Page 9 of Running Feral

“Before.”

A glimmer of pride shows up somewhere deep in my chest, and I raise my head to meet his eyes. They’re stormy, and I can only imagine what’s going through his mind.

Tobias is a fuckup.

Tobias never does his job.

Tobias jeopardizes my reputation and can’t be trusted.

I’d be better off if he were dead.

Something along those lines, I’m sure.

When I’m met with endless, simmering silence, I know things are going to be worse than whatever I’m imagining. It’s only reinforced when we pass the turn to my lola’s place and keep going toward his.

Maybe this really is the night that I’m not going to come back from. Once I realize this, a kind of fragile calm spreads through me. Just like last night, Gunnar’s face flashes in my mind. The one that was so angry when he saw Eamon come to get me from the bar.

I do hope he notices when I’m gone. I know that’s cruel, and he’d be better off not being sad about something so inevitable. But the small part of myself that still insists on being selfish is going to hope for it.

Chapter Four

Being a night owl is part of the bar-owner territory. There isn’t space downstairs for an office, but the upstairs was already zoned for residential space when I leased the building, and it didn’t take much to turn it into a functional little apartment. It also doesn’t have space for an office, but there’s an open-concept living room that is split into a TV-and-couch area, plus a desk-and-computer area.

It’s enough. I’ve been sitting here for hours trying to get caught up on boring shit like inventory and payroll, but no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps wandering. At least yesterday’s migraine isn’t making a repeat appearance. The petulant, unloved child in me wants to blame Mama for it, but I quash the thought every time it slips into my mind.

What’s the point? Old grudges are better left to wither away, unfed by your current anger.

I’m staring at the screen, letting my eyes unfocus and the lines blur, when I hear something weird downstairs. At first, it sounds like an animal. There’s an entrance to the apartment from insidethe bar, which I normally use, but there’s also a door and some stairs at the back of the whole building that no one ever comes to, because it’s difficult to spot. It is closer to the dumpster and the tree line edges right up onto it, so it’s not unusual to get raccoons or possums digging around back there after dark.

And it’s well after dark. It’s only when the noise makes me snap out of my daze that I realize it’s past 3am, and I should probably give up for the night. I look longingly toward the bedroom at the same time as I stall at the thought of how much work it’s going to be to get there, until I’m interrupted by another, louder noise.

This one sounds like somethinghittingthe door. Maybe on purpose, maybe not. There’s another thud—even louder—so I finally get up and tread carefully to the back.

The staircase is outside the building, and the door is at the top. Normally, wildlife doesn’t venture up here. All the trash and bar scraps are down on the ground. But I can definitely hear something moving just on the other side of this piece of plywood, which suddenly feels much thinner and more friable than it usually does.

Then there’s a noise that makes me jump, because it’s unmistakably a rapping sound. Made by human knuckles. Whatever fears I have coming from late night paranoia get shoved to the back of my brain, because this is most likely Sav or Kasia or someone else I know in an emergency.

All my hesitance disappears as I throw open the door to darkness. It’s dark in here, too, lit only by the glow of my computer screen, so it takes me a second to see who’s there. Before I get the chance, though, the figure collapses through the open doorway like they were leaning against it, and I have to scramble to catch them before they hit the floor.

It’s too small to be Sav and too male to be Kasia. I’m not sure who else would come to me like this, but I pull down thedark hoodie covering their head to look. This elicits a groan, even though they keep their entire weight slumped into my arms while I do it.

“Jesus Christ, Tobias. What the hell happened?”

Even as I say the words, I put two and two together and know exactly what happened. Because what else could it be?

He doesn’t say anything, which is good because I already feel like an idiot for asking. He’s trembling through his whole body, too weak to hold himself up, and what I can see of his face is a swollen mess of cuts and bruises.

It only takes a few attempts to help guide him over to the couch to give up. He’s completely failing in any attempt to walk. It’s like the second I opened the door, whatever adrenaline or hope had powered him here evaporated. Instead, I lean down and scoop one arm under his legs to pick him up bridal style, desperately hoping this isn’t too invasive.

Normally, I would ask permission, but he hasn’t said a word yet or even been able to focus his eyes on me. I need to get him lying down before he completely collapses.

The swift movement upwards makes him gasp. Something in his lower body must be hurting, because he lets out a painful groan. I try to get through it as quickly as possible. As soon as I kick the door shut, I cross over to the couch with long strides before leaning over it to lay him down as gently as I can.

When I pull back, I feel resistance I wasn’t expecting. It only takes a second to realize that he’s holding onto me; trembling hands digging into the soft fabric of my sweater and refusing to let go. Some piece of my heart breaks off and floats away right there and then, and I know I’ll never really get it back.

I’ve seen some of the truly horrible shit that people can do to each other. But for whatever reason, this is hitting me harder than most of it.

Instead of standing back up, I fold up my body and slowly slide to the floor in front of the couch, keeping myself close enough to him that he can hold on to me. It makes me loom over his prone form awkwardly, but it’s what he seems to want, so I’m not going to deny him.

---