Chapter 1
Alexis
“Do you have everything you need?”
I rest my hand on my little brother’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, like I can hold him here just a second longer if I try hard enough.
He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Lexy, I’ve been living on campus for almost six months now. Don’t worry.”
“Mason, please don’t drink too much, and stay away from drugs. You know how that messes you up and…”
“Lexy.”
He pulls me into a hug, my head barely reaching his chin, and for a moment I let myself stay there, letting the warmth of him settle into me, grounding me in something that still feels safe. When did he get so tall?
“You need to stop worrying about me,” he murmurs into my hair. “You worked your ass off so I could be here, in college, with a scholarship I could never get on my own. You gave me more than a big sister should ever have to give.”
He pulls back and studies my face too closely, like he’s trying to read through whatever I’m not saying.
“How’s the new apartment?”
I keep my expression steady, the lie sitting right where it always does. “Great. I love it.”
He doesn’t look convinced. Of course he doesn’t. He never misses anything.
“You sure it’s in a good neighborhood?”
I hug him again before he can dig any deeper. He’s too perceptive for his own good.
“I promise, Groot.”
He groans, dragging a hand through his blond hair. “Please don’t call me that. It’s bad for my image.”
I smirk despite the tightness in my chest. “You love it.”
“I loved it when I was twelve and you took care of me.”
“You’ll always be Groot.” I ruffle his hair, holding onto the moment longer than I should.
“All right,” I say, grabbing my keys. “I’ve got a two-hour drive back. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
I take a slow breath as he smiles at me, and for a second, pride pushes everything else aside. After everything life threw at us, I got him out. Out of Boulder Flats. Into the University of Wyoming. Into a future.
“Bye, kid. Call me if you need anything.”
“Bye, Rocket.”
The door clicks shut behind me, and the second it does, my smile falls.
He doesn’t need to know the truth.
That I’m not living in my own apartment.
That I’m still stuck in that trailer for at least another month, trying to scrape together enough money for a down payment.
Mason thinks I already moved in. I made sure of it.
Pictures from online, careful angles on FaceTime, always checking what shows behind me.
With his classes and football, he hasn’t had time to visit.
And honestly, I’m grateful.
I had the money saved. Every last dollar. I was supposed to move the same day he did.
But my mother went to the bank with forged papers and a signature that looked close enough to mine for someone not to question it.
She drained everything.
I found out standing at the counter, trying to pay the down payment, my account showing zero.
I never told Mason. I never will. He would drop everything to help me, and I didn’t fight this hard for him to throw his future away for me.
The truth of how we got here sits heavy in my bones.
The first ten years of my life were good. Safe. A small house with a yard, a dad who worked at the pharmacy, a mom at the hospital, and Mason, this tiny, wrinkly baby who wrapped his hand around my finger like he already knew I would never let go.
Then came the night everything broke.
My father was killed in an armed robbery when I was ten. Three minutes was all it took to shatter everything we had.
Mom sold the house. We moved into a trailer for a little while.
A little while turned into forever.
Russel came not long after. Harley. Leather. Tattoos. Flowers when she cried. I was eleven and desperate for her to be happy again, so I ignored the unease crawling up my spine every time he looked at us too long.
She married him within a year.
By the time she found out he was sleeping with half the women in his motorcycle club, Black Nemesis, it was already too late.
The first time he hit her, she didn’t leave.
She numbed herself instead, pills first, then alcohol, until the woman who used to laugh in our kitchen faded into something hollow.
By twelve, I was packing Mason’s lunches, getting him to school, reading to him at night. I learned how to make myself small when Russel brought his club brothers home. I perfected being quiet. Invisible.
But silence doesn’t protect you.
At fourteen, I forgot to lock the door.
I woke up to one of Russel’s buddies in my room, drunk, his hand on my thigh. I didn’t think. I grabbed the baseball bat from under my bed and swung until he dropped.
Russel hit me for it, hard enough to snap my head to the side. Then he leaned in close and whispered,
“Next time you fight back, you will disappear. And your brother ends up in an orphanage.”
And I believed him.
At sixteen, I got a job, then another, and dropped out of school so Mason wouldn’t have to. He was the one with a future. The one with a way out.
I was not going to be the reason he stayed.
Now I’m twenty-three, with no degree, no real home, and barely any money left because I poured everything into his life.
I would do it again. A thousand times.
The truck rattles as I pull back into Boulder Flats, and the second I see the trailer, my stomach tightens. Russel’s bike is not there.
Relief flickers, small and fragile.
Inside, Mom is passed out on the couch, an empty bottle hanging from her fingers. I step over her and head to my room.
Without Mason, the space feels wrong. Bigger. Quieter. Too empty.
I grab my guitar and sit on the edge of the bed, letting my fingers find the strings.
The vibration settles something inside me, grounding me in a way nothing else ever has.
Music has always been the only place I feel safe.
My father loved movie soundtracks and played the piano, and he’s the one who taught me everything I know.
I am about to set it aside when the sound cuts through the quiet.
A Harley.
Low, heavy, unmistakable. Too close .
My body reacts before my mind can catch up, my heart jumping into my throat as I push off the bed and move toward the door, but I am already too late.
Russel fills the doorway, swaying slightly, his presence swallowing the small space whole, the smell of beer hitting me before he even speaks.
“Hello, little lady.”
My stomach drops, dread curling tight in my chest. I know that tone.
“Why don’t you come into the kitchen and make me a sandwich.”
“I have work.”
“No, you don’t.”
The air shifts, heavy and suffocating, and I nod before I can stop myself, swallowing everything that wants to fight back as I turn toward the kitchen, each step measured, careful, my pulse loud in my ears as I bend to open the mini fridge.
His hand lands on me without warning, rough and claiming, and I spin around so fast my elbow slams into the counter, pain shooting up my arm as I stumble back into him, into the heat and smell of him that makes my stomach turn.
“Don’t be like that,” he mutters.
“Get away from me.” My voice shakes, thin and unsteady.
“No.”
His hand clamps around my throat, cutting off air as he drives me back into the wall, the impact knocking the breath out of me, black spots flickering at the edges of my vision as his grip tightens and his other hand drags lower.
No .
Panic surges, sharp and blinding, and my fingers scramble blindly along the counter until they close around something solid, something cold.
The frying pan.
I don’t think. I swing.
The crack echoes through the small kitchen, the force of it jolting up my arm as his grip falters, loosens just enough for me to wrench free and suck in a breath that burns all the way down.
“You little…”
I don’t stay to hear the rest.
Adrenaline floods my system, pushing me forward as I bolt down the hallway, slam my bedroom door shut, and shove the chair under the handle with shaking hands, my chest heaving as I grab whatever I can reach, my guitar, my backpack, my wallet, my fingers clumsy and too slow while the door behind me rattles under his weight.
“OPEN THE DOOR, ALEXIS!”
The impact splinters through the wood, the chair scraping under the force of it, and I don’t wait for it to give.
I shove the window open and climb through, scraping my arms on the way down, the night air hitting my lungs as I land hard and take off running, his roar chasing me into the dark.
I reach my truck and throw myself inside, locking the doors with trembling hands that barely cooperate as I fumble for the keys, my breath coming too fast, too shallow as I jam them into the ignition.
Russel bursts out of the trailer, charging toward me.
“Come on,” I whisper, my voice breaking as the engine coughs beneath me.
Once.
Again.
For a second, terror claws up my spine, thick and suffocating, and then it finally catches, roaring to life just as he gets too close.
I slam my foot down and peel out of the driveway, gravel spitting behind me as his shouts fade into the distance, my whole body shaking, my throat raw, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break through my chest.
I don’t stop.
Not when the bruises start to bloom. Not when my hands won’t steady. Not when my lungs burn with every breath.
I drive until the tank runs dry.
The engine sputters as I roll into a parking lot, the glow of a flickering neon sign cutting through the dark.
Midnight Rodeo.
The engine dies beneath me, and I sag back into the seat, every muscle in my body trembling, my guitar resting in the back like the only piece of my life I managed to take with me.
My chest rises and falls, uneven, raw, every breath still catching on the edge of what just happened.
But for the first time in years…
I can breathe.
I am not going back.
I am done .
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Dexter