"Fair point." He stands, moving to the kitchenette. "You hungry?"
"Not really."
"You should eat anyway. You're going into shock."
He's right again. The shaking hasn't stopped, and I can feel the cold settling into my bones despite the warmth of the room. Ice Pick rummages through the cabinets and produces a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
"This'll help more than food," he says, pouring generous amounts into both glasses.
Somewhere, I’m pretty sure there’s a woman in his club who would roll her eyes at that; tell him water first, food second, whiskey later. But Ice Pick looks like the kind of man who only learned comfort in harsh doses.
I take the one he offers and knock it back in one go. The burn feels good, grounding, chasing away some of the cold. He refills it without being asked.
"So," I say after the second glass, warmth finally spreading through my chest. "Why did you really come after me?"
He leans against the counter, his own glass cradled in one large hand. "Told you. Your friend called."
"But why give me your number in the first place? You could've just let those guys in the parking garage rough me up and stayed out of it."
"Could have."
"But you didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
He's quiet for a long moment, and I think he's not going to answer. Then he says, "Because I've seen what happens to people who dig into things they shouldn't. And most of them end up dead."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting tonight." He downs his whiskey and sets the glass aside. "Get some sleep. We'll figure out the rest in the morning."
"Where are you going to sleep?"
"I'm not." He heads for the door. "I'll be outside keeping watch."
"Ice Pick."
He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and looks back at me.
"Thank you," I say again, meaning it. "For everything."
Something shifts in his expression, something I can't quite read. Then he nods once and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sit on the bed, still shaking, still processing everything that happened. The beating. The escape. The motorcycle chase. Ice Pick's hands on my face, cleaning my wounds with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about him.
I should be scared. I probably am scared, somewhere under all the adrenaline and whiskey. But there's something else too.Curiosity. Interest. A pull toward this dangerous man who keeps saving me, even though I'm clearly a liability to him and his club.
I pull out my phone and check for messages. Three missed calls from my editor. Two texts from Sarah, my roommate, asking where I am. And one message from an unknown number.
Unknown:
You should've stayed away. Now you'll pay for your mistakes.
I think of the survivors I’ve interviewed; the ones who escaped trafficking and still jumped at every shadow. Whoever sent this wants me back in that same cage: scared, silent, manageable.
I should run. I should pack my things and leave town, start over somewhere the Reapers can't find me. But I think about the women who've disappeared, the ones whose faces I've memorized from missing persons reports. The ones who don't have anyone fighting for them.
