Chapter 6 Isla
ISLA
As I sit in the parking lot outside the vet, I check my video stats.
Last night, supported by a large gulp of cheap wine I was drinking to celebrate the return of power and heating to the house, I posted my second video.
This was of me cleaning the bathroom out and trying to make it look nicer without actually decorating it.
While cleaning, I talked a little bit about how objects hold power when we assign memories to them.
And that Nanna isn’t in the little crocheted doll cover that sat over a spare toilet paper on top of the cistern.
In some ways it was more to remind myself, as much as anyone else, that it’s okay to get rid of things that don’t serve.
It has seventy-eight views. But I got thirteen new followers, taking me up to twenty-three in total.
Most of the comments were supportive.
One was not. It was a man telling me all the things I’m doing wrong.
But I can ignore them because a woman called Grace from Orlando told me she was going through her mom’s house and was struggling with the same things. And a person with the username probablyapumpkin encouraged me to not rush and sit with things if they’re too difficult to let go of.
There’s a real sense of honest togetherness that warms my heart, so I get out of my car feeling buoyed by what I’ve read.
The bell above the clinic door gives its usual half-hearted jingle as I push inside, the sound so familiar that it barely registers.
I’ve been opening this place three mornings a week for almost three months, and even though I still have to fight off that gut-deep instinct to flinch when someone walks behind me, the routine helps.
I turn off the alarm, switch on the lights, and then smile at the sound of a dog barking in the back where we keep sick animals overnight.
More than anything, this job has started to restore a little bit of pride in myself.
Before this job, I’d pick up the occasional bar shift, babysit, or rely on the money some of the brothers would periodically give me.
Catfish was the best. He’d give me two hundred bucks at the end of every month, like clockwork.
Tell me to take myself out for dinner or get my hair done or something.
Instead, I put it to ramen and cereal and did my own hair.
Smoke and Wraith would occasionally flip me a twenty or a fifty.
I remember the day I wrote about it in my journal, as something that was kind about the club, but seeing it on the page, it made my skin crawl.
Was it kindness, or was it paying for sex?
I took it as interest, that they cared…but in the cold light of day, it felt a lot like sex work. And it didn’t even hit minimum wage.
None of them ever bought me dinner. Or saw me outside of the club.
And I’m having to undo beliefs I wasn’t aware I was carrying about sex work that led me to feel shame. Or maybe it’s the fact I thought I was there to find a man who would love and protect me, and all I found were men willing to sleep with me and pay me for it. I’m embarrassed I didn’t even see it.
I shake my head. “Money flows healthily and abundantly into my life when I seek it in ways that support my best interest. Money flows healthily and abundantly into my life when I seek it in ways that support my best interest. Money flows healthily and abundantly into my life when I seek it in ways that support my best interest.”
I always say my mantras three times. I read three is lucky or something.
Out of habit, I commence my usual routine.
The most important task, once I’ve unlocked, is to make the coffee.
Once it is slowly bubbling and dripping into the pot, I slip into the bathroom, remove my sweater, and pull on the scrub top, smoothing the embroidered patch—Clearwater Veterinary Clinic—over my chest.
When I step out, Dr. Noah Lane rounds the corner from the hallway.
He smiles, all dimples and the kind of earnest gentleness that makes me suspicious. “Morning, Isla,” he says, stopping a perfectly polite distance away from me. But my brain is still struggling to not associate proximity with danger, even though Noah is about as threatening as a Labradoodle puppy.
In the clubhouse, bikers just touch. You’re free game. You’re walking by the bar one minute, sandwiched between a man’s legs the next. I used to think if I leaned into that, if I was the most brazen, the one with the fewest inhibitions, the one more up for anything, I’d be desired.
Look how that backfired.
“Morning,” I manage, walking behind the receptionist desk so there’s solid furniture between us. A firm barrier I can control.
He leans an elbow on the counter, eyes flicking over my shoulder toward the treatment area and then back to me. “You were right.”
“I was? About what?”
“That Mexican place you recommended. The one with the birria tacos.”
“Oh?” I shuffle papers I don’t need to shuffle, just to keep my hands busy. “Did you go for the lamb or beef?”
“Beef. Maybe next time we can go together and get the lamb. Maybe this weekend?”
There it is. The line I’ve been pretending not to see him inch toward over the last three months.
My stomach tightens. Not because he’s unattractive, because he’s objectively handsome in that outdoorsy, golden retriever boyfriend kind of way.
Dirty-blond hair that falls messily to his shoulders, blue eyes, and cheekbones that are just unfair.
But I’m shaky because I know what happens next.
I know the script. Dinner becomes groping and kissing and sex you might or might not enjoy.
And the idea of anyone touching me like that causes my stomach to clench.
My instinct is to smile, let him buy me dinner, and laugh at his jokes to keep the peace. Offer what he wants so that he wants you.
But I made a New Year’s resolution that the club girl version of me isn’t allowed out anymore.
“Thanks for the offer, but my time is pretty tied up in the house I’m renovating.”
He straightens a little, his expression hopeful. “I’m actually really handy. Maybe I could—”
The door swings open. The pathetic bell has never sounded better. I plaster a smile on my face, look toward the door, and freeze.
Smoke walks in. The Iron Outlaws road captain is wearing his leather cut, mirrored shades, and his scruff neatly trimmed. His ink is visible around his neck and at his wrists, but I know what the rest of his body looks like.
I’ve been a participant in his exhibitionism more than once. And I feel a little weird when I think about some of the things he’s done to my feet.
A strange flicker washes over Noah’s face. Distaste? Disdain?
“Jesus,” Smoke mutters as Bones, a chubby tricolor beagle with a slightly pathetic-looking face, tugs at the leash to get to Noah.
Noah drops to the ground to greet Bones, who is a lot more lethargic than he usually is. Quinn is the one who always brings him in. We’ve had some awkward moments, usually interrupted by Deb, one of the vets who is dating Quinn’s assistant at the bakery.
“Isla?” he says, as if he can’t tell if it’s me or not.
I suppose I’m wearing a lot more clothes, have died my hair to its more natural caramel shade so I can grow out all the blonde dye, and am wearing a lot less make-up and no false lashes.
I grip the edge of the counter so hard, my knuckles ache. “Smoke.”
He flicks his sunglasses to the top of his head, like he’s trying to reconcile the two versions of me. “You work here?”
I swallow deeply. “I do.”
No one here knows my past. And with Noah looking curiously between the two of us as he scratches Bones’s belly, I realize I really don’t want them to.
Noah jumps in before I answer. “Isla’s been with us for almost four months. She’s amazing and has saved my butt more times than I can count.”
Smoke’s jaw ticks. “Yeah?”
Heat crawls up my neck. It’s too much. Noah’s attention from one side, and my history with Smoke from the other. I feel cornered and exposed.
“I’ll check you in,” I say quickly. “What’s, uh…going on with Bones?”
Smoke steps closer to the desk. “Quinn thinks he got into some chocolate I left out overnight.”
I open the patient file on Bones and start to add some notes. “Do you know how much chocolate?”
Smoke pulls out an absolutely destroyed wrapper of a milk chocolate bar. “This much?”
Noah stands. “When do you think he ate it?”
Smoke shakes his head. “No idea. But there was a pile of sick that was still wet, so I doubt it was, like, ten hours ago or something.”
Taking the lead, Noah begins walking Bones into the back for treatment. “I’m gonna get him started on some activated charcoal and fluids, and we’ll monitor his heart.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Smoke says, watching them retreat. “Didn’t even want that ridiculous dog of Quinn’s when she first moved in, and now I’m worried sick something bad is gonna happen.”
“Bones will be fine. And Noah is a great vet.”
Smoke nods. “So, you really stopped hanging around the club, huh?”
Don’t overexplain. “I did.”
He studies me, and I can practically hear the cogs in his brain spinning. “Thought you were a lifer, Isla.”
Don’t overexplain. And yet, words spill out anyway. “Being a lifer is only an accomplishment if you’re a man.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Smoke asks.
“There’s a huge double standard. What makes you a badass for staying in the club makes me…” I catch myself overexplaining and stop.
He places his hands on the counter. “Makes you what?”
I take a step back, avoiding my chair, so I don’t trip and embarrass myself even more. “Never mind. Yes. I’ve left. Yes, I now work here. And I promise you we’ll look after Bones. If you want to go back there to be with him, you can.”
He doesn’t budge for a second, but then he nods slowly and follows Noah and Bones into the exam room.
The moment the door shuts, my lungs seize, and I press a fist to my chest.
I grab my phone and make a quick call.