Chapter 2
SYVANNAH
By the time I reach Royal Dancers studio, the sun’s already high enough to make the windows glow. Los Angeles buzzes with horns, heat, and music pounding from cars, but inside it’s just wood floors, mirrors, and the soft slap of bare feet on varnish.
Nadia stands by the stereo, her tank top clinging to her back. “You’re late,” she says without turning.
“I’m early for me,” I answer, dropping my bag by the wall.
She laughs. “Progress.”
Progress. Everyone loves that word. It sounds hopeful. What they mean is still alive, still breathing, still pretending everything’s fine.
I lower myself to the floor with the girls and guide them through slow movements, reach, breathe, and hold, reminding them to feel their bodies rather than fighting them.
The youngest one trembles as she bends forward, and I rest my hand lightly on her shoulder until her breathing steadies beneath my palm.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “You own your body. It doesn’t own you.”
She nods, trusting me like I know what I’m doing. Half the time, I’m just repeating what Nadia told me when I crawled out of my own hell, but sometimes that’s enough.
When class ends, laughter fills the room. The girls talk about dates, kids, and shifts at work, and they smell of vanilla lotion and hope. I stand there a second longer than I need to, watching them, trying to decide whether I belong in this version of my life.
The door opens with a squeak that slices through the noise.
Pearl stands there like she owns the place.
She‘s in tight jeans, heavy eyeliner, and a sneer that curves her mouth. Her perfume is thick and sweet, a scent that makes my stomach turn. It’s a scent I associate with dark rooms and bad decisions.
“Well,” she says, drawing out the word, “if it isn’t our miracle girl.”
“Class is over,” I say evenly, reaching for a towel. “Unless you’re here to volunteer.”
She laughs under her breath. “Volunteer? Honey, I don’t do charity. That’s Tiny’s job.”
My pulse quickens. “You drunk?”
“Not enough.” She leans against the wall like she owns it. “He’s got a type, you know. Damaged. Quiet. Grateful. Makes him feel like a hero.”
“Careful,” I warn, even though my voice sounds thin.
“Why? You think he’s gonna fix you?” Her voice softens into something sweetly venomous. “He doesn’t fix anyone, babe. He collects them. And when they think they’re healed, he lets them go.”
I focus on folding the towel, on making the edges even, because if I look at her too long, I might say something I can’t take back.
“You done?” I ask.
“For now.” She gives me one last look, slow and deliberate. “Enjoy your dance class. It’s the closest you’ll get to grace.” When she leaves, the door slams hard enough to make the mirrors tremble.
The craving doesn’t creep in. It hits. It rises from my stomach to my throat, sharp and urgent, and suddenly my hands don’t feel like mine. I tell Nadia I’ve got errands to run and step into the heat before she can read the truth in my face.
The liquor store sits at the corner like it’s waiting for me.
Neon hums behind the glass, rows of bottles glowing under fluorescent light. I stand there longer than I should, watching my reflection layered over the shelves. My eyes look too wide. My mouth is too tight.
One drink wouldn’t undo everything.
It would just quiet it.
“Syv.” Tiny’s voice carries across the street, steady and low.
I don’t turn right away. I can’t. When I finally do, he’s leaning against his bike, helmet in one hand, watching me with an expression that isn’t angry and isn’t soft, either. It’s something in between.
“How’d you know?” I ask.
He nods toward Peanut sitting in the saddlebag, tail flicking. “Snitch.”
A small laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and for a second, the craving loosens its grip.
He crosses the street slowly, not crowding me, not grabbing my arm. “Come on,” he says. “Ride with me.”
“I’m fine.”
He glances at the liquor store, then back at me. “You’re standing outside a relapse.”
The words aren’t harsh. They’re simply true.
“I just needed air.”
“Then we’ll find some that doesn’t come in a bottle.”
I want to tell him to go to hell, that I don’t need saving, but that low, patient rumble in his voice breaks me. I take the helmet from his hand before I can change my mind, secure it under my chin, and climb onto the bike behind him.
The engine starts, and the vibration settles into my bones as I wrap my arms around Tiny’s waist. The wind tears at my hair, cooling the heat under my skin. By the time we pull into a diner near the docks, my hands have stopped shaking.
Inside, the smell of coffee and grease wraps around us. We slide into a booth in the back, and the waitress calls him sweetheart, as if she’s done it a hundred times before.
He waits until we’re alone again before asking. “How long has it been?”
“Since what?”
“You know what.”
“Seven months,” I say, staring at the chipped mug. “Feels longer on some days. Feels shorter on others.” Tiny nods slowly, eyes fixed on the window. “You ever feel like you’re just pretending to be okay so others think you’re fine?” I ask.
“Every damn day.” Tiny answers without hesitation.
I smile faintly, feeling small and sad. “You hide it well.”
He shrugs. “Practice.”
We fall silent again. I trace the condensation on my glass, listening to the clatter of dishes and the low murmur of the night crew. Then I ask the question that’s been haunting me since the day I met him.
“Why me?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Tiny’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“You could’ve left me where I was. The club didn’t owe me anything.”
Tiny leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. “Maybe I saw something worth staying for.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
The air shifts between us. His gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, then returns to my eyes, and my pulse kicks up.
I swallow hard. “You keep looking at me like that, people are gonna talk.”
“Let ’em.” His voice is rougher now, yet softer too.
“Tiny …”
He exhales, running a hand over his jaw. “You don’t need another reason to feel trapped, Syv. I get it. But if you ever decide to stop running, you know where I am.”
Heat rushes through me. Not the kind from panic or shame, but something older and heavier. I want to reach across the table, yet I don’t.
Instead, I pick up my cup and take a long drink. “Are you always this good at ruining perfectly awkward moments?”
“Best in the business.” He grins, and for a heartbeat, the ache eases.
We finish our food in companionable silence. When we step outside, the air’s cooler. The ocean’s close enough to smell.
He hands me the helmet. “You coming back?”
“I wasn’t planning to sleep under a bridge.”
“Good. Bridges are overrated.”
I climb on behind Tiny, wrapping my arms around his waist. The engine hums steadily beneath us. I press my cheek against his back, the leather warm from his body. I unconsciously match my breathing to his. For a few miles, it feels like we’re moving in the same direction.
When we pull into the compound, he kills the engine and turns halfway, his eyes dark under the floodlight. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He studies me a moment longer then nods, climbing off his bike.
The clubhouse is quiet as we step inside. Most of the lights are off, except for the neon above the bar and the faint glow from the garage, where someone is still tuning an engine. The air smells of oil, cigarettes, and home.
Tiny walks me down the hallway toward my room. His boots thud against the wood, steady and grounding. Mine sounds too light, too fragile in comparison.
He turns away from me, but pauses. “Syv?”
“Yeah?”
Tiny hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “If you ever find yourself outside another liquor store … call me before the bottle does.” The words land softly but meaningfully. I can only nod.
“I will.” I hope.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time.
“I will be.”
He nods slowly, eyes searching mine for a lie. It’s unfair the way he looks at me, as if he could reach inside and fix the broken wiring if I’d just let him.
I reach for the doorknob, but my hand lingers. “Tiny?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He tilts his head and studies me. “For what?”
“For showing up.”
His jaw works once before he answers. “Always.”
The word settles deep, warm, and solid, and I want to believe it. I want to believe someone could mean it and not disappear later.
For a moment, we stand there, staring at each other. The space between us feels like it’s tightening. His scent of leather, soap, and smoke envelops me. My heart races too fast, too close to the surface.
Tiny breaks the moment first, like he always does. “Get some sleep, Syv.”
“Night, Tiny.”
He hesitates, like he wants to say more, then turns and walks down the hall. The sound of his boots fades, but the echo remains.
I step inside and shut the door.
The room is small but clean. I have a bed, a dresser, and an old lamp I found at a thrift store. Peanut’s dish sits against the wall, her paw prints still dusty on the tile from the last time Tiny brought her by.
I sink onto the bed, the quiet pressing in. The ride, the diner, his voice, all of it flashes behind my eyes in quick succession.
The way he looked at me when I admitted how close I was to falling apart.
The way his hand hovered over mine, not quite touching, as if he knew that if he touched, I wouldn’t let go. The way my pulse jumped when he said, Let ’em talk.
I should be sleeping. Instead, I close my eyes and see his. Brown, steady, endless.
My body still remembers how it felt pressed against his back on the ride home. The warmth of him beneath my palms. The rhythm of his breathing. The heat between us neither of us dares to name.
An ache settles low in my chest, steady and insistent, and I don’t trust what it could become if I let it grow.
Wanting him would be simple if it were reckless, if it burned fast and disappeared just as quickly. But this feels slower than that. It lingers.
And that kind of wanting carries weight.
I’m too broken, I think. He deserves someone clean, someone who won’t drag him into the wreckage I’m still crawling out of. But when I shift under the thin sheet, I can still smell him on my skin.
I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The cracks resemble roads. Some are broken, some still lead somewhere.
If I sleep, I’ll dream of him. If I stay awake, I’ll remember why I shouldn’t.
I pull the blanket higher and let the silence stretch instead of finishing the thought. Tiny said, “Always.” The word felt solid when he said it. Warm. Certain.
But I’ve believed in solid things before.
I turn onto my side and stare at the thin strip of light under the door, listening as his engine starts outside and then fades into the distance. The sound lingers longer than it should, settling somewhere between comfort and warning.
Maybe always means something different with him. Maybe it doesn’t.
I close my eyes, holding onto the memory of breathing in time with him on the bike, the way it felt to share the same rhythm for a few quiet miles.
I don’t yet know if I’m strong enough to find out.