Page 1 of Running Feral

Chapter One

Idon’t have a drinking problem. Seriously.

I never get drunk. Or at least I never used to. I may only be about 40% Asian—my dad is Polish, while my mom’s family is from the Philippines with a little Colombian thrown in for flavor—but I was unlucky enough to catch the gene that makes my face fucking burn whenever I have more than a couple of drinks. It’s not debilitating, but it is embarrassing, which is one of the many reasons I normally avoid alcohol.

Another reason is that my deadbeat sperm donor definitely did have a drinking problem. Not that he was around for me to witness it, but I’ve heard stories. And so did his dad, according to my lola, who’s carried a flaming torch of hatred for both of them since her daughter got knocked up and abandoned over two decades ago.

The last reason is that alcohol slows your reflexes. I’ve made my peace with the fact that I’m a prey animal in this life. It sucks, but it’s my destiny. Still… It means I need my reflexes to always be sharp if I want to survive.

You never know when the predators are going to show up.

Today I threw all my reasoning out of the window. My lack of practice keeps my tolerance low, so once I committed to the concept, it didn’t take long for me to get shit-faced.

It’s not like I have anything to be sober for. Most of the time, I need to be at least functional enough to help Lola around the house and make sure she takes her insulin on time. I moved back here to take care of her as her diabetes got worse, because my mom couldn’t. And because my mom had enough mouths to feed without me loitering and taking up space. But Lola has been in and out of the hospital so much lately, it feels like the trailer is empty more often than not. Being there fills me with a deep sense of dread.

Work only happens when they call me, and there’s no way to know when that’ll be. Inevitably, at the worst possible time. Until then, I’d rather be here than alone.

The Feral Possum is kind of an anomaly around here. It’s cute and clean and makes a big deal about being inclusive. And while a lot of the bars in this area have a certain libertarian give-a-fuck attitude, it’s not quite the same as actively billing yourself as a safe space.

No space is really safe, of course. I know that. It’s nice to pretend, though.

“Are you planning on propping up the bar all night?”

Gunnar doesn’t look at me when he speaks. For a friendly bartender, he almost never looks directly at me. He rarely looks me in the eye, and he’s always careful to keep the bar between me and him. Those are the two main things I’ve noticed. I don’t mind, though. I’m assuming he knows enough about the crowd I run with to keep his distance.

It doesn’t help that Eamon likes to bring me here and parade me around like a prize. As soon as I moved back here and figured out petty gang crime was my only real option in life, Eamonclaimed me as his. I think he likes to show me off to make people see how untouchable he is. Not only does he get to take whatever he wants from the younger guys in the Bannaorganization, but he’s so hardcore, he manages to openly fuck men in a notoriously homophobic world of gangsters and mafiosos.

At least, that’s what he thinks. I think he’ll push someone’s buttons too hard one day and finally get what’s coming to him. Until then, he’s got me on a short leash. And I can’t get rid of Eamon without leaving the Banna, which is my only source of income.

Illegal or not, I need the money. Insulin’s expensive.

“Give me somewhere else to go, and I’ll go,” I reply to Gunnar when my brain catches up. “Unless you have a better idea, this is what I’ve got.”

At that, his eyes do flick up to meet my gaze for a second. I can see the same expression he almost always wears; like he wants to say something, but he’s biting his tongue.

He doesn’t need to say it. I know it all already. Crime is bad. Being a walking punching bag for a lowlife criminal is bad. There are other options.

Except there aren’t. Not for me.

“At least drink some water.” He slides a glass in front of me, next to my beer, then gestures to his own face in a way that lets me know my cheeks are probably flaming right now, because I didn’t have the foresight to take an antihistamine before I started my mini bender. Except my face is permanently stuck in late teenage-hood, making people always think I’m younger than I am, while Gunnar has a well-manicured salt-and-pepper beard and the kind of sharp cheekbones which screamnot old, but mature. I’m sure everyone in his life treats him like an adult. I’m sure it helps that he dresses like a fucking GQ model, even out here in buttfuck nowhere.

“Whatever,” I grumble, making a point of reaching for the beer instead.

I sound like a petulant child, but I don’t care. I don’t need another person in my life deciding to boss me around.

Gunnar already watches me like a hawk. I’ve been coming here for nearly a year, because they haven’t been open much longer, and ever since day one, he’s watched me.

I should find it more irritating than I do. Probably. But part of me finds it nice to know if I wind up being disappeared one day, at least someone I’m not blood related to will notice. There’s a comfort in that, even if it’s meaningless. It’s not going to stop me from eventually being aggressively disappeared. It’s becoming more obvious every day that’s what the future holds for me.

At least someone will care, though. And until it happens, I don’t have to think about it. I wall the idea off behind the fortress in my mind that holds all of my unthinkable thoughts. It’s been steadily getting bigger and bigger, the walls weaker and weaker, and it feels like every day I spend around Eamon chips away at them a little more. But they’re still holding for now.

As long as I can keep Lola alive, I can keep my other shit at bay.

“Can I get you some food?” he asks in that eternally patient voice of his. The one that always rubs me the wrong way when I’m too far down the self-pity trap to listen to reason.

“I don’t understand why you even give a shit,” I say, giving him a hard look and forcing him to hold eye contact with me as I gesture to myself. The fading bruises that I know he knows how I got. The snake tattoo on my neck that tells everyone the Banna has me for life. “What part of all this says anything other than ‘lost fucking cause’?”

There’s a disproportionate amount of vitriol to my words, but I can’t stop myself. I’m thrumming with misplaced adrenaline, and I have been for days. I haven’t heard from Eamon in toolong. It’s suspicious. I feel like he’s going to pop up from around a corner any second now, and my heart has been keeping a steady staccato the entire time, holding me in suspense. I wish he would get it over with, so I can take a full breath and stop feeling like the edges of my world are on the verge of graying out with my anticipatory panic.

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