Page 46 of Cobra
Brooke doesn’t argue immediately. That almost makes it worse. “Okay,” she says. “We can talk about that.”
“I’m not talking about it,” I push. “I’m leaving.” My hand moves to the IV again. This time I don’t hesitate. I start peeling the tape back.
“Wait, don’t—”
“I’m not staying here,” I say, sharper now, panic creeping back in under the control I just managed to grab. The tape comes loose. The needle pulls free. It hurts. Not enough to stop me.
A small line of blood follows it, and Brooke grabs gauze from the tray, pressing it gently over the spot before I can pull away. “Hold that,” she says.
I do. Not because she told me to. Because it makes sense. My feet hit the floor. The cold from the tile shocks up through me, grounding me faster than anything else has. My legs feel weak, like they’re not sure they want to hold me up, but they do.Barely.
“Olivia,” Brooke says, her voice still calm, still steady. “You’re not ready to—”
“I don’t care,” I cut in. “I don’t know where I am, I don’t know who any of you are, and I am not staying in a place like this.”
“A place like this,” she repeats quietly.
I don’t soften it. I look around the room again, really taking it in now. It’s not a hospital. It’s too small, too personal, too…used. The cabinets are stocked, but not sterile the way hospitals are. The walls aren’t bare. There’s a jacket hanging on a hook that definitely doesn’t belong to a doctor. This isn’t neutral ground. This is theirs. And I am in it.
“I need to call my mom,” I say, my voice dropping slightly as something else hits me. “My sister, my brother, they’re going to—”
“Your phone broke,” Brooke says gently. “But we can get you another one. You can call them.”
I laugh. It sounds wrong. Like I’m trying to hold something together that’s already cracked. “Get me another one?” I repeat. “Like this is normal? Like I just…wait here while you fix it?”
Her expression doesn’t change. “I know this isn’t normal.”
“That’s an understatement.” My chest tightens again. Not full panic. Not yet. But it’s building. Because nothing about this is mine. Not the room. Not the people. Not the rules. My life doesn’t look like this.
My life is…
My mom’s kitchen with the yellow curtains she refuses to change.
My sister texting me ten times a day about things that don’t matter but somehow always do.
My brother showing up unannounced just to eat whatever I made like he lives there.
Normal. Safe. Predictable.
I look at the walls again. At the space. At the unfamiliar.I am very far from normal. “I’m leaving,” I say again.
Brooke watches me for a second longer, then nods once. “Okay.”
That throws me. “You’re not going to stop me?”
“I’m not going to restrain you,” she says. “That’s not how this works.”
Something about that lands. I don’t examine it. I move.
The door is already half open. I push it the rest of the way and step into the hallway. The shift hits immediately. Sound. Smell. Movement. The clubhouse isn’t quiet.
It’s alive.
Voices overlap from the main room. A deep laugh cuts through something lighter. A cabinet door slams somewhere. There’s music playing low, not loud enough to take over, just there. The smell of food mixes with leather and something faintly smoky that clings to the air. It’s not what I expected. Not even close.
I step forward slowly, my legs still unsteady, my hand still pressed to the gauze at my hand.
The hallway opens into a larger space. And I see them. Men in leather vests, patches stitched across the back and chest. Some are standing, some sitting, all of them looking like they belong exactly where they are. Women move through the space like it’s theirs too, not hovering, not unsure, just…existing inside it without question. There are toys on the floor.
