Won't be allowed to stay.
And Legion won't be allowed to leave.
The rational part of my brain understands they're not just gonna kick me through the gate and tell me to walk home. We're in the middle of absolute nowhere. I don't even know where the nearest town is. Hell, I don't even know where I am right now.
Legion wouldn't abandon me. He'd get me somewhere safe.
But then he'd leave. And I'd be alone.
I'd be fine, obviously. One phone call to my lawyer would get me money, clothes, a car—anything I needed. Eleanor Ashby's daughter is never truly stranded.
But I cannot go home. Not after what they did.
Legion is my home now.
I stand up slowly, deliberately, letting the room watch me gather myself. I pull on his t-shirt, slide into his jeans, zip up his hoodie. Like it never happened. Like I wasn't just naked beneath the gaze of fifty strangers.
My mother taught me how to smile through anything, and this is just one more performance.
I walk toward the bar, chin up, shoulders back. Every step feels like a mile. My bare feet stick to the floor—beer spills and God knows what else making each footfall a tacky reminder of how far I've fallen. The conversations around me dip and swell like prairie grass in wind.
"Rich girls slummin' it," someone mutters from a dark corner.
Another voice says something I don't catch—something that makes three men laugh low and mean.
I keep walking anyway.
The music kicks harder, some growling anthem about women and whiskey. The crowd shifts around me, bodies rearranging like I'm a stone dropped in still water. A few people lean in, curious, waiting to see what happens next.
I reach the bar where Legion stands with Diesel. Legion positions himself beside me, close enough that his body heat reaches through the borrowed clothes. He doesn't touch me. Doesn't speak. But his presence steadies me like a hand on a spooked horse's flank.
The night has started. Whatever happens next will decide if I get to stay or if I have to run. I grip the edge of the bar, feel the sticky wood under my fingertips. I breathe in through my nose. Hold it.
Make them like me? This has to be a joke.
These men don't want to like me. They want to own a piece of me, same as everyone else. Same as my mother with her camera. Same as Marcus with his ring. Same as Cash with his threats about inheritance.
But I'm still here.
Still standing.
And I've been making men like me since before I even knew what that meant. What's forty or fifty more?
Diesel's gaze cuts through me from behind the bar. Not a smile or a nod. Just that stare, assessing me like I'm a filly at auction. The glass he slides toward me is chipped along the rim, a jagged imperfection that might slice my lip if I'm not careful. The whiskey inside catches light from the neon beer signs, turning gold, then amber, then something darker as it sloshes against the sides. It reminds me of sunset through my bedroom window at home—a place that isn't mine anymore.
I lift the shot, feel its weight. Everyone's watching, waiting to see if Eleanor Ashby's perfect daughter will choke, or cry, or run.
I tip it back in one smooth motion.
The burn traces a map down my throat. The alcohol illuminates my injuries from the inside out, making me glow with hurt.
Before the sting fades from my tongue, Diesel places a second shot in front of me. No words. Just expectation.
I don't hesitate this time. Down it goes, chasing the first, pooling like liquid courage in my empty stomach. The drugs still lingering in my system dance with the whiskey, making my fingertips tingle and my cheeks flush.
A third glass appears. I can feel Legion watching me, his presence a gravity well I'm circling. I wonder if he's proud, or worried, or both.
I down the third shot, no longer tasting it.
