Page 77 of Running Feral

“That’s how it starts for a lot of people, Tobias. I see it every day at the bar, and I almost became it myself, after my dad died. I know how easy it is to let everything get fuzzy until you’re relying on the easiest, most convenient crutches instead of fixing your problems.” I must be making a face, because Gunnar studies me for a second and then pulls me into a hug, kissing the top of my head before he continues. “I saw how you drank before, sometimes. Remember? I’m just worried. And you said your dad was an alcoholic, which makes me more worried, because there’s a genetic factor to these things.”

I pull back. “No, I said he was a drunk and a piece of shit, just like his dad. Oh, and a racist. I don’t think we really have a lot in common.”

I didn’t mean to get defensive, but something about Gunnar’s words is hitting too close to parts of me that are too raw, and I want this conversation to be over.

“True,” he says, bringing his hands to my face and sweeping his thumbs over my cheekbones, the way he always does when he seems to think I’m about to disappear. “You’re nothing like him. And I’m not saying you have to seal yourself away in a boxand never look at alcohol again. I stopped drinking too much when I dealt with my issues instead of hiding from them. For some people, that works. For others, there’s never going to be an option other than all or nothing. You can only figure that out if you admit there’s something to be concerned about and tackle it.”

He takes in a deep breath, studying me while he picks his next words carefully.

“How about this? We agree that I’m never going to stop worrying about you, because it’s futile. And I’ll tell you when I’m worried. But I will never try to take away your choices. Even if you’re making bad ones.” He pauses for a second, looking pensive. “Unless it’s life or death. I’m not making any promises, then. But generally speaking, I won’t interfere with your choices, as long as you let me be here for you when things go sideways.”

“I feel like you’re getting the raw end of that deal,” I mutter, because it’s true.

Gunnar smiles at me, utterly beatific and looking like all his cares are about to melt away. “Yeah, but I get you. Any deal is worth that, in the end.”

I can only hold eye contact with him for a few seconds, because the intensity of whatever feelings are crawling and swelling inside me is too much to bear. I look down, gathering my thoughts before I look back up.

“You’re my choice, you know,” I say in a quiet voice. “Don’t forget that. I might make some shitty choices, but I’m choosing you. Not because you’re convenient or because I feel like I owe you. You could offer me a thousand and one other options, and I’d choose you every time. I think you might be the only good choice I’ve ever made.”

Gunnar’s smile turns into a grin before he leans in to kiss me. I open myself up to him, going soft in his grip as he lazily tongue-fucks me until we both forget what we were fighting about.

Downstairs, I do my best to quell my nerves, but it’s not easy. Even before the doors open and the customers come in, I’m on edge. My senses are hard-wired for the maximum amount of alertness that my body is capable of. Not that it’s ever stopped a threat, but it leaves me better prepared if I know what’s coming.

Now I’m jumping at every noise that stands out against the general din, as well as constantly subconsciously searching for sounds and smells that would tip me off if Eamon were here.

I think I see his face in the shadows about a dozen times before I finally call it and get a drink. I don’t care that Gunnar is frowning at me from across the room. He should be proud of the restraint I’m showing by asking Kasia to pour me a beer and then sitting on my stool to drink it like any other customer—albeit not a paying one—instead of crawling behind the bar, folding myself into the smallest possible space I can find and chugging warm vodka from the bottle.

No one tries to talk to me, at least. I’m sure there’s been more than a little gossip about me floating around, but my association with the Banna—however theoretical, at this point—makes most people steer clear. Which I’m grateful for, but it reminds me that I have yet another hole to dig myself out of that I hadn’t considered yet.

Have the Banna even noticed I’m gone? I know Patrick thought I was a degenerate from day one, and mostly seemed to keep me around as some kind of distraction or reward forEamon. At the time, I told myself it didn’t matter if they respected me. It’s not like I was trying to make a career in the mafia or something. I just needed the money.

I never had a plan beyond that. If someone had asked me at the time, I would have said I’ll deal with the future when it happens. In retrospect, I think there wasn’t any part of me that believed I would live long enough for it to matter. I was racing against the clock. All I wanted was to make enough money to keep Lola alive before someone—anyone—finally rubbed me out of existence.

Now this impossible, ineffable future that I never thought I’d have is here. Kind of. Assuming Eamon doesn’t come back to rip it all away again.

And I have no fucking clue if I’m supposed to be making new plans, or still waiting around for the inevitable.

These thoughts lead me to a second beer, and then a third. After that though, I switch to water. Because while the alcohol has produced a glorious fuzziness that’s dulling the sharp edges of all my issues, there’s something else that is even more appealing to me right now.

Gunnar. I know he won’t want to fool around if he thinks I’m drunk, but there’s still hours before close and I’ll sacrifice having a panic attack in the bathroom if it means I can spend the rest of the night losing myself in him upstairs.

I don’t want to think about the future. He’s the only part of my future that seems real, and I want to hang on to it.

Fucking him last night was weird. It’s not something I even thought I’d do, and it felt a little discordant with what my body wanted to do. But I was so overwhelmed by the need to touch and be touched, I would have taken it in any form.

I just need to get all that old shit off me. It’s invisible, I know. It’s not even real, it’s more of a mental layer of stickiness that I perceive all over my skin. But no matter how unreal it is, I canstill feel it. Every time Gunnar and I touch each other, a little more of that toxic substance burns away. I think I can sweat it all off if I try hard enough.

I don’t want to think or heal or make healthy choices or whatever else Gunnar is contemplating with those big sad eyes of his. I want to fuck until I can’t remember my own name, let alone anyone who ever touched me before him or what they might have done.

The logical part of my mind knows this won’t really work. All that shit will still be there. But I’m not in the mood to listen to logic right now, and the three beers have given me warm cheeks, a twitchy energy, and just enough confidence to tell logical-me to go fuck himself.

I’m on my third glass of water—which makes me neutral or something in terms of alcohol, surely—when Sav wanders over. I’ve barely seen him since I’ve been back, and Gunnar says he’s been MIA without explanation for a lot of the week, but he’s been too distracted to ask. He’s sporting a lot of fresh and newly fading bruises that I don’t ask about out of politeness.

We come from the same world. He’s just much higher up the food chain. Or he was, or something. I’m still not totally clear about what he’s doing working here instead of there, and I don’t want to ask.

“Tobias,” he says, nodding his head.

He’s a man of few words. It makes him seem mysterious, mostly because he’s ripped and covered head to toe in tattoos, but the more I get to know him, the more I suspect he’s legitimately just shy.

---