Page 3 of Brick’s Anchor

She looks at it.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I say, and it's the closest thing to gentle I've got.

"You're a man," she says. "You're all the same."

"Yeah," I agree. "We probably are. But right now, I'm the man getting you out of here. So, you can hate me later. Take my hand."

She hesitates. I watch the war happen on her face. Then, finally, she reaches out.

Her hand is small in mine. Cold. Shaking just slightly. Her fingers curl around my palm and something in my chest does an unfamiliar movement that I don't understand and don't want.

I pull her toward the door.

"Stay close," I tell her. "Don't let go."

"I can walk by myself."

"I know you can. Don't let go anyway."

We move through the warehouse. Phoenix and Ranger have the other five women clustered near the south entrance. Saint and Diesel are standing guard. All five women look like they've been through hell. Thin. Bruised. Wearing clothes that don't fit right.

The girl beside me makes a sound: half sob, half gasp. Her hand tightens on mine.

“I told you. We're getting all of you out." I say.

Chapter 2 - Rosie

They're alive.

I can see them. Five women clustered together near what looks like an exit, all of them looking as wrecked as I feel. One girl with blonde hair that's matted against her scalp. Another with her arms wrapped so tightly around herself that she looks like she's trying to hold her own body together. A third who can't stop shaking, trembling so hard I can see it from here. Two more pressed close together like they're the only thing keeping each other upright.

They're alive and I'm seeing them and the relief hits so hard I almost can't breathe through it.

For a week I've been hearing voices through the walls. Crying. Sometimes screaming. Sometimes nothing, which was worse than the screaming because nothing meant something terrible had happened. I counted the voices when I could, tried to memorize them, promised myself that if I got out, I'd tell someone exactly how many girls were here. Five. There were five others and now I'm looking at them and they're real and they're breathing.

The massive man's hand is still wrapped around mine. Too warm. Too solid. Too much contact. I want to pull away. Want to scratch at my own skin until I've removed every layer that's been touched by men in the last week. Want to peel myself out of this body and leave it here in this warehouse because it feels ruined beyond repair.

But I don't let go.

Not because I trust him. I don't. I don't trust any man and I'm never going to again. My ex-boyfriend proved that men are liars who smile while they plan your destruction. The guards who rotated through here for seven days proved that men think women are property they can lock up and forget about. This giant tattooed biker might be saying he's rescuing us, but that doesn't mean he's safe. Doesn't mean he's good. Doesn't mean I should believe a single word out of his mouth.

I still hold on because letting go means standing here alone and I can't do that right now. Not when my legs are shaking and my stomach is eating itself from hunger and my brain keeps screaming that this is a trick, that they're going to lock us back up, that nothing good is actually happening.

We cross the warehouse floor. Each step feels unreal. Like I'm walking through a dream, or a nightmare that's pretending to end. The concrete under my feet is cold. I'm only wearing socks, thin ones with holes that I've been wearing for a week straight. My shoes are somewhere. Maybe in the room. Maybe taken. I don't know and I don't care because shoes seem like the least important thing in the universe right now.

The other women look up as we approach. The blonde one's eyes widen when she sees me.

"You were in the room next to mine," she whispers, and her voice is hoarse. "I heard you yelling at the guards."

"Yeah," I say, and my own voice sounds just as wrecked. "That was me."

"You called one of them a micropenis with legs."

"He deserved it."

She laughs. It's a broken sound but it's real. "He really did."

The man holding my hand, Brick, I think I heard someone call him, stops in front of the group. "We're moving," he says. “Vehicles are staged two blocks east. We get there, we get out, we don't stop for anything."