Chapter 4 - Rosie
The woman in scrubs has kind eyes.
I don't trust them.
She introduced herself as Eden, told us she's a trauma nurse, explained that she's going to do basic medical assessments on all of us before we do anything else.
Her voice is warm and professional at the same time, like she's done this before.
Like she knows exactly how to talk to women who've been locked in warehouses and treated like cargo.
"I'm not going to touch you without permission," she says to our group.
All six of us are standing in what they call the common room, a large space with couches and a TV and a bar that smells like leather and coffee.
"I'm not going to force anything. But I need to know if anyone has injuries that need immediate attention.
Anything serious like wounds, bleeding, broken bones. "
Nobody speaks.
Eden waits. She's patient. I'll give her that. The other woman, Nora, I think, stands beside her holding blankets like she's ready to wrap us all up and make everything better through sheer force of will. The third woman, Ivy, has bags of clothes organized by size on the long table.
Three women who apparently live here. Who are apparently safe here. Who apparently want to help.
I don't believe in safe anymore.
"Okay," Eden says when it's clear none of us are going to answer. "That's okay. We can take this slow. How about this… I'm going to set up in the medical room down the hall. Anyone who wants to be checked out can come find me. No pressure. No timeline. Just whenever you're ready."
The blonde girl, I still don't know her name, raises her hand slightly. Like we're in school. "Can… Can I go now?"
"Of course," Eden says, her face softening. "Follow me."
They disappear down a hallway. The rest of us stand there like lost children, unsure what to do with ourselves now that we're not locked in rooms or being transported in vehicles. Free range of movement feels foreign. Wrong. Like there should be walls we're not allowed to cross.
Nora steps forward with the blankets. "You must be freezing," she says. Her voice is gentle. Not condescending. Just genuinely concerned. "These are clean. Warm. You can take as many as you want."
The dark-haired girl who was crying earlier reaches out and takes one.
Wraps it around her shoulders immediately.
The others follow. I'm the last one to move, still wearing Brick's cut, still wrapped in leather that smells like motor oil and something else.
Something masculine, musky and completely overwhelming.
I should take it off. Should give it back. Should stop using it as armor.
I pull it tighter instead.
Nora notices but doesn't comment. Just smiles at me. "There's food in the kitchen if anyone's hungry. Showers upstairs if you want to clean up. Clothes on the table. You can take whatever fits, whatever you want. This is a safe space. You're safe here."
That word again. Safe.
I want to believe it so badly it physically hurts.
"Where are we? They said it was a clubhouse?" one of the other girls asks. I think her name might be Sarah. Or Sara. I'm not sure. We never got to properly introduce ourselves while we were locked up.
"The Iron Phoenix clubhouse," Nora says. "I know that probably sounds scary, but these men aren't like the ones who hurt you. They're good men. They protect people. They saved me and my daughter a few weeks ago when we were in trouble."
"You have a daughter?" the dark-haired girl asks.
"Grace. She's five. She's upstairs sleeping right now, but you'll meet her after. She's deaf and communicates in sign language. She loves new people." Nora's whole face changes when she talks about her daughter. Lights up. Becomes something beautiful.
I wonder what it feels like to have something that makes you light up like that.
"How long have you been here?" I ask. My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Almost three weeks," Nora says. "I came here running from an abusive ex-boyfriend. They took me in. Gave me protection. Gave me a life." She pauses. "One of them gave me love. But that's… That's a different story."
Love. In a biker clubhouse. With men covered in tattoos, guns and violence.
I must look skeptical because Nora laughs quietly.
"I know. I didn't believe it either at first. Didn't trust any of them.
Especially not Judge, he's the VP. Big, intense, ex-military.
Scared the hell out of me." Her expression softens.
"Turns out he's the best man I've ever known.
Turns out all of them are good men who've chosen to do hard things because it's right. "
"Men aren't good," I say flatly. "They just pretend to be until they get what they want."
Nora doesn't argue. She doesn't try to convince me I'm wrong.
Just nods. "I understand why you believe that.
I believed it too. Still do sometimes, when the panic hits at three in the morning and I forget where I am.
But these men, they've proven themselves.
Over and over. They will to you too, if you give them the chance. "
I don't want to give anyone chances. Don't want to open myself up to more disappointment, more betrayal, more proof that trusting people only leads to locked rooms and bruises.
But I also don't want to stay this person forever, this scared angry broken thing who flinches at sudden movements and digs her nails into her own skin.
"I want to shower," I say instead of addressing anything she just told me.
"Of course," Nora says immediately. "There are several bathrooms upstairs. I'll show you. We've got toiletries, clean towels, everything you need."
Everything I need. That's a laugh. What I need is to go back in time and never meet my ex-boyfriend. What I need is to erase the last week from existence. What I need is to stop feeling like my body is covered in a layer of filth I'll never be able to wash off.
But a shower is a start.
I follow Nora upstairs, the leather cut still wrapped around me. The staircase is solid wood, well-maintained. The second floor is quieter than downstairs. Hallway with doors on both sides. She leads me to one at the end.
"This is the guest bathroom," she says, opening the door. "Private. Door locks from the inside. Take as long as you need. There's shampoo, conditioner, body wash, razors if you want them. Clean towels in the cabinet. I'll leave some clothes outside the door for when you're done."
I look into the bathroom. It's bigger than the one in my apartment. Clean white tiles. A shower stall with glass doors. A real toilet with a real door that closes. Sink with a mirror above it that I'm not ready to look into yet.
It's perfect.
"Thank you," I manage.
Nora squeezes my shoulder gently, just once, just briefly, then leaves. I hear her footsteps retreat down the hallway.
I step inside and lock the door.
The click of that lock feels like the first real choice I've made in a week.
I stand there for a long moment, just breathing. Just existing in a space that's mine. That I can control. That has a door I locked myself instead of one someone locked on me.
Then I strip.
Peel off every piece of clothing that's been touching my skin for seven days straight. The jeans that used to fit properly. The t-shirt that's stained with things I don't want to identify. The bra and underwear that I've worn until they feel like part of my body instead of separate garments.
I throw them all in the corner. Want to burn them. Want to destroy every piece of evidence that the last week happened.
The cut, Brick's cut, I fold and set it on the counter. Even though it was only around my shoulders for an hour, even though it's just leather and patches and thread, I can't bring myself to treat it carelessly.
I turn on the shower. Watch steam start to rise. Adjust the temperature until it's almost too hot, and then I step under the spray.
The water hits my skin and I break.
Not crying. Not sobbing. Just breaking. Like everything I've been holding together for seven days finally has permission to fall apart. The water washes over me, and I stand there with my hands pressed against the tile, head bowed, letting it happen.
I scrub my skin. Use the body wash three times. Four times. Five. Trying to get clean. Trying to wash off the feeling of hands that grabbed me, eyes that watched me, the humiliation of that doorless bathroom and the guards who looked while I tried to maintain some shred of dignity.
My skin turns pink. Then red. I keep scrubbing.
I wash my hair twice. The shampoo smells like vanilla and something floral. Clean. Normal. Like the life I had before my ex-boyfriend decided I belonged to him.
The water starts to run cooler. I've been in here too long. Used up all the hot water. I don't care. I stand under the spray until it's actually cold, until my teeth are chattering, until I can't avoid turning it off anymore.
When I finally step out, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I look like a stranger.
The bruise on my jaw has faded to yellow-green but it's still visible. My cheeks look hollower than they should, a week of barely eating will do that. My eyes are red-rimmed and exhausted. My hair hangs in wet dark strands past my shoulders, the bangs plastered to my forehead.
I look like someone who survived something terrible.
I look like someone who's still surviving it.
I dry off with one of the towels Nora mentioned. It's soft. Smells like laundry detergent. Normal things that feel extraordinary after a week of nothing normal.
There's a knock on the door. I freeze.
"I left clothes outside," Nora's voice calls through. "Whenever you're ready. No rush."
I wait until I hear her footsteps retreat again. Then I crack the door and grab the pile she left. Close and lock it again immediately.
The clothes are comfortable. Sweatpants that are slightly too big. A t-shirt that's soft and worn. Underwear still in the package—new, never worn. Socks. A sports bra.
Everything fits well enough.
I put on everything except Brick's cut, that I pick up and stare at for a long moment. I should return it. Should stop using it as a security blanket.
I put it on anyway.
The leather settles around my shoulders like armor. Like protection. Like something that says this person matters to someone, even if that someone is just a giant tattooed biker who caught my cup instead of letting it hit his face.
I unlock the door and step into the hallway.
The house is quieter now. I can hear voices from downstairs. Male voices, low and serious. Planning things. Discussing things. The kind of conversations men have when they're deciding what happens next.
I should go down there. Should rejoin the other women. Should figure out what comes next for me. Do I call my family, do I go home, do I press charges, do I run?
Instead, I slide down the wall and sit on the floor outside the bathroom. Just sit there in clean clothes, damp hair and leather that doesn't belong to me.
I'm so fucking tired.
Tired of being scared. Tired of being angry. Tired of feeling dirty even after the longest shower of my life. Tired of not knowing who I am anymore or if the person I was before still exists under all this trauma.
I hear footsteps on the stairs. Heavy ones, and I tense. Brick appears at the top of the landing. He stops when he sees me sitting there. Those dark eyes take in the situation—me on the floor, wearing his cut, clearly not okay even though I'm safe and no longer in immediate danger.
"You good?" he asks.
"No," I say honestly. "Not even a little bit."
He nods like that's exactly the answer he expected. Then he walks over and slides down the wall next to me. Not touching. Just present. This massive man folding himself down to sit on the floor of his own clubhouse with a stranger who can't get her shit together.
"The first night is the hardest," he says after a moment.
"How do you know?"
"Military. Came back from deployment and couldn't sleep in my own bed for weeks. Felt wrong. Too soft. Too safe. My body didn't know how to exist without being on high alert." He looks at me. "That what's happening?"
"I don't know what's happening," I admit. "I showered for forty-five minutes and I still feel dirty. I'm wearing clean clothes and I can still feel their hands on me. I'm safe and I'm still terrified."
"That's normal."
"It doesn't feel normal. It feels insane."
"Normal and insane aren't mutually exclusive when you've been through trauma." He’s not pitying. Just stating reality. "Your brain is trying to process what happened. It takes time."
"How much time?"
"However much you need."
I pull my knees to my chest. The cut bunches around me. "I should give this back to you."
"I told you to keep it."
"I know, but—"
"Keep it," he says again. Firmer this time. "Until you don't need it anymore."
"What if I never stop needing it?"
"Then you never give it back."
I look at him. This man who broke down a door to get me out. Who gave me his cut without asking for anything in return. Who's sitting on the floor with me when he could be doing literally anything else.
"Why are you being nice to me?" I ask.
"Because you need someone to be nice to you."
"That's not a good enough reason."
"It's the only reason that matters."
We sit in silence. Downstairs, voices continue their low serious conversation. Somewhere in the house, a door closes. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Sounds I don't trust yet.
"I hate men," I tell him.
"Fair."
"I mean it. All of them. Every single one."
"Okay."
"You're not going to argue? Try to convince me you're different?"
"No," he says simply. "You've got every right to hate all of us. What happened to you, what those men did, that's unforgivable. You get to hate whoever you want for however long you want."
"You're a man."
"I am."
"So, I hate you too."
"That's your right."
I don't know what to do with that response. With his complete acceptance of my hatred. Most men would be offended. Would defend themselves. Would list all the reasons they're not like other men, why I should trust them, why they're the exception.
He just sits there and lets me hate him.
"You're confusing," I finally say.
"I get that a lot."
Despite everything, despite the trauma and the fear and the bone-deep exhaustion, I almost smile.
Almost.
"Come on," Brick says, standing. He offers me his hand. "You should eat something. The other girls said you haven't had a proper meal in days."
I stare at his hand once again. At the scarred knuckles and tattoos. At the offer of help I don't want to accept.
I take it anyway.
He pulls me to my feet easily and doesn't let go immediately. Just holds my hand for a moment, looking at me with those beautiful dark eyes.
"You're going to be okay," he says.
"You can't promise that."
"I just did."
Then he lets go and heads toward the stairs.
I follow him.
Because I don't know what else to do. Because his promise, as impossible as it is, feels like the first true thing anyone's said to me in a week.