapter Twenty-Five
Savage
Tobias is missing.
He was doing so well, and now he’s gone. Right out from under Gunnar’s nose. There’s no evidence, but also no doubts about why that might be or who’s behind it. It made me realize how selfish I’ve been, though.
All this time, I’ve been sitting around obsessing over my own shit. Did Father lie to me about the Aryans? Can I kill Eamon, and do what Father wants me to? Or do I ignore that order like Micah begged me not to? Am I so irredeemable at this point that whatever violence I continue to inflict is meaningless anyway, and only keeping Micah safe matters?
These are the thoughts that have been a maelstrom inside me, while I hide in Bambi’s apartment and avoid confronting the truth.
And in the meantime, people like Tobias are suffering. Young kids who aren’t so completely fucked that they can’t be saved.
It’s selfish. I’m selfish.
The words continue to rattle through me, vibrating my bones as I drive all the way out to the Banna farm in the search for my father. Micah is at work, thank fuck, so he doesn’t know what I’m doing. He can’t know.
I don’t even really know what I’m doing. I still have no idea if I’m here to beg for my freedom or to tell him I’ll murder Eamon for him after all, just to free the kid.
Whatever I’m doing, it has to happen now. I can’t wait any longer. I can’t string Micah along any longer.
The guys guarding the perimeter all look surprised to see me, but wave me in. I still belong here, after all. That won’t change unless Father decides to put a bullet in me for my betrayal. I park as close to the front door as I can, as if there’s any chance of me making a quick getaway if I need to. As soon as I open the door, the sound of screaming fills the air, and a dull memory slaps back into my consciousness.
Little yappy screaming fox things she sells on Facebook.
That’s what Colm had said. I was so out of it with withdrawal last time I was here that I could barely process the sensory information being crammed into me, but now I remember. The cages line the wall of the house, and the stench and sound of trapped, frightened living creatures seems to take over the entire area around them.
I shiver, trying not to look too closely at them. I don’t give a flying fuck about animals. But the thought of spending your life in a dirty cage so some MC club president’s widow can rent out your uterus to keep her coke habit afloat really creeps me the fuck out.
“Savage? Is that you?”
I don’t know who I was expecting to see in the doorway, but it wasn’t Micah’s mom. It occurs to me that this whole time I’ve been in Missouri she hasn’t shown up at the apartment once.Micah briefly mentioned that they’re not estranged or anything, but they’re also not close.
Which tracks. He didn’t say as much, but I’m assuming he’s still pretty pissed about all the times she passed out or went out partying and left him alone with only me to protect him from Patrick and the elements. Congratulations on getting sober or whatever, but mortgaging someone’s childhood for liquor and ice is hard to truly get over.
She looks more like him than I remembered. The same dark hair, the same skin tone. The same delicate build, only on her it looks almost frail. Bird-like, with weathered skin that’s stretched too tight over bone, while Micah’s body is infused with strength and vitality in every cell, even if he’s not bulky like me.
“Hi, Cheryl.” My voice sounds stiff and awkward as I move toward the house.
I’m not built for these kinds of social interactions; my entire body wants to flinch away from them. Or any social interactions that don’t involve torture, I guess. She stands there anyway, leaning against the doorframe with her arms over her chest and a carefully neutral expression on her face.
“We weren’t expecting you. Is everything okay?”
Nodding, I step into the doorway with her. The least I can do is get close enough to use my size to my advantage before she tries to intimidate me away from my own father. I really would never live that one down.
“Everything’s fine. I need to speak to Father. Is he inside?”
“Cheryl? Are you okay?”
A blonde woman steps out of one of the fox cages and moves toward us, interrupting the conversation. She has the same weathered look as Micah’s mom, but her skin is a deep, deep tan color that’s almost tawny, her hair is bleached to be as light as Cheryl’s is dark and she’s plump in all the places that Cheryl looks like she’s wasting away.
This must be the widow. The fox breeder. Fox-widow, I’ll call her.
“It’s Pat’s son, Briggs. He’s fine.”
Fox-widow dusts off her hands, which I’m assuming are covered in fox shit, and continues moving toward us. She gives off overwhelming “fuck-off” vibes that I really don’t have the energy to handle right now.
For just a second, I consider talking to them. Being rational and trying to get them on my side. They’re not blocking the door or anything, they’re just glaring at me like I don’t belong here.
