by Jessica Joy
It would be easy to get frustrated with him, even to pity him for what he is having to go through, but if I’m really honest… I’m in awe of this man. Sure he gets upset and can act like a broody bastard at times, but he never gives up, he never lets it truly get him down. There is more fight inside of him than I have ever seen in another person in my life. Determination burns in his eyes in a way I haven’t seen before, determination to get back to who he was, to get his life back. Gage Dunne is a fighter, he’s my fighter, and I can’t resist falling for him a little more every single day.
The hardest part in all of this honestly is, I miss him. I miss my friend. Gage had become my best friend in the months since he pulled me from that dingy back room in the Pikesmen’s shop. I miss getting to sit and watch stupid movies with him, listening to him and Tinker playing video games while I try to read next to them. I miss the late night talks we had when neither of us could sleep so we talked about everything and nothing. I miss the nights he would hold me while I cried, processing everything that had happened and helping me get through the loss of Darrin. He was loud, and annoying at times, but he was also sweet, caring, and truly the funniest person I have ever met.
I miss him.
As much as I want to be there for him as much as humanly possible, I’ve realized over the last couple of days that I need to take a little time for myself or else I am truly going to go insane. I love him, and I will do everything in my power to show him that, to make him see what we had, but I can’t do that if I am a hollowed out shell of a person myself. The last couple of days I have taken to wandering the city for a couple hours in the afternoon while everyone else rests. I spent the afternoon wandering around the Chicago Institute of Art and ended up losing track of time while sitting and sketching in front of several different pieces that caught my eye. Before I knew it, a security guard was coming through the gallery and telling people the museum was closing in a half hour and it was time to head out. I seriously don’t know how I lost so much of the day, but I have to admit I feel more centered, more like myself than I have in weeks. Even though I lived with Darrin back in Seattle before the Pikesmen killed him, he was almost never home since he was at the law firm all the time; I got used to being on my own at home. With the whirlwind that has been the last few months, I hadn’t realized how I never had any time to myself. There was always someone around me for some reason or another. Now that things are slowing down, I miss my alone time and this was a welcome respite.
When the private elevator doors slide open into the main living space of the loft, I know instantly that all the old gods and new have joined forces and decided to hate me tonight. The overly synthed strains of Tangerine Dream echo through the open space along with the all too bright glow of the massive TV that hangs on the wall above the fireplace in the living room.
“Ah fuck. Legend. Gonna be one of those nights,” I sigh, stepping into the apartment and dropping my bag on the floor next to the coat closet. I kick off my shoes before making my way over to the giant sectional that divides the living room area from the dining and kitchen spaces. Standing at the back of the couch for a moment I watch the screen, shaking my head at the sight of baby Tom Cruise squatting in front of Mia Sara while wearing the shortest pair of shorts known to man.
“Ah for fooks sake, tha’s not even how it’s supposed te go, ye cocksuckers! Makes no bloody sense! He just fookin knows the right timin’ te cut off ‘er bloody head? First time out? I think fookin not ye pox bottle. Fer Christ’s sake! Maybe think about sweet talkin ‘er next time and find a right proper opening ye eejit. Eleven hours tha man sat getting makeup on and ye have the audacity te cut the scene. He almost fookin DROWNED for this fookin film. Where’s the respek? Where’s the fookin honor?”
Gage’s heavily accented rant makes me chuckle as I look over the back of the couch at him. He’s spread out on the oversized leather sectional, the corner spot all but swallowing his massive frame with only his head poking out from the faux fur blanket he has wrapped around himself. He looks utterly ridiculous in his fluffy blanket burrito. His sandy blonde hair is sticking up at every angle, making him look like the disembodied head of a crazed Albert Einstein.
Goddammit, he really is too fuckin cute sometimes.
He starts ranting at the screen again and I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head as I crawl over the back of the couch and settle at his feet. Gage grumbles in protest, my movements clearly disturbing his little misery cocoon. Well, good. I roll my eyes at his whining and slap at his leg, motioning for him to lift his feet so I can scoot closer. With another round of protests, louder grumbles and mumbled curses this time, he complies, and I wiggle over ‘til I can settle his legs comfortably across my thighs. Pulling my legs up under his so I am sitting cross legged, I adjust his blanket burrito, so it covers both of us.
The entire process takes no more than thirty seconds, but the giant man-baby next to me whimpers and whines through the whole ordeal like it’s the worst thing to ever happen to him. Once I’m settled comfortably under the blanket, he gives me a furtive glance, as if confirming I’m done inconveniencing him, before he harrumphs and snuggles back into his corner like nothing happened, his focus completely back on the TV once again.
Day and night hold no meaning for me any longer. I have been curled up in this bed, in the room Kiki set up for me in the compound, since I got here and I have no intention of ever leaving. My sister and Kiki have both been trying to get me to join the land of the living and come out to socialize but I’m not ready to be around people yet. I can’t stand the pity in their eyes when they look at me, or worse, when they don’t think I notice them looking. The last thing I want is to have to endure endless amounts of “Oh, I’m so sorry,” or “it will get better,” or the meaningful looks of what is supposed to be solidarity but only feel like they’re thinking “There is the spoiled little girl who was too stupid to keep herself out of trouble and lost everything. Look how broken she is, isn’t it sad?”
That is absolutely what the mob of big scary bikers out there are thinking. Totally.
So here I lay, curled up under the heavy blanket that smells entirely too much like Gage. A fact I’m refusing to acknowledge, or how comforting I have begun to find it. It’s not a thing, stop bringing it up.
I’m mindlessly flicking through Netflix, trying to find something to watch that won't make me cry, when Gage bursts into the room.
“Saddle up Al. We’re goin’ on an adventure!” he crows as he walks in with arms full of a bottle of Jameson and several bags of junk food, kicking the door closed behind him.
“Not up for an adventure. Take your cheery ass somewhere else Gage,” I deadpan, curling further into the blankets.
“Nonsense. Ye’ve been here for a week and haven’t seen past these four walls. Scooch yer fine ass over and let me sit. We’ve got a double feature with our names on it tonight lass,” he insists, stepping up to the side of the bed with an expectant look. I’ve gotten to know Gage enough in the time since he pulled me from that cell to know better than to fight him when he puts his mind to something. With a dramatic roll of my eyes and an exaggerated groan I untangle from the blanket and scooch over on the bed, making room for him to sit and spread out his armload of goodies between us.
“Alright now. Ye’re in for a treat Al. We’re gonna watch me most loved, and most hated, movie tonight. When we’re done, I swear on the pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow ye’ll be cured of this foul mood,” he says with a self-satisfied smile.
“How the hell could watching your most hated movie make me feel better?” I ask incredulously. I could be binge watching old episodes of Friends for the billionth time right now, and he wants to make me watch some horrible movie? Ummm no thank you.
“’Cause, it’s what I do whenever I've had a shite day and need to wallow,” he responds with complete sincerity.
“Still not following. So, you watch a horrible movie to feel better? Why the double feature?”
“Because lass. It’s the same movie. The absolutely brilliant 1985 cult classic, Legend,” he says proudly. I give him a blank look in response, still not following. He gives a long-suffering sigh, “do I have te spell everything out? There were two versions o’ the film released. An international version, which is an absolute triumph an’ one o’ the best movies in its genre. The correct version. The other is the American version. A travesty, an abomination unto the Lord, and the biggest steaming pile of horse shite ever created on God’s green Earth.”
The serious look on his usually teasing face makes me let out a little chuckle that grows to a full laugh when he crosses himself quickly. It’s the first time I’ve laughed in God knows how long. I have to admit it feels good. Damn him. I don’t want to laugh right now, I don’t want to feel good. I want to wallow, dammit.
“When I've had a shite time, I put on the American version, get rip roaring drunk, and scream at the screen about everything they did wrong. By the end, I promise all yer troubles will look like nothing compared to the heaping mound of awful that is that movie.”
“But why the double feature?”
“Because I can’t in good conscience let ye see the shite version without seeing how wonderful it really can be first. Prepare thyself Al, get ready for Tom Cruise in the shortest shorts known to man and Tim Curry as the most badass devil to ever grace the silver screen,” he says, settling back against the headboard as he flicks through screens on the TV to pull up the movies.
“You’re an absolute loon, Gage Dunne. You know that? At least make me a drink if I have to sit here and put up with you,” I ask, giving in and reaching for a bag of pretzels as I settle back to watch the movies with him.
We sit there watching the movie in surprisingly comfortable silence for a few long minutes before my curiosity gets the best of me and I sneak a look at the man child. He’s still bundled up in his misery burrito, angry eyes fixed on the screen. Knowing what this particular movie means, I can’t just let it go without at least attempting to talk to him.
Squeezing his good leg gently in a soothing gesture I ask, “So what’s wrong?”
Gage looks over, trying to play innocent. “Nothin's wrong, lass. Why’d ye ask?”
I roll my eyes and smile, giving a little indulgent laugh. “Because you only ever watch the American version of Legend when something has gone horribly wrong. And you’re drunk.”
“I most certainly am not drunk! How dare ye…”
“You’re cuddling with a bottle of Jameson under the blanket like it’s a baby bottle,” I deadpan.
“Mother’s milk lass,” he croons.
“You’re drunk,” I state again. Gage makes a face like he’s going to argue again, but after a moment he relents and pulls the bottle out from the blanket, taking a long pull of the whiskey.
“So, gonna tell me what's up?” I press again, giving his leg another squeeze.
“Maybe I just wanted to enjoy a lovely classic film this evening,” he says defiantly.
“No. A classic would be the international version. “The Correct One”” I mock in a terrible Irish accent. “You only watch this travesty of a film when something’s wrong. So, spill.” I say, reaching for the whiskey bottle, but he quickly tucks it back under the blanket again with a pout.
“And when did ye turn into Al the All-knowing, eh?” he snaps, agitation clearly seeping into his tone.
Aaaaaand there it is.
It really shouldn’t hit me like this, but his question knocks the wind out of me. Visibly deflating, I sink back into the couch and drop my hands from his legs, staring quietly back at the TV without responding. I can feel his stare burning into the side of my face, but I refuse to look over. I will not show him how he affects me.
Him not remembering what I consider our first date breaks me, I can’t keep the brave face intact no matter how hard I try to hold it in place. I force myself to only let the tears fall silently.
I feel the moment he notices my tears because his whole body tenses and he sits up, pulling his legs off my lap and scooting down the couch ‘til I can feel the heat of him next to me. He comes as close to me as he can without actually touching me, which only drives the knife in that much deeper.
“Lass… Lexi…” he coaxes, but I just shake my head and keep my eyes forward, my shoulders rigid next to him.
“I’m missing something aren’t I,” he sighs. It’s not a question, just a statement of resignation, and I feel him sink a little further into the couch. I don’t trust my voice to not break if I try to respond so I dip my chin in a slight nod as my only response.
Gage stares at me for a few moments before reaching back and grabbing the whiskey from its hiding spot and settles it between us. “Come on Al, we’re about to get to the fallen princess’ final sexual awakening. Emo makeup and a plastic boob covering, what more could ye ask for? Let’s get tits up drunk and see if we can yell enough to scare away her unibrow this time,” he says, trying to force some cheer into his tone as he settles in next to me.
Finally turning toward him, I look at him for a moment before reaching for the bottle and taking a long pull of the whiskey. The burn slicing through the thickening of my throat is a welcome comfort as I settle back against the cushions and situate the blankets over us again. Gage slips his arm around the back of cushions and leans ever so slightly closer to me, the heat of his body all but scalding my skin. Without overthinking it I give in to the impulse screaming through me and curl into him, resting my head against his good shoulder. His arm settles around my shoulders, his fingers plucking at one of my curls.
“You’re an absolute loon, Gage Dunne. You know that?” I ask quietly, not caring if he hears me over the movie or not.
Chapter 7
Gage
As if being a fucking gimp isn’t torture enough, no, the universe has decided to heap an extra dose of humiliation on my head this morning. I’m hungover. A fuckin’ Irishman hungover, and off whiskey no less! My ancestors must be spinning in their graves. Fuck me, my head is tryin’ to kill me.
I woke up this morning sprawled on the couch covered with a blanket I swear is made of baby angel wings. It's so damn comfortable. There was a bottle of water and a couple aspirin on the coffee table waiting for me. Lexi. She must have gotten me settled at some point in the night, after we finished the movie and the bottle of whiskey. Yeah. The whole bottle, and I’m pretty sure at least three quarters of it went down my gullet. Self-pity is an evil bitch, and a powerful one at that.
Yesterday had been a rough day in physical therapy, an activity I despise to begin with, but yesterday the bastard therapist was out to kill me with ‘just one more.’ Fuck ‘im and the shiny moped he road in on. My foul mood only got darker as the day went by, the weight of my swirling shit-tastic world finally hitting me. There wasn’t any specific trigger for it all, but before I knew it I was three sheets to the wind and screaming about how much more effective of a storytelling device it is to keep the viewer from actually seeing Tim Curry’s devil until he steps out of the mirror instead of blowing the load of those goddamn masterful prosthetics prematurely in the first fucking scene.
Everyone must’ve run away early today because by the time I got back from PT this afternoon the loft was empty. They all think they’re so sly, but I know they’re avoiding me. None of them know what to do with me since I woke up, and I can’t blame them since I don’t fucking know what to do with me. It’s like I’m a carrier for Ebola or some shit instead of just missing a couple months of memories. I’m still me, still who I’ve always been, but by the looks the three of them give me when they think I’m not paying attention, you’d think I was some doppelganger who switched places with their friend. The only one who treats me like nothing’s changed is E-Buddy. Though to be fair he’s all of ten months old now, so he has no fuckin clue. All he knows is I make stupid faces when he pulls on my beard and I sneak him extra treats when his mam ain’t looking.
All I want to do
right now is pop another round of meds, have some lunch, and settle in for yet another afternoon of pretending like my life hasn’t turned to complete shite. Digging through the cupboards in the kitchen, I settle on a bowl of soup and set about attempting to hack my way into the can. Did you know can openers are all but impossible to use one handed? Yeah, I didn’t either until this very moment. I refuse to be beaten by a fucking tin.
I’m about to take a goddamn knife and stab the shit outta the fuckin thing when Sawyer comes in from his wing. The asshole stops by the counter and watches me struggle, not even bothering to hide his laughter.
“Enjoying the show ye feckin’ gobshite?” I snap at him, reaching for a knife in the block on the counter.
“Easy there Brother. Before you go full Psycho on that can, let me help,” he laughs, stepping up and reaching for the can of soup I have sitting inside a Tupperware.
“I have this perfectly in hand, thank ye very much ye areshole,” I say, adjusting my grip on the knife, ready to attack my lunch.
Sawyer steps up and takes the knife from me, reaching for the Tupperware and can, dragging them across the counter away from me.
“I can make my own fuckin’ lunch,” I growl, reaching for the can again. Sawyer snatches it away and smacks the back of my hand with the flat of the knife.
“How many times have you made my sorry ass breakfast? Let me at least open the fuckin’ can for you, you stubborn leprechaun,” he laughs.
“Aye, but I always cook cuz ye could burn water. I don’t trust a fuckin thing ye make,” I grump at him, knowing he’s right but I would rather give up my bike than ever admit the fact.
