Page 10 of Owned By Knuckles
Enclosed space. No witnesses.
Derek's favorite combination.
"Hey." Knuckles' voice is soft. "You're okay. Just taking you upstairs. That's all."
I nod but can't make myself speak. My throat has closed up with panic I can't quite control.
"Breathe," he says. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Nice and slow."
I try. It comes out shaky and uneven, but I try.
"Good. Again."
I breathe. He waits. Doesn't tell me to calm down or stop being dramatic or ask what the fuck is wrong with me. Just waits while I remember how to get air into my lungs.
The elevator stops on the third floor. The doors open and Knuckles carries me out into a hallway that's nicer than I expected. Not luxury hotel nice, but clean and quiet and well-maintained. He stops at a door marked 307 and somehowmanages to unlock it while still holding me. The room inside is small but clean—a queen bed, a dresser, and a door that probably leads to a bathroom. Generic hotel art on the walls. Nothing threatening.
Nothing that screams biker clubhouse or place where women disappear.
Just a room.
Knuckles sets me down on the edge of the bed. My feet immediately throb in protest at the change in position, but I bite back the sound that wants to escape.
"Bathroom's through there," he says, pointing to the door I noticed. "Towels, soap, all that shit. There's a robe in the closet if you want to get out of the dress."
I look down at myself. The ivory fabric is gray at the hem, stained with blood and street dirt and the remains of a life I set on fire tonight.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He nods once. Then he pulls out his phone and types something quickly.
"I'm gonna have someone bring up food and clean clothes. You got sizes you want to give me, or should I guess?"
The question is so practical, so mundane, that it almost makes me laugh. What size do you wear? Like we're shopping instead of... whatever this is.
"Large," I say. Then, because Derek's voice is in my head telling me I should be embarrassed, "Extra large, maybe. I'm—"
"I don't need your life story," Knuckles interrupts. "Just a size."
It's not cruel, the way he says it. Just matter-of-fact. Like my size is information, not a judgment.
"Large is fine," I say quietly.
He types something else. "You eat meat?"
"Yeah."
"Allergies?"
"No."
"Good. I'm having them send up a burger and fries. You need anything else?"
I need so many things that I don't know where to start. I need my life to make sense again. I need my family to believe me. I need Derek to disappear. I need to wake up and discover this whole nightmare was just that, a nightmare I can leave behind.
But I can't say any of that to this stranger who's already done more for me tonight than he had any reason to.
"I'm okay," I say instead.
