Page 2 of Running Feral

None of this is Gunnar’s fault. But I’ve been on high-alert so long my logic-brain can’t scream loud enough to get through to the rest of me anymore.

Gunnar sighs, but more like he’s being patient than pissed. When he puts both hands on the bar and orients himself toward me, the movement makes him seem larger than usual and I can’t stop myself flinching away just a bit.

He notices—like always—but doesn’t say anything.

“I can almost guarantee that more people care about you than you think.”

His expression is so earnest as he says it, I almost melt right on the spot. But I can’t afford to get soft and mushy in public. Especially not when there’s no one around to scrape me up afterward. So, I focus on hardening myself instead.

“Sorry. That was rude,” I say to Gunnar, because I’m in emotional freefall all the time, but I’m not trying to be a total asshole.

Gunnar shrugs, leaning back a bit.

“Do you have a ride home?”

Now it’s my turn to shrug.

Another sigh before Gunnar bites his lip and narrows his eyes at me.

“If you stay until it gets late, I can drive you home while Kasia closes. Just don’t drive, okay? I’ve seen that ragged little motorcycle you ride, and it’s a death trap even when you’re sober.”

Honestly, the offer makes me flinch more than it did when he loomed over me before. Gunnar’s always been kind, but he’s also noticeably careful to keep his distance. This feels like some kind of line that can’t be uncrossed.

Not that I’m going to cross it. It’s not safe to let him do me favors. If word got out, it would put him straight in Eamon’s crosshairs, and then who knows what the fuck would happen.

I’m not that selfish.

“Sure,” I lie. It seems like enough to satisfy him, so he only nods and doesn’t press the issue before turning away to help another customer.

I resolutely do not let myself stare at his ass once his back is turned to me. It’s the same game I play every time I’m in here. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

The man may be a little older than me, but he’s one of those guys that seems to ripen like fruit on the vine as he gets older. He has olive skin, darker than mine, even though I think he’s 100% white, and it’s still smooth. His beard and hair are thick in the way that makes your fingers ache to touch them, and his body also has a thickness to it—a solidity—that I’m constantly stopping myself from reaching out to touch. Or lean into. He’s so tall and firm I feel like I could collapse into him and he’d just… absorb me. Wrap me up in those strong arms and long-fingered, capable hands.

These are the mental tangents I’mnotsupposed to go on, though. Because if Eamon would be pissed that Gunnar gave my drunk ass a ride home, hell knows what he would do if he knew how often I’d sat here drooling over him like a schoolboy with a crush. So, I consciously snap myself out of it and tear my eyes away from an ass that looks round and fucking impeccable in the fancy suit pants he’s always wearing for no real reason.

Of course, as soon as I look elsewhere, I meet Kasia’s eyes. Kasia is the opposite of her boss in a lot of ways. For one, sheembraced the nineties grunge aesthetic as a child and never let go. Right now, she’s wearing Doc Martens; fishnets under ripped stonewashed jeans; some kind of shirt that’s really a corset; and a bunch of dark makeup that’s gorgeous, but clearly meant to scare off men more than entice them. Another way she and Gunnar differ is that she also watches me, but it’s with a constant level of distrust. Or distaste. Dis-something.

She fucking hates me, basically. And I get it. I fucking hate myself half the time. But I’ve never known what specifically turned her down this road, and she’s always careful to be polite enough to my face not to cause waves.

“What?”

I’m too over it to play games today.

“Nothing. You looked like maybe you werethirstyor something.” The smirk on her face gives the sentence all the subtext it needs to, though.

Busted.

Well, fuck her. I can look, can’t I? It’s not like I’m going to do anything about it.

“Can I get the check?” It’s time for me to abandon ship before this day gets any worse.

She nods, starting to reach for the computer, but then she hesitates, and I see the smirk fall off her face with a hard twist.

My heart rate seems to triple in an instant and the rest of my body locks up. In the question offight or flight, it seems to go forfreezemore and more these days. Like it’s all too much and I’ve turned into the human equivalent of a record scratch.

Thankfully, the panic is already dulling my reactions and letting my mind sink into the heavy, drowsy place, which lets me stay numb to most things. So, when a hand lands roughly on my shoulder, I don’t react. More flinching would not help my case here.

I’m not normally this bad. This thing between me and Eamon has highs and lows. But ever since the last time… I can’t seem to snap out of panic-mode.

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