Page 10 of Brick’s Anchor

Love. In a biker clubhouse. With men covered in tattoos, guns and violence.

I must look skeptical because Nora laughs quietly. "I know. I didn't believe it either at first. Didn't trust any of them. Especially not Judge, he's the VP. Big, intense, ex-military. Scared the hell out of me." Her expression softens. "Turns out he's the best man I've ever known. Turns out all of them are good men who've chosen to do hard things because it's right."

"Men aren't good," I say flatly. "They just pretend to be until they get what they want."

Nora doesn't argue. She doesn't try to convince me I'm wrong. Just nods. "I understand why you believe that. I believed it too. Still do sometimes, when the panic hits at three in the morning and I forget where I am. But these men, they've proven themselves. Over and over. They will to you too, if you give them the chance."

I don't want to give anyone chances. Don't want to open myself up to more disappointment, more betrayal, more proof that trusting people only leads to locked rooms and bruises.

But I also don't want to stay this person forever, this scared angry broken thing who flinches at sudden movements and digs her nails into her own skin.

"I want to shower," I say instead of addressing anything she just told me.

"Of course," Nora says immediately. "There are several bathrooms upstairs. I'll show you. We've got toiletries, clean towels, everything you need."

Everything I need. That's a laugh. What I need is to go back in time and never meet my ex-boyfriend. What I need is to erase the last week from existence. What I need is to stop feeling like my body is covered in a layer of filth I'll never be able to wash off.

But a shower is a start.

I follow Nora upstairs, the leather cut still wrapped around me. The staircase is solid wood, well-maintained. The second floor is quieter than downstairs. Hallway with doors on both sides. She leads me to one at the end.

"This is the guest bathroom," she says, opening the door. "Private. Door locks from the inside. Take as long as you need. There's shampoo, conditioner, body wash, razors if you want them. Clean towels in the cabinet. I'll leave some clothes outside the door for when you're done."

I look into the bathroom. It's bigger than the one in my apartment. Clean white tiles. A shower stall with glass doors. A real toilet with a real door that closes. Sink with a mirror above it that I'm not ready to look into yet.

It's perfect.

"Thank you," I manage.

Nora squeezes my shoulder gently, just once, just briefly, then leaves. I hear her footsteps retreat down the hallway.

I step inside and lock the door.

The click of that lock feels like the first real choice I've made in a week.

I stand there for a long moment, just breathing. Just existing in a space that's mine. That I can control. That has a door I locked myself instead of one someone locked on me.

Then I strip.

Peel off every piece of clothing that's been touching my skin for seven days straight. The jeans that used to fit properly. The t-shirt that's stained with things I don't want to identify. The bra and underwear that I've worn until they feel like part of my body instead of separate garments.

I throw them all in the corner. Want to burn them. Want to destroy every piece of evidence that the last week happened.

The cut, Brick's cut, I fold and set it on the counter. Even though it was only around my shoulders for an hour, even though it's just leather and patches and thread, I can't bring myself to treat it carelessly.

I turn on the shower. Watch steam start to rise. Adjust the temperature until it's almost too hot, and then I step under the spray.

The water hits my skin and I break.

Not crying. Not sobbing. Just breaking. Like everything I've been holding together for seven days finally has permission to fall apart. The water washes over me, and I stand there with my hands pressed against the tile, head bowed, letting it happen.

I scrub my skin. Use the body wash three times. Four times. Five. Trying to get clean. Trying to wash off the feeling of hands that grabbed me, eyes that watched me, the humiliation of that doorless bathroom and the guards who looked while I tried to maintain some shred of dignity.

My skin turns pink. Then red. I keep scrubbing.

I wash my hair twice. The shampoo smells like vanilla and something floral. Clean. Normal. Like the life I had before my ex-boyfriend decided I belonged to him.

The water starts to run cooler. I've been in here too long. Used up all the hot water. I don't care. I stand under the spray until it's actually cold, until my teeth are chattering, until I can't avoid turning it off anymore.