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This is not the first time you have woken up in an unfamiliar setting, half-clothed, your body nursing whatever internal wounds it had succumbed to the night before. (So you like to indulge a little. So what?) However, this is the first time that your body is also nursing an external wound.
It only takes you a second to realize it — the somewhat familiar, dull ache sprouting outward from your side. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror to the left of the bed, a two-sizes-too-big t-shirt that very much did not belong to you riding up to reveal the beginnings of an adhesive pad. With your right side facing the ceiling, you gingerly run a hand over the adhesive, stopping short when you can feel the gauze bulging under it.
Fuck. What did you get yourself into last night?
Your memory is foggy, no doubt from the agonizing hangover and whatever drugs you’d most likely been pumped with the night before, if the carefully dressed wound on your side is any indication. You try to piece together what happened, brief vignettes of messy moments crossing your mind — dressing up, popping pills, sipping drinks, a loud pop! that bounces around and echoes through your thoughts. You’d gotten yourself into several messes there was no denying that, but you’d never gotten yourself shot before. (Well… At least not during a night out.)
Your fingers ghost over your bandage almost subconsciously as you try to think, hard, about where you’d managed to get yourself shot. You accidentally press on a sore spot and wince, giving up on remembering. It would no doubt come back to you later, hopefully over a steaming cup of coffee and a breakfast so greasy that it clogs your pores just looking at it.
As you start to think about breakfast, you begin to sit up, praying you’re not too sore to make a quick getaway from wherever the hell you are. It takes a minute and several colorful curses before you’re on your feet, hobbling over to the window to hopefully get your bearings and find your way out of here.
You reach up to open the drapes with your left hand, opting not to use your right in order to keep from stretching your wounded side. You’re only met with greenery, a hedge maze spreading far across the grassy landscape, with only hints of city life poking out from behind a wall of trees at least a few miles away.
Well, you think, huffing quietly, Thank God for GPS.
Speaking of… where is your phone?
“Oh, good, you’re up.”
The voice startles you, a casual greeting coming from behind you, and all the hairs on your body stand at attention. The man speaking doesn’t make it very far before you turn around and surge forward, catching his arm in your hand and spinning him around, pinning him up against the wall with a harsh thud.
“Christ, what the fuck?”
You’re too close to the man to make out any defining features, save for the mop of curly hair that bounces as he struggles against the wall.
“We save your fuckin’ life and this is how you pay us back?”
You let go for merely a second before slamming the man up against the wall again. “I wake up in the middle of nowhere with a bullet hole in my side and you think it’s smart to just waltz in here like that?”
You push him further against the wall for good measure.
“Okay, Christ, that’s fair.” The man speaks through grit teeth, wriggling his arms out of your grip in order to hold his hands up in surrender. “Just… fuckin’ let me go, would ya?”
You’re hesitant, but if this guy wanted you dead, he wouldn’t have nursed you back to health, right?
“Fine,” You spit out, easing off of him, “But don’t make me regret it.”
“Fine,” He echos you as he steps away from you, “Jesus.”
As the guy steps away, you can finally take in his features. Curly hair, young face. A beat up brown leather jacket over a faded t-shirt, some sort of gaming symbol half scratched off, probably from years of wearing it. He looks vaguely familiar, but you have no idea why.
“Who are you? Why am I here?”
“Michael,” He answers, shrugging his shoulders until his jacket has righted itself against his body, “You got caught in the crossfire. We don’t usually catch civilians in the crossfire. We brought you here to fix you up.”
“Who’s we?”
“Well before you fucking assaulted me, I was coming to see if you felt like coming down for breakfast to thank all of us for saving your ass.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Michael purses his lips. “I’d better let Geoff explain. I’m not trying to have my ass handed to me again when you find out.”
Your eyebrow quirks up. This guy is not helping his case.
“They should have sent Jack up here.” Michael grumbles to himself, carefully sidestepping around you to make his way to the door, “She’s way better at this than the rest of us.”
“Dude!” You yell, exasperated, throwing your hands up in the air. You wince as the sudden movement shoots a pang through your side. “What the fuck? You’re just gonna leave? Do you realize how fucked up this is?”
Michael doesn’t even look back at you as he begins to head out of the room. You follow after him, stomping the whole way, now on a roll.
“I wake up in some rando’s room, bandaged up because I got hit with a stray bullet, and the only person to greet me is some unhelpful asshole who only gives me vague-ass answers.”
Michael waves a hand, a gesture that says, Yeah, yeah.
“I swear to God, if I wind up dead because of you—“
“You’re actually not dead because of me, so.”
You could rip his head off, but he has a point. You stop shouting at him then, crossing your arms over your chest as you follow him through long hallways, suddenly acutely aware of how big this place is. Michael leads you to a staircase, pausing only to let you walk in front of him, watching you carefully. He holds a hand out beside you, not touching you but hanging in the air should you lose your balance or suddenly become too weak to keep going.
Now you’re pretty sure this guy doesn’t want you dead… unless he’s playing some sort of long game. But, no offense to Michael, he doesn’t really seem like the type to pull something like that off. There’s a softness in his eyes as he looks at you.
“After you,” He mumbles, shaking his head as you roll your eyes at him, pushing past him and down the stairs.
As you descend the grand staircase, you start to hear voices — almost too many to count. They all sound jovial, some filled with laughter. Mostly men, but you can hear at least one other woman. One of them is distinctly British, sounding offended.
“Shh, they’re coming.” Someone says, and everyone around him quiets down. ”Everybody, be normal.”
There’s a pause, then: “Or something close to it. Fuck, I don’t know. Just… don’t scare her. Let me do the talking.”
“Jeremy’s dressed in that hideous orange and purple getup and you’re telling us not to scare her?”
And just like that, everything clicks: the mop of curly hair on Michael’s head, his beat up leather jacket, the British man, the orange/purple combo, the names you’d heard. Jack. Geoff. Jeremy.
You’re in the lair of the Fake AH Crew — the most notorious gang in Los Santos. What the fuck.
You don’t know when you’d stopped walking, but suddenly, Michael’s hand is on your shoulder. His grip is firm, but not threatening, though it’s hard not to feel threatened in a mansion in the middle of nowhere with a bullet hole in your side, no idea where your cell phone is, and a handful of criminals in the next room.
You peer over at Michael, and you can tell he knows that you’ve figured it out. His eyes are soft, almost pleading, void of any malice or distrust.
It’s odd looking at him now, his boyish face and kind eyes such a stark difference from the wild expression on his face in all the news footage. He almost makes you feel safe, when it should probably be the opposite.
What he doesn’t know (or maybe he does, re: smashing his face against the wall) is that you’ve dealt with much worse.
You try to smile at him, let him know everything’s cool, but you can’t help the way your heart races as he guides you toward the next room.
The murmured fight between the gang stops instantly as you come into view. Everyone goes silent, and somehow that’s even more unsettling. They all stare at you from their seats at the dining table, sizing you up. Gazes slowly pull away from you and over to a standing man with a handlebar mustache, his arms covered in tattoos, which peek out from the rolled up sleeves of his white dress shirt. The leader of the Fakes, Geoff.
He’s quiet for a moment, his hand over his mouth in contemplation, his pointer finger absentmindedly stroking his mustache. He looks like he’s not sure what to say, like maybe kidnapping is new to him. This confuses you a bit — you’d think the leader of a gang whose members have never been apprehended would have a quick tongue, no doubt used to talking his way out of shit. The longer the silence goes on, with everyone glancing at each other, wondering if they should step in, you realize this is not the case.
“Jack?” Geoff finally breathes out, his voice high. “Can you take over, please?”
Jack smiles, placing a hand on Geoff’s shoulder as he moves to sit down, before taking a few steps toward you.
Michael shoots you a look as if to say, I told you so, and you can’t help the short giggle that bubbles out of you. It’s probably not the right reaction, but your brain is running into overdrive due to the confusion and ridiculousness of the situation you’ve wound up in.
Michael grins at you, before averting his gaze as everyone’s heads snap in your direction.
“Oh, good, she laughs,” One of the other members breathes out — Jeremy, you realize — his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world has just fallen from him.
Jack is standing in front of you now, placing a hand on each of your arms, giving them a gentle squeeze. It’s comforting in the strangest way, almost maternal, and you feel your own shoulders relax. She looks you pointedly in the eyes, her eyebrows raised and her voice low.
“Are you okay?”
You nod, unsure of what to really say. You’re both okay and very much not okay at the same time, but there’s no air of danger in the room. Everyone seems very worried for you, and nothing else. It’s fucking weird.
“I understand if you feel overwhelmed by this whole thing. Do you want to go into the other room and talk, just you and me?”
Despite the fact that you feel very exposed all of a sudden, with everyone watching you, standing barefoot on top of cold tile with just a big t-shirt on, you shake your head. “I’m okay, Jack. Really.”
“Okay,” Jack nods, breathing a short sigh of relief. “Would you like something to eat?”
As your adrenaline begins to subside, you feel very hungry at the mention of food, and you hadn’t noticed it before, but the air smelled of bacon and sausage and maple syrup, enticing you to say yes.
So you do.
“Great,” Jack smiles at you, running a soft hand over your cheek before looking over at Michael, “Make her a plate, will you please?”
Michael nods like a soldier at attention before moving toward the marble island, where several plates piled high with food sat untouched. They’d waited for you.
Jack guides you by the shoulders to an empty chair at the table. You try not to blush as everyone averts their gaze as you sit down, no doubt trying to keep from making you feel any more nervous than you are.
An uncomfortable silence descends upon the room again as you make yourself comfortable. The only noise to be heard is the clacking of your plate and silverware on the glass of the table as Michael sets them in front of you.
“I grabbed you a bit of everything,” He says, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck, “I obviously don’t know what you like, so…”
He trails off and you give him a soft smile. “Thanks, Michael.”
“You’re, like, weirdly chill about all of this.” Jeremy speaks up, and Geoff shoots him a glare.
You laugh, the sound bordering mirthless. “Trust me, I’m not chill at all right now.” You say, picking up your fork and scooping up some scrambled eggs, shoving them in your mouth, “But, I figure if y’all were gonna murder me, y’all would have done it by now.”
“Jury’s still out,” teases the man in the purple hoodie and glasses. Ray.
You point at him with your fork, “See, most of you are actively subverting my expectations, but not all of you.”
“You’re definitely subverting ours,” says the British one. Gavin. “We thought Michael would have to drag you down here kicking and screaming.”
Michael snickers. “Nah, dude. She almost kicked my fuckin’ ass up there.”
“Really?” Gavin’s eyes light up and he leans forward on his hands, beaming at you, “What happened?”
“Dude,” Michael frowns at him, “Give the poor girl some space. I’m sure she’d rather hear what happened to her, yeah?”
He looks down at you for confirmation.
“I’ll give you all the details in return,” You promise Gavin, who just smirks and leans back in his chair, satisfied with your trade.
Geoff takes the lead on this conversation. “You’ve been in and out for a few days.”
“A few days?” You ask incredulously, trying to avoid choking on your food, “It’s been days?”
Geoff nods, rubbing his hand over his mouth again. “We had a… meeting at the establishment you were visiting.” (The club. Geoff could just say club.) “You were already with our target when I got there.”
That does not ring a bell. You don’t remember being with anyone, but you figure you could have already been so gone by then that you’d never know if what he said is true or not.
Geoff picks up on the change in your demeanor, reading your confused expression. “You were out of it. I think we were probably lucky to get there when we did, otherwise I don’t know what would have happened to you.”
“I probably wouldn’t have been shot and kidnapped.” You murmur, and Geoff sucks his teeth, cocking his head to the side.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” He says calmly, but there’s a look in his eyes that’s anything but calm. He looks like his blood is starting to boil as he thinks about the situation you’d found yourself in. (You very briefly hope there’s not a lecture coming.)
“And, if it makes you feel any better, that bullet didn’t come from us.” Ray interjects, eyeing you hopefully.
It does make you feel a little better.
“We would have taken you to the hospital, but, you know how that would go.” Geoff continues his explanation, “So we brought you here, patched you up. We sent someone to the address on your license, just to see if there was anyone who could take care of you, but… seems like you’re a wanted woman.”
Geoff stares at you after that, and you shrink a little under his gaze.
“Yeah, well…” You purse your lips, averting your eyes, “You’re not exactly the first gang I’ve found myself tangled up with.”
Geoff doesn’t push you on that little detail, but you can see everyone starting to grow curious.
“Are you in danger?” Jack asks, reaching over the table to place a hand on your arm.
You purse your lips again, heat spreading out from your cheeks and up to the tips of your ears.
“Yeah,” You finally admit, nodding slowly. “I probably am. I’ve been looking for an out, but, you know how that would go.”
Jack’s gaze softens even more, squeezing your arm again. “Do you want some help? You can hide out here.”
“Jack.” Geoff warns, his tone firm. Jack snaps her head toward him, shooting him a glare, and he only stands up from the table and leaves the kitchen.
You watch him leave, your face growing even hotter with shame, but Jack pats your arm. “He thinks it’s his fault you got hurt,” She explains in a low voice, “He feels responsible, and I’m sure he’s worried about what will happen to you if we keep you here.”
There’s a pang in your chest as Jack tells you this, your heart swelling a little over Geoff, the leader of a high-profile, volatile gang, feeling responsible for something you thought they’d all be used to. When Michael had told you that they’d never had any civilians caught in the crossfire, you’d been skeptical, but Geoff’s reaction said otherwise. You wonder how that’s even possible.
“But we will keep you here, if you need a safehouse.” Jack leans her head down to look you in the eyes, “I mean it, angel. Say the word and we’ll protect you.”
She glances at the men around the table, and they all nod in agreement.
“We’ll even give you a codename,” Gavin suggests, shrugging, “Jack and Geoff are the only ones who know your real name anyway.”
You raise an eyebrow at that and Jack smiles at you. “Just for your safety.” She says, before giving your arm another squeeze, “Is there anything you’d like to be called? I don’t trust these idiots to come up with anything good.”
You ponder her question for a moment before answering.
“Angel,” You say. She’d called you angel before, and it sounded nice coming from her.
“Angel it is.” Jack nods, dropping her hand flat on the table. “Okay, gang. Eat up before everything gets cold, and then we’ll show our new angel around. Does that sound good to you?”
You nod back, feeling a whole lot safer than you did just moments ago. You’ve never had this many people going to bat for you, offering to protect you like this. It’s nice.
“Good deal,” Jack says, stroking your cheek gently one more time before excusing herself from the table. “I’ll work on Geoff, don’t worry.”
With that, she leaves, and Gavin leans forward again, grinning wickedly.
“I believe you owe me a story now, love.”