Chapter 5 - Brick
The kitchen smells like chili and fresh bread.
Someone, probably Ivy, made sandwiches. They're laid out on the counter in neat rows, enough to feed all six women plus whoever else needs to eat.
There's also soup heating on the stove, crackers in bowls, fruit cut into manageable pieces.
The kind of spread you put together when you're trying to offer options to people who haven't had choices in too long.
The girl follows me down the stairs, staying two steps behind. Close enough that I know she's there. Far enough that she can bolt if she needs to. I don't take it personally. After what she's been through, distance is survival.
The common room has transformed. The other five women are scattered around—some on the couch, some in chairs, one sitting on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
Eden's talking with the blonde girl, taking notes on a clipboard. Nora's brought Grace down. The five-year-old is showing one of the women her favorite stuffed animal, signing enthusiastically while the woman watches with something like wonder on her face.
Canvas is at the bar with Saint, both of them staying out of the way but present. Available if needed. Judge is by the window, positioned where he can see the whole room and every entrance. Phoenix is probably in his office.
We know how to do this. How to be here without being overwhelming. How to offer protection without making it feel like confinement.
The girl stops at the bottom of the stairs, taking in the scene. I watch her process it: the women who look comfortable here, the child who's completely unafraid of the bikers around her.
"That's Grace," I tell her. "Nora's daughter. She was born deaf, and communicates in sign language. Nora and Judge are dating now."
"The man at the window, right?"
"Yeah. He's also fluent in sign language. Learned it in the military as a contingency skill. Came in handy when he met Grace."
"And the woman in scrubs? Eden?"
"She's with Canvas. The tall one with all the tattoos. They got together recently."
"Everyone here is fucking each other."
I nearly choke. "That's one way to put it."
"Is there another way?"
"They're in relationships. Actual relationships. Not just fucking."
She looks at me with skeptical eyes. "There's a difference?"
"Yeah. A big one."
"Not in my experience."
I want to ask about her experience. Want to know what her ex-boyfriends did to make her believe that relationships are just transactions, that sex is just power, that there's no difference between fucking and loving someone.
But I don't. She's not ready for those questions and I'm not qualified to ask them.
"You should eat," I say instead.
"I should do a lot of things."
"Start with eating."
She moves toward the kitchen slowly, like she's approaching something dangerous. I follow at a distance, giving her space. Nora looks up and smiles at her.
"How was the shower?" Nora asks.
"Long," the girl says. Then, quieter, "Thank you. For the clothes. For everything."
"Of course. Are you hungry? There's—" Nora gestures at the spread. "Well, everything."
The girl stares at the food like it might disappear if she looks away. Her hands shake slightly as she reaches for a sandwich. She picks it up, puts it on a plate, then just stands there holding the plate.
"You can eat," I say. "Nobody's going to take it from you."
She looks at me. "I know that."
But she doesn't move. Doesn't take a bite. Just holds the plate like she's forgotten what to do with food.
Grace appears at her elbow, signing something enthusiastic. The girl jumps slightly, startled by the sudden appearance of a five-year-old. Judge translates from across the room without being asked. "She says you're pretty and she likes your hair."
The girl looks down at Grace. "I—thank you?"
Grace signs something else, her little hands moving rapidly.
"She wants to know your name," Judge supplies.
"Rosie," the girl says. Then she signs it back, fingerspelling slowly. R-O-S-I-E.
Grace's face lights up. She signs back, pointing at herself.
"Grace," Rosie says, pronouncing it. "That's a beautiful name."
Grace beams and launches into another flurry of signs. Judge translates again.
"She says her daddy knows all the words and he's teaching her new ones every day and she wants to teach you some too if you want to learn."
Rosie's expression shifts. Softens. Like Grace managed to find a crack in her armor that the rest of us couldn't touch.
"I'd like that," she says and Judge translates it to Grace.
Grace grabs Rosie’s free hand and pulls her toward the couch where she's got a children's ASL book laid out. Rosie follows, still carrying her sandwich, still wearing my cut.
I watch them settle on the couch together. Grace signing, Rosie attempting to copy the hand shapes. Making mistakes. Laughing when Grace corrects her with exaggerated patience only a child can manage.
"That kid's magic," Saint says from behind me.
I turn. He's standing at the bar with a beer, watching the same scene I am. "Yeah."
"Your girl's wearing your cut."
"She's not my girl."
"She's wearing your cut," Saint repeats, like that's the entire argument.
"She was cold."
"Right. That's why you gave her the cut you've worn every day for three years. Because she was cold."
I grab a beer from the cooler behind the bar. "Drop it."
"Can't drop it. It's too entertaining watching you pretend you don't care."
"I don't care."
"I’ve seen you on the floor with her, but didn’t want to bother."
"She needed someone."
"And you volunteered because…?"
"Because she was sitting alone outside a bathroom looking like her world just ended." I take a drink, watching Rosie attempt another sign while Grace claps encouragement. "Someone needed to check on her."
"And it had to be you."
"It was me because I was there."
Saint grins. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, brother."
Canvas approaches, favoring his left side. Eden's got him on limited movement until the shoulder heals completely.
"How'd it go tonight?" he asks.
"Smooth," I tell him. "Four guards. Neutralized quickly. Six women total. All in bad shape but alive."
"And the Vipers?"
"Didn't know what hit them. We were in and out before they could mobilize."
Phoenix emerges from his office, joining our loose circle at the bar. "Echo confirmed no tail. They know we hit them, but they don't know where we took the women."
"They'll figure it out," I say. "Eventually."
"Let them." Phoenix's voice is hard. "We're done hiding. They want war, they've got it."
Judge joins us, leaving his post by the window now that Ranger's taken position there. "The women need time to process. Medical care. Probably counseling. Eden's compiling a list of injuries and concerns."
"We've got Dr. Morrison on call," Phoenix says. "He owes me a favor. Won't ask questions."
"They're going to need more than medical," Judge says. "They need time. Safety. Space to figure out who they are after what happened to them."
We all know he's thinking about Nora. About how she arrived scared and broken and how she's slowly becoming whole again. How it takes time. How there are no shortcuts through trauma.
"They've got it," Phoenix says firmly. "All of it. Whatever they need, however long it takes."
Rosie laughs at something Grace signed. It's a small sound, barely audible over the general noise of the room, but it cuts through everything else. I turn toward it, drawn to that tiny moment of lightness in someone who's been carrying nothing but darkness.
"You're fucked," Saint says.
"Shut up."
"Completely, totally fucked."
"I will end you."
He just grins wider.
Phoenix clears his throat. "Brick. You good to take point on security for the women? Coordinate with Judge on rotations, make sure they've got eyes on them when they leave the clubhouse?"
"Why me?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Because they seem to trust you. Because you carried Rosie out of that warehouse. Because she's currently wearing your cut and won't let anyone else near her without flinching."
I look at Phoenix. He looks back steadily, president to member, brother to brother.
"Yeah," I say finally. "I'm good."
"Good. Judge will coordinate medical and therapy resources. Canvas and Eden will handle day-to-day needs. Nora and Ivy will work on making them comfortable. But you're the one they'll see most. The face of their protection."
Great. The face of protection. Me. The guy who thrives on violence and has built his entire identity around being the club enforcer. The guy who breaks bones for a living. The guy whose own brothers ended up in prison because violence is in their DNA.
That's who these traumatized women get as their primary security.
"I'll handle it," I say.
Phoenix nods. "I know you will."
The meeting breaks up. Canvas goes to Eden, wrapping his good arm around her from behind while she continues her assessments. Judge returns to Nora, signing something that makes Grace giggle. Saint disappears toward the garage. Phoenix heads back to his office.
I'm left at the bar, beer in hand, watching Rosie learn sign language from a five-year-old.
She's still not eating. The sandwich sits untouched on the plate beside her. She's focused entirely on Grace, on copying hand shapes, on learning this new language. Using it as distraction. Using it as avoidance.
I cross the room and sit on the chair across from the couch. Not too close. Just present.
Grace notices me and signs something enthusiastic.
"She says you're big like a mountain and mountains are her favorite," Judge translates from where he's standing with Nora.
Rosie looks at me, then at Grace, then back at me. "She's not wrong."
"You still need to eat," I say.
"I need to do a lot of things."
"You said that already."
"Still true."
Grace signs something else, looking between us with open curiosity.
"She wants to know if you're Brick's girlfriend," Judge translates, fighting a smile.
Rosie's face goes bright red. "No. No, he's not… We're not—"
"We're friends," I tell Grace, signing it as I speak. We all have been learning a bit of sign language in the past few weeks. "Rosie needed help, and I helped her."
Grace considers this seriously, then signs back.
"She noticed you haven’t eaten the sandwich, and says good friends make sure their friends eat," Judge supplies.
Rosie stares at the five-year-old who's somehow managed to see through all her defenses in approximately fifteen minutes.
"Your daddy's teaching you well," Rosie mutters, and it’s quickly translated.
Grace beams and signs something that makes Judge actually laugh out loud.
"She says her daddy is the best and you should listen to her about eating because she knows everything."
"Modest, isn't she?" Rosie says, but there's warmth in her voice now. Real warmth.
Grace shrugs expressively, then picks up the sandwich from Rosie's plate and hands it to her with the kind of expectant look that says she's not going anywhere until Rosie takes a bite.
Rosie looks at the sandwich. At Grace. At me.
Then, slowly, she takes a bite.
Grace claps. Rosie chews. Swallows, and takes another bite.
I watch her eat half the sandwich before Grace decides she's done supervising and runs off to show her book to the other women. Rosie puts what's left of the sandwich down, her hands shaking slightly.
"That kid is terrifying," she says.
"She's five."
"Exactly. Five years old and she's already better at emotional manipulation than most adults."
"It's not manipulation when it's genuine concern."
"Says the man who gave a stranger his cut."
"Says the woman who's still wearing it."
She looks down at the leather around her shoulders. Touches the patch. "I should give this back."
"You should eat the rest of that sandwich."
"I'm full."
"You ate half a sandwich. You're not full."
"How do you know what I am?"
"Because you were locked in a warehouse for a week with minimal food." My voice comes out harder than I intend. "You're not full. You're starving. But your stomach's not used to food anymore so it's going to take time to work back up to normal portions."
She stares at me. "How do you know that?"
"Saw guys come back from captivity. Same thing. Their bodies forgot how to process food properly."
"I wasn't in captivity that long."
"A week is long enough."
She pulls my cut tighter around herself. "You're very observant."
"It's my job."
"What exactly is your job?"
"I handle security. Discipline. Protection."
"So, you hurt people."
"When necessary."
"And it's necessary often?"
"Often enough."
She raises her left eyebrow. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone scarier."
I nearly laugh. "Rosie. I'm six-five, two-forty, covered in tattoos, and I break bones for a living. I'm exactly as scary as you think I am."
"No," she says. "You're not. Because scary men don't sit on floors with strangers. They don't give away their cuts. They don't let little girls boss them around about making sure people eat."
"Maybe I'm just good at hiding it."
"Maybe," she agrees. "Or maybe you're something different than what you pretend to be."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to explain that I am exactly what I pretend to be.
I’m a weapon, a tool, a man made of violence. That the only reason I'm capable of being gentle is because this club taught me how. That without my MC brothers, I'd probably be in prison next to Jake and Ryan, just another statistic in a family line of men who couldn't control themselves.
Grace runs back over, tugging on Rosie's hand, signing rapidly.
"She wants to show you her room," Judge translates. "Says you can sleep there if you want. She'll share."
"That's… that's very sweet, but I'm sure there are other—"
"We've got guest rooms," Nora interjects, appearing with fresh blankets. "But Grace's offer is genuine. She doesn't make it often."
Rosie looks overwhelmed. Like kindness is a language she doesn't speak anymore.
"You don't have to decide now," I tell her. "You can figure it out later. One thing at a time."
She nods slowly. "One thing at a time."
"Finish the sandwich first."
"You're very bossy."
"I'm an enforcer. Bossy is in the job description."
She picks up the remaining half of the sandwich and takes another small bite. Grace claps again, then signs something else.
"She says you're doing well and she's proud of you," Judge translates.
Rosie's eyes get suspiciously bright. She blinks rapidly, swallows hard, and takes another bite. And I sit there watching her eat, wearing my cut, slowly piecing herself back together with the help of a five-year-old and half a sandwich.
Saint was right.
I'm completely fucked.