Page 71 of Running Feral

I make a small, affirmative noise, because the liquor is starting to hit me harder than I’d like. All the peace it gave me before is being replaced by the itching, crawling anxiety that I knew would show up eventually. Alcohol is always a trade-off—deaden the immediate screaming anxiety, but in exchange you get this insidious, residual version showing up later.

Sometimes it’s worth it, sometimes it’s not. I’ve never been accused of having the best judgement, so who knows if I made the right choice this time?

I just need more of him. More than I have. As much as he’ll give me. For every bit of peace that I’m able to carve out of the world with vodka or anything else, it’s nothing compared to the peace I get from him.

I see the way he looks at me, though. Like I’m damaged or dangerous or something. Like we’re right back to where we started, and he’s worried about me imprinting on him and preparing to offer up sex in exchange for rescue services rendered.

If there’s a way to get it through his thick skull how much I fucking want him, I’m all ears. Because the feeling of all this bullshit is burning inside me, and Iknowthat he’s the best thing to get it out of me. He’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel like a real person who deserves good things. Clinging to that isn’t some kind of misplaced gratitude. It’s my desperation to keep feeling that way.

“Gunnar,” I say, my voice lowering into the sultry range as I turn and press my lips to his.

I’m still too drunk not to be sloppy, but I’m full of enthusiasm. Genuine enthusiasm, too, which isn’t something I’ve felt veryoften in my life. I don’t know if that makes me sick or a pervert. Maybe I should want to wall myself off in a cave and never want to have sex again after what I’ve been through.

It feels like they’re two different things in my mind, though. The Eamon shit and the Gunnar shit. The Eamon shit is a poison, still trapped inside me and leeching my blood, bit by bit. While the Gunnar shit is a bright spark of something I actuallywantto do other than lie on the couch all day.

Just thinking about it gets me hard. I feel frantic with the need to do something about it.

Please don’t take this feeling away from me.

Of course, Gunnar pulls away from the kiss almost as quickly as it began. He doesn’t move far, but far enough that I can’t taste him anymore. There’s an awkward silence while he stares at me, but then his face softens, and he pushes my tangled, couch-matted hair out of my eyes.

“Come on, baby,” he says. “Let’s talk more in the morning. I’m tired, you’re drunk and tired. Showering and then water and then bed. Actual bed, not couch bed. We can piece together the rusted pieces of our lives in the daylight, okay? I’ll still love you just as much tomorrow.”

I blink. Then Gunnar blinks, while my brain is slowly, arduously backtracking to go over all the words that just came out of his mouth.

Did he just say…?

The tension around his mouth and the fact that I can see the whites of his eyes so clearly tells me that yes, he did say it, and no, he did not mean to.

My brain feels more fuzzy and alcohol-sodden than ever. Maybe he’s right. Dealing with all these complicated issues tomorrow sounds like a great idea.

I stand up first, swaying on my feet enough that Gunnar shoots up immediately to steady me. The air around us still reeks of awkward silence, but I think we’re both pushing past it.

“Can I shower first?” I ask.

Before, I was thinking about asking to shower together. Now that the alcohol has unlocked this desperate, loudly horny part of me that wants to join in the party of drowning out emotion with external sensations, I was all in on trying to convince Gunnar to check his ethics at the door. The thought of his hands on me, his lips on me, his hard cock pressed against me; all while the water fell down around us and the noise drowned out my thoughts, it makes me practically giddy.

I notice that my brain carefully ducks the issue of whether we’re actually fucking in this hypothetical, but I figure I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Now, though, the awkwardness between us is like a landmine and I need a little space before I detonate it.

“Of course, baby. Did you eat?”

I shrug as I walk away, pulling up my shirt and discarding it somewhere I can’t see.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he calls out after me, before heading to the kitchen.

The fact that he’s making me food keeps me warm and focused all the way through my shower. He not only cares enough to make it for me, but he noticed I needed it when I couldn’t have identified any of my needs with a fucking guide dog.

No, I refuse to give this up. It’s too good. He can have whatever doubts he wants about my motives. If he thinks I’m grateful or desperate, I don’t care. As long as he still wants me, I’m staying right fucking here. And I’m going to show him exactly how much he means to me.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Iwake up to the sound of Tobias whimpering and the bed shaking with the force of his movement. As soon as I open my eyes, the fog of sleep clears away so I can see what’s happening.

It’s not like he wasn’t having nightmares before. It’s possible he always will, although I’m not exactly an expert on the subject. I know still have nightmares about shit that wasn’t anywhere near as visceral as the trauma he’s carrying.

I watch him in the low light for a few minutes, running my fingers gently down the side of his face. It’s so dark, all I can see of him is shades of gray, but it’s more than enough to make out his anguish. He’s curled on his side, with small, raw noises coming from his mouth while his fingers flex in front of his chest. Part of me thinks he’s reaching for me in his sleep, while another part dismisses that as part of my savior complex.

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