Dark towels folded neatly on a shelf. A razor and aftershave lined up with military precision near the sink. Men’s shampoo, soap, and a heavy-scented body wash that smells like cedar and something sharper, clean, grounded, him. The shower is bigger than any I’ve ever had, with a tub deep enough to actually soak in.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and cringe.
I look awful.
My skin is pale, my blue eyes dull and shadowed. My nose is red from days of blowing it, and my hair sticks out in every direction like it’s given up on me entirely. I shake my head and turn away before I can spiral.
The water takes a second to heat, but when it does, I step under the spray and let out a long, shaky breath.
Warm.
I can’t remember the last time I stood under warm water without rushing. Without keeping one eye on the door and one ear tuned for footsteps. Without fear tightening my chest at every sound, wondering if Russell was coming back to the trailer.
I was twelve the first time he walked into the tiny bathroom of the trailer, knowing full well I was taking a shower. I remember the way the curtain shifted when he pushed it aside, just enough to make me freeze, my hand clenching around the soap as my heart slammed against my ribs. I screamed so loud my throat burned, and my mother came running, yelling at him to get out.
But I can never forget the way he looked at me.
That grin.
Like it was funny.
The memory makes my shoulders tense and my stomach turn, but the water keeps pouring, steady and constant.
No shouting. No slammed doors.
I close my eyes and let the heat sink into my skin, loosening muscles I didn’t realize were still clenched.
This isn’t the life I imagined I’d have once Mason went off to college.
But it’s better than the one I left behind.
I have a bed. A door that locks. A place where no bikers will ever set foot. I have a job, even if my new boss already gets on my nerves and his stupid nickname makes me want to throw something at him.
Still, it’s better than last week.
No bikers here. No Russell.
And Mason is safe.
For now, that has to be enough.
After my long, relaxing shower, I tiptoe back to my room and find my backpack sitting at the end of the bed. On the chair are the clothes I was wearing when Dex found me, washed and dried, smelling faintly of his detergent. I pull on clean underwear, my hoodie, and jeans, run my brush through my hair, dry it, then twist it up into a messy bun.
I itch for coffee and make my way over to the kitchen.
The space is surprisingly put together. Dark wood cabinets line the walls, worn just enough to show use but clearly well cared for. The countertops are thick stone, solid and practical, free of clutter except for a coffee machine, a knife block, and a bowl of fruit that looks like it actually gets eaten. Open shelves hold mismatched mugs and sturdy plates, nothing decorative for the sake of it, just things that belong. A heavy wooden tablesits near the window, its surface scarred with small nicks and scratches, like it’s seen real life instead of just photos. The whole room smells faintly of coffee, clean soap, and something earthy, cedar or leather, like Dex himself.
I fumble with the coffee machine, my movements slow as I try to wake my body with heat and caffeine. Steam rises in lazy spirals, curling through the air, and I let it fill the room, wrapping around me.
Maybe I can survive today after all.
Then I hear the bathroom door open.
I look up, and my breath catches.
Dex steps out wearing nothing but a pair of loose, low-slung pants, water droplets still clinging to his skin, his hair damp from the shower. His abs catch the light as he moves, and I can’t help the quick swallow that betrays me.
Of course he has a six-pack.
