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."
Two blocks. That's not far. That's nothing. But when I look at the other girls, at how weak they are, at how the one who can't stop shaking looks like she might collapse, two blocks sounds impossible.
"Can they walk that far?" I ask.
Brick looks at me. His eyes are so dark they're almost black. There's something in them that I don't understand. Something that looks like fury but it's not directed at me. "They won't have to walk alone."
One of the other bikers, this one with darker hair and a presence that feels like command, steps forward. He's got a scar across his jaw and sharp eyes that take in everything.
"I'm Phoenix," he says to all of us. His voice is calmer than I expected, steadier. "President of the Iron Phoenix MC. You're safe now. We're taking you somewhere secure where you can get food, medical attention, whatever you need. Nobody's going to hurt you. You have my word."
"Your word doesn't mean shit," I say before I can stop myself.
Every biker in the room goes still. The tension shifts, sharpens. The blonde girl beside me makes a small scared sound.
I don't take it back.
Phoenix looks at me for a short moment. Then he nods. "You're right," he says. "It doesn't. Not yet. But you're going to see that it does. Until then, you can hate us all you want as long as you keep moving."
Something about that response catches me off guard. I was expecting anger. Expected him to tell me to shut up or show respect or any of the thousand things men say when women don't immediately trust them. But he just agreed with me. Told me my distrust was justified.
I don't know what to do with that.
"Let's go," Brick says. His hand tightens slightly on mine. Not painful. Just present. "Stay close."
We move as a group. The bikers form a loose circle around us, weapons out, eyes scanning constantly. I watch them work. They move like soldiers. Like people who've done this before. Efficient, and deadly.
It should make me feel safer.
It doesn't.
All I feel is dirty. So fucking dirty that I want to claw at my own skin.
The clothes I'm wearing have been on my body for a week straight.
I haven't showered. Haven't been allowed to.
Just that tiny disgusting bathroom with no door where the guards could watch if they wanted to.
Where I had to choose between using it or holding it until my bladder screamed, and the humiliation of that choice is something I'll carry forever.
My hair feels greasy against my neck. My scalp itches. My mouth tastes like rot. My body feels like it belongs to someone else, like it stopped being mine the moment my ex-boyfriend's fist connected with my face and I woke up in that locked room.
We exit through a side door. The night air hits my face and it's so cold, so sharp, so clean that I almost sob. Fresh air. Real air. Not the stale recycled hell of that warehouse. I breathe it in and it hurts because I haven't breathed properly in seven days.
"Keep moving," Brick murmurs.
He's angled himself slightly in front of me, blocking wind or threats or both. I don't want him that close. Don't want anyone that close. But I don't have the energy to argue.
The street is dark. Empty. Industrial buildings line both sides, all of them closed for the night. Our footsteps echo against pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. Normal sounds. The sounds of a world that kept existing while I was locked away from it.
Two blocks feels like two miles. The girl who couldn't stop shaking stumbles and one of the bikers, the one with medical supplies on his belt, catches her before she hits the ground.
"I've got you," he says. "Just a little farther."
Another girl, the one with dark hair who was pressed against her friend, starts crying. Not loud. Just quiet tears streaming down her face while she walks. The blonde beside me reaches out and takes her hand. Neither of them says anything. They just hold on.
I'm still holding Brick's hand. I don't know when I started gripping it so tight. My fingers ache from the pressure, but he hasn't complained. Hasn't tried to pull away. Just keeps walking, keeps blocking the wind, keeps existing as this solid immovable presence beside me.
I hate that I enjoy it.
Vehicles appear ahead. Three of them. Large SUVs with tinted windows parked in a line.
Not bikes. I realize with a strange distant part of my brain that they brought vehicles that could fit all of us comfortably instead of making us ride on the back of motorcycles.
That's thoughtful. I don't want to notice thoughtfulness right now.
Don't want to see these men as anything other than what all men are.
But I notice anyway.
"Women in the middle vehicle," Phoenix says. "Brick, Judge, you're with them. Saint, you're driving. Ranger and Diesel with me in lead. Wraith takes rear."
Doors open. The girl who stumbled is helped into the middle SUV first. Then the crying girl and her friend. Then the one who was shaking. Then the blonde.
Then it's my turn.
Brick finally lets go of my hand. The absence of his grip feels wrong and I hate that too. Hate that I got used to it in the span of two blocks. Hate that now that it's gone, I feel unanchored.
He gestures toward the open door. "After you."
I climb in. The interior is warm. Clean. Smells like leather and something else: coffee, maybe. There are blankets folded on the seats. Bottles of water in the cup holders. More thoughtfulness I don't want to acknowledge.
I take a seat by the window and immediately pull my legs up, wrapping my arms around my knees. Making myself small. The other girls do the same. All of us curled into ourselves, trying to take up as little space as possible.
Brick climbs in after me. He's so big he makes the spacious SUV feel cramped. Another biker gets in on the other side, Judge, I think Phoenix called him. Tall, built, eyes that scan all of us with what looks like concern. Then a third man slides into the driver's seat.
"Everyone buckled?" the driver asks.
Nobody moves.
"It's okay," Judge says, and his voice is surprisingly gentle. "You don't have to if you don't want to. We're just trying to keep you safe."
"We've heard that before," the blonde girl says quietly.
Judge nods. "I know. But this time it's true."
The engine starts. We pull away from the curb. I watch the warehouse disappear behind us through the window, getting smaller and smaller until it's just another dark shape in a row of dark shapes.
I'm out. I'm actually out.
And I still feel so dirty I want to scream.
My skin crawls. Every inch of me feels contaminated. Wrong. Ruined. I dig my nails into my arms hard enough to hurt, trying to ground myself, trying to feel something other than this overwhelming need to shed my entire body like a snake sheds its skin.
Brick shifts beside me. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don't look at him. Can't look at him. If I look at him, I might fall apart completely, and I've promised myself I won't do that. Won't break. Won't give them the satisfaction.
"Where are you taking us?" I ask.
"Clubhouse," Phoenix's voice comes through some kind of radio from the lead vehicle. "It's secure. You'll have food, showers, beds, and medical care. Whatever you need."
Showers.
Fucking showers. I could shower. Could wash off every layer of this week. Could stand under hot water until my skin turns red and my muscles unclench and I stop feeling like something someone threw away.
"How long until we get there?" The blonde girl's voice is small.
"Twenty minutes," the driver responds.
Twenty minutes. I can survive twenty more minutes. I've survived seven days. Twenty minutes is nothing.
Except it feels like everything.
I press my forehead against the cold window and count breaths.
Count heartbeats. Count the street lights as they pass.
Anything to keep my brain occupied. Anything to stop thinking about that room, that bucket, those guards, my ex-boyfriend's face when he told me this was my punishment for trying to leave him.
Anything to stop feeling this dirty.
Beside me, Brick doesn't say a word. Just sits there like a mountain. Solid. Immovable. Present.
I hate it.
I hate that I notice it.
I hate that some tiny traitorous part of me feels safer because of it.