Chapter 6 - Rosie
I finish the sandwich because Grace is watching me like a tiny drill sergeant and I can't disappoint a five-year-old who thinks I'm doing well.
The food sits heavy in my stomach. Not bad. Just unfamiliar. Brick was right about that, about my stomach not being used to food anymore. I hate that he was right. Hate that he noticed. Hate that he sees things about me I don't want anyone to see.
Grace signs something else, her little hands moving enthusiastically.
Judge translates from across the room where he's standing with Nora. "She wants to know if you like grilled cheese because that's her favorite and she thinks you'd like it too."
"I like it," I tell Grace, signing it as best I can with the limited vocabulary she's taught. My hands are clumsy compared to hers, the shapes imprecise, but she nods encouragingly anyway.
She signs back, pointing at Judge.
"She says her daddy makes the best grilled cheese in the world, and he'll make you one tomorrow if you want," Judge supplies, and there's something soft in his voice when he talks about her.
"I'd like that," I say.
Grace beams and throws her arms around me in an unexpected hug.
I freeze.
Can't help it. Can't stop the way my entire body goes rigid at the sudden contact, at the arms around my waist, at the proximity of another human touching me without asking first. My heart rate spikes. My breathing goes shallow. Every muscle tenses for fight or flight.
Grace feels it immediately. She pulls back, her small face concerned, signing something that looks like an apology.
"It's okay," I manage, even though my voice shakes. "You didn't… You're fine. I just—"
I can't finish the sentence. Can't explain that touch feels wrong now, that my body doesn't know how to accept comfort, that even a child's innocent hug sends me spiraling.
Brick shifts in his chair. Not standing. Not moving closer. Just shifting his weight slightly, drawing my attention without demanding it.
"Grace," he signs and speaks simultaneously. "Rosie's still learning what feels safe. You did nothing wrong. Sometimes people need space before they're ready for hugs."
Grace nods solemnly, signs something back.
"She says she understands and she's sorry and she'll ask first next time," Judge translates.
"Thank you," I whisper to Grace. Then to Brick, quieter, "Thank you."
He just nods. Like it's nothing. Like helping me navigate a panic response to a child's hug is just part of his evening routine.
Nora approaches with a gentleness that suggests she's been through her own version of this. "Grace, baby, it's past your bedtime. Say goodnight."
Grace signs goodnight to everyone in the room, each person individually, making sure they see her. When she gets to me, she signs something extra.
"Sweet dreams," Judge translates. "And she'll see you in the morning."
"Goodnight, Grace," I say.
Grace grins and takes Nora's hand. They head upstairs, Judge following. The three of them moving together like a unit. Like a family.
I watch them go and something in my chest aches. Not jealousy exactly. Just awareness. Of what I don't have. Of what I might never have. Of how damaged I am now compared to the person I was two weeks ago.
The common room feels bigger with Grace gone.
The other women are scattered around. Some eating, some talking quietly with Eden, some just sitting in silence.
The blonde girl who cried earlier is asleep on the couch, wrapped in blankets.
Another girl is staring at the TV even though it's not on. Processing. Surviving.
We're all just surviving.
Brick stands. "You should sleep."
"I'm not tired." It's a lie. I'm exhausted. But sleep means vulnerability. Means closing my eyes. Means trusting that I'll wake up somewhere safe instead of back in that room.
"You're dead on your feet," he says. "When's the last time you actually slept?"
I try to remember. Can't. The days in that warehouse blurred together. I slept in fits and starts, never fully, always listening for footsteps or voices or the sound of the door opening. "I don't know."
"Then you need sleep."
"I need a lot of things. Sleep isn't top of the list."
"What is?"
"To stop feeling like this." The words come out before I can stop them. Raw. Honest. Too much.
Brick's expression doesn't change. "Like what?"
"Like I'm broken. Like I'll never be clean again.
Like my body isn't mine anymore and I don't know how to get it back.
" I'm saying too much. Telling this stranger things I haven't even articulated to myself yet.
But I can't stop. "Like every man I see might hurt me.
Like trust is a stupid concept I bought into and paid for with a week in a cage. Like—"
My voice cracks. I press my hands over my face, try to pull myself together, fail completely.
"Come on," Brick says quietly.
I look up at him through my fingers. "What?"
"Come with me. There's something I want to show you."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Yes, you are. Because sitting here spiraling isn't helping and you need to move before your brain eats itself."
"That's not how brains work."
"You want to bet on that right now?"
He's right. I hate that he's right. But sitting here is making everything worse. The thoughts are getting louder, the panic more present, the feeling of wrongness more overwhelming.
I stand, and the leather cut shifts around my shoulders. I still haven't taken it off.
Brick heads toward the back of the clubhouse. I follow because I don't know what else to do. Because following is easier than deciding. Because some part of me, the part that's not completely destroyed, trusts that he's not leading me somewhere dangerous.
We go through the kitchen, past the bar, down a hallway I haven't been in yet. He opens a door that leads outside to a back area I didn't know existed.
It's a courtyard. Small. Enclosed by the building on three sides and a high fence on the fourth. There are chairs scattered around, a fire pit in the center that's not currently lit, strings of lights overhead that cast a soft warm glow over everything.
And it's quiet.
Actually quiet. Not warehouse quiet where every sound is a threat. Not common room quiet where people are trying not to disturb each other. Just peaceful quiet. The kind where you can hear yourself think without the thoughts becoming overwhelming.
"We use this for private meetings sometimes," Brick says. "When the common room gets too loud. Or when someone needs space but doesn't want to be completely alone."
I walk to the center of the courtyard. Look up at the sky. There are stars. Actual visible stars despite the city lights. I haven't seen stars in a week. Haven't seen anything except that terrible room and the warehouse ceiling and the inside of vehicles.
"Why did you bring me here?" I ask.
"Because you looked like you needed air. And space. And something that isn't inside."
I turn to face him. He's standing by the door, giving me the whole courtyard, not crowding my space. "You barely know me."
"I know enough."
"You don't know anything about me. My name, maybe. The fact that I have terrible taste in boyfriends. That's it."
"I know you're strong enough to survive what happened to you.
I know you threw a cup at my head instead of giving up.
I know you care about those other women enough that you wouldn't leave without seeing them safe.
I know you're scared and angry but you’re still standing. " He pauses. "That's enough."
"That's not who I am. That's just survival instinct."
"Survival instinct is who you are when everything else is stripped away. It's the truest version of yourself."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process the idea that the worst moments of my life might have revealed something real instead of something ruined.
"I'm so angry," I say finally. "All the time. At everyone. At my ex for putting me there. At the guards for keeping me there. At myself for being stupid enough to date a Viper in the first place. At my family for warning me and being right. At the world for being this fucked up. At you."
"At me?"
"Yes. At you. For being nice when I don't want you to be. For giving me your cut when I don't deserve it. For sitting on the floor with me and bringing me out here and acting like I matter when I'm just—" I gesture at myself. "This."
"You matter," he says simply.
"You don't know that."
"Yeah. I do."
"How?"
"Because everyone matters. Because you're a person who survived something terrible.
Because those other women looked to you when we got them out.
I saw it. They followed your lead. You became something to them in that warehouse.
" He takes a step closer. Just one. Testing.
"You matter, Rosie. Whether you believe it or not. "
Tears burn behind my eyes. I refuse to let them fall. "Don't do this."
"Do what?"
"Be kind to me. I can't… I can't handle kind right now. Anger is easier. Distance is safer. This, whatever this is, I don't know how to survive it."
"You don't have to survive it. You just have to let it exist."
"I don't know how."
"Then learn. One thing at a time. That's what you said earlier, right?
" He moves another step closer. Still not in my space.
Still giving me room to breathe. "You're allowed to be angry and broken and terrified.
You're allowed to hate all men including me.
You're allowed to feel however you feel.
But you're not allowed to pretend you don't matter. Not while you're wearing my cut."
I look down at the leather. At the patches that mean something to him, something to this club, something I don't fully understand yet. "Why does this matter so much to you? The cut, I mean."
"Because it's mine. And I don't give my things to people who don't matter."
The tears spill over. I can't stop them this time. They run hot down my cheeks and I hate them, hate that I'm crying in front of him, hate that I'm this weak.
"I'm not weak," I say out loud, even though he didn't say anything.
"I know you're not."
"I'm crying."
"Crying isn't weakness. It's processing. It's your body trying to release what it can't hold anymore."
"That's a nice way of saying I'm broken."
"You're not broken. You're hurt. There's a difference."
I wipe at my face with the sleeves of his cut. Probably ruining the leather. "What's the difference?"
"Hurt means healing is possible."
"What if I can't heal?"
"Then you learn to live with the hurt. But you're not there yet. You're still in the middle of it. Give yourself time."
"Time to what?"
"To figure out who you are after what happened. To learn how to exist in your body again. To stop feeling dirty even though you're clean. To trust—" He stops himself. "Or not trust. Whatever you need."
I sit down on one of the chairs. My legs give out and I'm sitting before I consciously decided to do it. Brick moves to the chair across from me. Not next to me. Giving me space even now.
"I don't know who I am anymore," I admit.
"I thought I did. I thought I was Rosie Lane, twenty-four, works at a flower shop, likes romantic comedies and bad reality TV, and has a family who loves her despite her terrible life choices.
But that person… She wouldn't have survived what I just survived.
That person would have broken. So, either I'm not who I thought I was, or I became someone different in that warehouse.
And I don't know which option is worse."
"Maybe you're both," Brick says. "Maybe you're still Rosie Lane who likes romantic comedies.
And maybe you're also Rosie Lane who survived a week of hell and came out angry and strong and ready to fight.
People are complicated. What happened to you doesn't erase who you were. It just adds to who you are."
"That's very philosophical for a motorcycle club member."
"I read."
"What do you read?"
"Whatever I can get my hands on. Books about war, mostly. Trying to understand what I went through. Trying to make sense of violence."
"And does it work? The reading?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes it just confirms that violence is part of who I am and I need to accept that instead of fighting it."
I look at this massive man covered in tattoos and scars, who breaks bones for a living, who gave me his cut and brought me outside to look at stars. "You're not what I expected either."
"What did you expect?"
"A monster."
"I am a monster. Just a controlled one."
"Monsters don't sit with traumatized women and talk about healing."
"Maybe they do. Maybe that's what makes them complicated instead of just evil."
We sit in silence. The night air is cool but not cold. The stars stay visible. Somewhere in the distance, a car drives past. Normal sounds from a normal world that's continuing without pause.
"Can I stay out here a while?" I ask.
"As long as you want."
"Will you stay?"
The question surprises us both. I don't know why I asked.
Don't know why I want him to stay. Just know that sitting alone feels impossible right now and sitting with him feels manageable.
Safe, even. Which is insane considering he's a man and I hate all men and I should want him as far away as possible.
"Yeah," he says. "I'll stay."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
We sit together under the stars in the courtyard behind an MC clubhouse, and for the first time in a week, I don't feel like I'm drowning.
I just feel hurt.
And hurt, apparently, means healing is possible.