Page 44 of Brox Boar

I open the door, and climb in. The faint smell of coffee and pine-scented air freshener hangs in the enclosed space.

“Where to?” he asks, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.

Home. That would be the sensible answer. Shower. Bed. Sleep until the afternoon, then wake up and pretend.

“The Boarpit,” I say.

His eyebrows lift a millimeter. Everyone in this city knows that name. He doesn’t comment, though. Just taps it into his GPS, even though he likely doesn’t need directions, and pulls away from the curb.

Street after street slides past, neon signs flickering, a twenty-four-hour pharmacy glowing at one intersection, a diner with fogged-up windows at another. The sky brightens with each block we cross, soft gray bleeding into hints of pink where the horizon opens.

I sink back into the seat, letting the hum of the engine settle into my nerves. Fatigue pulls at me, but it doesn’t pull me down. My brain refuses to switch off.

Will they expect me back? I told them I need to get out of there, for my sanity. What am I doing going back?

Trying to separate myself from their world, from them, feels impossible.

And the weekend before Morales fucked me over… two whole days of sex and laughter and heat and comfort. Forty-eight hours wrapped in their attention. They saw me at my worst, drugged and shaking, dragged me back into the light, held me through it. Then they made me feel alive again with their hands and mouths and bodies.

My cheeks warm at the memories that surface. Brox’s fingers tight around my hips, Rio’s breath on my throat, the sound of both of them as they gave me everything they had, as if the only way to prove I was still here was to worship every inch of me.

My body thrums at the echo.

Then Morales’s face intrudes, and the echo shifts shape.

The lab. The cold table. The difference between those two worlds hits me all over again.

I stare out at the city and curl my fingers into my palms.

The Boarpit is dangerous. Men bleed there. Deals are made that never see daylight. People go missing. And she is out of the picture, for good.

The driver drums his fingers against the steering wheel. The radio murmurs a low tune. I watch the light, feeling the city yawn awake around us.

“Long night?” he asks suddenly, meeting my eyes in the mirror again.

I shrug. “Yeah.”

He waits. I don’t volunteer more. He takes the hint and focuses back on the road.

My thoughts curl around the decision I’ve already made just by telling him where to drive. I’m going to the Boarpit not because they own me. Not because I have no other place to go. Because I choose this. For the first time in longer than I can track, I choose where I go next.

The streets around us shift, and familiar landmarks slide into view. The towering buildings near the Boarpit cluster together, reflecting the pale early light. The club itself looms ahead, its façade dark and sleek.

The driver slows, pulling up to the curb opposite the entrance.

It’s six in the morning. The Boarpit’s heavy doors are shut, but the side entrance near the security station has a man standing outside. Broad shoulders, black jacket, arms folded. A bouncer finishing his shift, or starting it. Hard to tell.

“The Boarpit.” The driver states, the meter ticking to the final fare.

I see movement at the entrance. The security guy lifts a hand to the radio at his shoulder, speaks into it, his gaze sliding to the taxi.

The bouncer holds up a finger in my direction, some silent gesture that tells me to wait. Then he pushes through the door and steps out of the way.

Sol comes through a moment later. His shirt is open at the throat, his sleeves rolled, dark trousers. His gaze locks onto the taxi, and me sitting at the back.

He moves across the pavement, crossing the distance fast. Reaching for the door, he opens it for me, and leans down.

“How much?” He asks the driver.