Page 5 of Brick’s Anchor

Then it's my turn.

Brick finally lets go of my hand. The absence of his grip feels wrong and I hate that too. Hate that I got used to it in the span of two blocks. Hate that now that it's gone, I feel unanchored.

He gestures toward the open door. "After you."

I climb in. The interior is warm. Clean. Smells like leather and something else: coffee, maybe. There are blankets folded on the seats. Bottles of water in the cup holders. More thoughtfulness I don't want to acknowledge.

I take a seat by the window and immediately pull my legs up, wrapping my arms around my knees. Making myself small. The other girls do the same. All of us curled into ourselves, trying to take up as little space as possible.

Brick climbs in after me. He's so big he makes the spacious SUV feel cramped. Another biker gets in on the other side, Judge, I think Phoenix called him. Tall, built, eyes that scan all of us with what looks like concern. Then a third man slides into the driver's seat.

"Everyone buckled?" the driver asks.

Nobody moves.

"It's okay," Judge says, and his voice is surprisingly gentle. "You don't have to if you don't want to. We're just trying to keep you safe."

"We've heard that before," the blonde girl says quietly.

Judge nods. "I know. But this time it's true."

The engine starts. We pull away from the curb. I watch the warehouse disappear behind us through the window, getting smaller and smaller until it's just another dark shape in a row of dark shapes.

I'm out. I'm actually out.

And I still feel so dirty I want to scream.

My skin crawls. Every inch of me feels contaminated. Wrong. Ruined. I dig my nails into my arms hard enough to hurt, trying to ground myself, trying to feel something other than this overwhelming need to shed my entire body like a snake sheds its skin.

Brick shifts beside me. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don't look at him. Can't look at him. If I look at him, I might fall apart completely, and I've promised myself I won't do that. Won't break. Won't give them the satisfaction.

"Where are you taking us?" I ask.

"Clubhouse," Phoenix's voice comes through some kind of radio from the lead vehicle. "It's secure. You'll have food, showers, beds, and medical care. Whatever you need."

Showers.

Fucking showers. I could shower. Could wash off every layer of this week. Could stand under hot water until my skin turns red and my muscles unclench and I stop feeling like something someone threw away.

"How long until we get there?" The blonde girl's voice is small.

"Twenty minutes," the driver responds.

Twenty minutes. I can survive twenty more minutes. I've survived seven days. Twenty minutes is nothing.

Except it feels like everything.

I press my forehead against the cold window and count breaths. Count heartbeats. Count the street lights as they pass. Anything to keep my brain occupied. Anything to stop thinking about that room, that bucket, those guards, my ex-boyfriend's face when he told me this was my punishment for trying to leave him.

Anything to stop feeling this dirty.

Beside me, Brick doesn't say a word. Just sits there like a mountain. Solid. Immovable. Present.

I hate it.

I hate that I notice it.

I hate that some tiny traitorous part of me feels safer because of it.