Page 4 of Razor
Three minutes passed.Five.I paced the small stretch of carpet between the door and the bathroom, checking the locks repeatedly, jumping at every sound from the parking lot.
Finally, the phone buzzed.
"Wicked Mayhem en route.Trust them."
That was it.No estimation of arrival time, no description of who to expect, no reassurance that everything would be okay.Just seven words that I was supposed to stake my future on.And Dante's.
Wicked Mayhem.I'd heard whispers about the motorcycle club from Pretty Boy.He ran with a different MC—the Hades Abyss—but had connections everywhere."They're hardcore," he'd told me, "but they have a code.They protect their own.And once you're under their protection, you're family."
I set the phone down and moved to the window, carefully pulling back the edge of the stained curtain.The parking lot was still mostly empty.A single security light cast harsh shadows across the cracked asphalt.My car sat directly outside, packed and ready for a quick escape if needed.
What kind of people would be arriving?I pictured tattooed men on rumbling motorcycles, leather cuts and hard eyes.Would they be worse than what I was running from?Tyler was a monster dressed in designer clothes, his violence hidden behind closed doors and family connections.At least with bikers, the danger was visible.Wasn't it?
Doubt crept in like the chill from the partially open window.Maybe I'd made a mistake.Maybe I should have stuck it out, found a lawyer, fought for custody through proper channels.But Tyler's father was a judge.His uncle was the police chief.The system had failed me before—the one time I'd tried to report the abuse, I'd been the one treated like a criminal.A gold-digger.A liar.
A soft whimper from the bed drew my attention.Dante had rolled onto his side, his small face scrunched in what might have been a bad dream.I crossed to him quickly, sliding onto the bed and gathering him into my arms.He settled instantly against my chest, his warmth and weight both comforting and terrifying in their trust.
"I've got you," I whispered."Mommy's got you."
Outside, a car door slammed.My entire body tensed, ears straining for any additional sound.Voices—male, loud enough to hear but too muffled to make out words.Then silence.Were they coming for us?Was it Tyler already?My parents?Or just other motel guests?
The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:47 AM.Less than two hours before dawn.Less than four before my parents would discover our empty beds.The clock was ticking.
Another sound—footsteps on gravel, passing our door, continuing down the row of rooms.I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.False alarm.
My mind drifted back to the night Pretty Boy had offered me this chance.Three weeks ago, he'd shown up unexpectedly at our parents' house for Sunday dinner—a rare occurrence since he'd patched into his MC and been all but disowned.
"You look like shit, Ophelia," he'd whispered when we were alone in the kitchen.
I'd tugged my sleeve down to cover the bruises."I'm fine."
"Bullshit."His eyes, so like mine, had hardened."How bad has it gotten?"
I'd broken down then, told him everything—Tyler's escalating violence, my parents' willful blindness, my fear for Dante.Pretty Boy had listened, really listened, then handed me a burner phone with a single number programmed into it.
"When you're ready to leave, call me.I know people who can help."
I'd kept the phone hidden in the lining of my winter coat.For weeks, I'd wavered, too scared to leave, too scared to stay.Then yesterday, Tyler had thrown a glass at the wall near Dante's head during one of his rages.It had missed by inches.The decision was made in that moment.
A revving engine startled me back to the present.Through the thin walls of the motel room, I could hear a television playing in an adjacent room, the indistinct sounds of a sitcom laugh track.Every noise set my nerves on edge.
What would happen when Wicked Mayhem arrived?Would they take us to a safe house?Help us disappear?Give us new identities?Pretty Boy had been vague on details—"the less you know, the safer you are," he'd said.
I was throwing away everything—my education, my inheritance, my identity.Cutting ties with my past completely.The thought should have terrified me more than it did.But when I looked at Dante's sleeping face, I knew I'd walk through fire for him.Give up anything.Become anyone.
A loud group of voices erupted from somewhere in the parking lot—raucous laughter, a woman's high-pitched squeal.I flinched, disturbing Dante enough that he stirred in my arms.
"Shhh," I soothed, rubbing circles on his back until he settled again.
My eyes felt like sandpaper.How long had it been since I'd slept?Really slept, not the hypervigilant dozing I'd managed while living under the same roof as Tyler.Days?Weeks?Exhaustion pulled at me, but fear kept me wired, jumping at shadows.
The phone lay silent on the nightstand.No further messages from Pretty Boy.No reassurance.Just the vague promise that help was coming.
I shifted carefully to ease the cramping in my arm without waking Dante.My gaze swept across the dismal room—the water stains on the ceiling, the ripped lampshade, the mysterious dark spots on the carpet.This was rock bottom.This was what desperation looked like.
Yet somehow, in this filthy motel room with its smell of despair and failure, I felt the first real flicker of hope I'd had in years.We were free.Not safe yet, but free.And that was a start.
The muffled sound of another car door slamming made me tense again.I held Dante closer, my eyes fixed on the thin strip of parking lot visible through the gap in the curtains, waiting for whatever came next.
