Page 7 of Running Feral

“I’m tired, too.” She pauses again, and I’m very concerned about what’s about to come out of her mouth. “Tomorrow, we’re going to sit down and talk about all this. Because I’ve been silent for too long, and I’m sick of seeing you look like this. Now go to bed. Tosleep.”

I wither a little under her hard stare, but nod and agree politely. I’m looking forward to that conversation almost lessthan I’m looking forward to tonight, because I don’t have any idea what’s going to come of it, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.

If she decides she’s had enough and this is the last straw with me, I guess I can deal with that. It’s not like it’ll be my first time being abandoned by someone who’s supposed to love me. I should be used to it by now.

It takes another hour, almost, before the dishes are cleaned up and we’re both ‘in bed’, so I can sneak away. Then it’s just a quick shimmy out the bathroom window and a short drop to the empty lot behind the trailer. I half-walk, half-jog until I make it to the main road, well out of her sight, and pretty soon I see those familiar headlights, bearing down on me like an alien spacecraft about to beam me up.

“You took your sweet time.”

He didn’t speak for the first ten minutes we were driving, and these are the only words that have come out of his mouth since. I could tell him about picking up my grandmother from the hospital, because that’s a rational excuse, even for career criminals. But I try very hard not to remind him that she exists and could hypothetically be used as leverage against me.

“I’m sorry, Eamon,” are the only words that come out of my mouth, because making some half-assed excuse would be inviting a fight that I’ll lose.

Even if he didn’t hold all the power here, I’d lose anyway. I’ve never met anyone so capable of twisting everything I say, untilhe somehow convinces me that I’m the asshole here. Or just crazy. Or both.

He’s a murderer and a gangster—and looks the part, despite his youth—yet somehow, he can talk anyone into believing him about anything. A mask of congeniality and over-the-top rationality comes down. As if everything he’s saying is so sensible that it’s a foregone conclusion he’s right.

No one should ever talk to him. It’s the quickest way to question your own sanity.

He doesn’t say anything, and the tension continues to mount as I imagine what could be coming next. It’s bad enough that when he reaches toward the dash to adjust the air, I flinch on instinct. I’m normally good at controlling it, but I feel like my nerve endings are all dancing on razor wire right now. I’m still brittle from my hangover, and I’ve had too little sleep in the past week. I wouldn’t be surprised if pieces of me started peeling away and fluttering off in the wind like dead leaves.

Eamon just laughs. A deep belly laugh, like my flinch was completely absurd. Then he looks at me from the corner of his eyes in a way that might almost be called fond, if I didn’t see the simmering, predatory anger beneath it.

The urge to act like the child he considers me to be and sink into my seat is overwhelming. I make a concession by pulling the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands. It’s not a lot, but it’s the best I can do without showing him how fragile I feel right now.

I still don’t know where we’re going, but I know better than to ask. I just continue to bite my tongue and do my best to remain still and invisible. Eamon mostly stays quiet, thank god, only occasionally bitching about whatever Banna drama is up his ass lately. I try to tune it out. When I was initially recruited into the organization, I knew it was shitty and unethical, but it seemed like the only way to potentially make a decent amount of money, given my history.

There were a few grandiose thoughts of rising through the ranks and becoming powerful and respected, which was clearly dumb as fuck. As if my obvious queerness and my obvious non-whiteness weren’t already hamstringing me, whether they acknowledged it or not. Instead, I was still just a baby recruit when Eamon laid eyes on me and declared me his property. He promised his attention would come with all kinds of extra boosts up the chain of command, but instead, it made me a barely tolerated pariah.

Everyone immediately shifted from seeing me as a kid with potential to either a victim or a whore. Neither of which work in this kind of setting. These are old-school guys who respect strength and independence. They take Eamon and his quirks and queerness because he’s obviously in charge. But me… I’m one step up from a barracks bunny.

Or maybe one step below. I don’t know anymore. Who the fuck cares? It’s not like I can do anything about it now.

I’m shaken out of this train of thought—with an indecent amount of relief—when Eamon pulls onto a side road. We’re at the edge of town, but still close enough that it’s lit up and not completely deserted. I don’t know what he’s planning, but I already have a bad feeling about it.

Eamon starts to talk quickly and quietly as he pulls over by some trees and kills the headlights.

“At the end of this road is that little feed store that keeps refusing our services. I need you to sneak in and roll the place. Make as much mess as you can, take whatever valuable shit you can grab. Take some spray paint and leave some bullshit race-hate graffiti, so they think the Aryan Nation assholes did it. Whatever you can to convince them to come to me begging for protection. They think they can rely on the rent-a-cops that pass for law enforcement around here, and we’re about to prove just how dumb that is. Got it?”

As the words sink in, dread hits my gut like lead. But I’m already reaching around for the things I’ll need, all in his car, exactly where they always are. Spray paint. Lock pick kit, because I’m better at finessing things than brute forcing them if I’m by myself. Gaiter to cover my face, just in case, even though Eamon always gets these ones with skull patterns that I think are so childish I would almost rather be arrested than caught wearing it. Cell jammer and Wi-Fi jammer, to bypass their alarm systems.

Once it’s all shoved in the pockets of the tactical pants I’m wearing for exactly this reason, I pause.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I reflexively cringe away as soon as they’re out in the world. Questioning his orders has never ended well for me.

But he seems to still be coasting on whatever endorphins he siphoned out of me yesterday, because I get a raised eyebrow instead of anything more violent.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

I don’t want to tell him, but I feel like I’ve already dug my own grave here, so there’s nothing more to lose.

“Well, we did the same thing at Ford’s garage. And it was kind of a disaster. All we did was piss him off and cause a bunch of drama, plus we almost got caught. Lucky stabbed Silas, and his boyfriend choked me out when he found out I was involved. If he’d died, we would have been fucked.”

Eamon snorts, like that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. It’s a noise he makes a lot when I open my mouth, so I’ve accepted that I must say a lot of dumb shit.

When he responds, it’s with barely concealed disdain.

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