Page 15

I want to argue. I want to say that their hard lives don’t excuse what they did to me. But I don’t because she’s not wrong. People are complicated. And the truth is, I don’t understand anything about the men who did this to me. I don’t understand why Ryker looked at me like I was destroying him when he was inside me. I don’t understand why Noah’s hands shook when he gripped my hips. Or why Kipton’s voice sounded soothing to my soul. I don’t understand why they all left as if they were running from something, or why Malcolm spent the night protecting my sister instead of... whatever else he could have been doing.

“I just want to go home,” I say quietly. “I want to forget this ever happened. I never want to see them again, no matter how…” I stop myself, but Bailey catches it. Her eyes are knowing in a way that makes me want to hide.

“No matter how good they made you feel?” she asks softly. I don’t answer. I don’t have to. The heat crawling up my neck says everything. Bailey reaches across the table and takes my hand. Her fingers are warm, steady. The only constant in my life that’s never let me down. “We’ll go home, and,” she adds, “we’ll figure this out. And maybe...maybe this is the last we see of them. They got what they wanted, and they’ll leave us alone now.”

I want to believe her. I want to believe that this is over, that I can go back to my normal life and pretend that my body wasn’t awakened by three dangerous men who never should have touched me. I want to believe that the hollow ache in my chest is just confusion. Nothing more than the aftermath of a traumatic night.

7

FAWN

The diner smells like burnt coffee and fryer grease, same as always. My feet ache, my eyes burn, and the clock on the wall says eleven thirty, even if it feels like three in the morning.

The floor behind the counter is sticky with spilled syrup and something else I don’t want to identify. I’ve been here since four, and my lower back has settled into a dull, constant throb that no amount of stretching will fix. My sneakers are worn through at the heels, and I can feel every crack in the linoleum through the thin rubber soles.

Marnie’s supposed to be on register, but she’s in the bathroom again, probably vaping, scrolling through her phone or whatever it is she does that takes twenty minutes every other hour. That leaves me covering the counter, the floor, and the register, hopping between tasks with a fake smile plastered on my face.

That’s when I feel it. The shift in the air, the subtle tightening of the room, the feeling as if someone turned down the volume on everything else.

They’re in the corner booth. Same spot as always. Wearing the same dark coats and hard faces that don’t belong in a place that serves pie for $2.95.

Noah’s got his arms crossed, watching the door like he’s waiting for someone to start trouble. He’s fucking massive. His shoulders fill out his coat like it’s tailored around a wall, and his expression never changes. I’ve never seen him smile. I’ve never seen him frown. He only watches, absorbing everything around him with dark eyes that miss absolutely nothing.

Kipton’s hunched over a mug of coffee he hasn’t touched. He’s leaner than his brother, sharp-featured, with pale hair that catches the fluorescent lights, making him look almost angelic. That is, if you don’t look too close at his eyes. There’s something restless about him, something that’s coiled tight and waiting. His fingers tap against the ceramic mug, fidgety. Impatiently counting down to something.

And then there’s Ryker.

Ryker’s leaning back, and his eyes find mine, steady and unblinking, stripping me down to nothing without moving a muscle. He’s the youngest, or at least he looks like it, with dark hair that falls across his forehead and a mouth that curves like he knows every secret I’ve ever tried to keep. He’s beautiful in a way that should be illegal, beautiful in a way that makes my stomach clench with something I refuse to admit.

I’ve served them a dozen times, maybe more. They’ve never said more than their orders to me. Black coffee. Turkey club, no mayo. Pancakes, side of bacon burnt. Today I feel them watching me closer than ever before. When I’m refilling ketchup bottles or wiping down the counter, the weight of it crawls up my spine, a physical presence that makes my hands shake, and my breath come shallow.

Tonight, Ryker’s gaze lingers longer than usual. I feel it like a touch, tracing my curves, reading my exhaustion and recognizing my fear. I want to turn around and yell at them to stop, do anything but stand there with my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Marnie finally emerges from the bathroom, reeking of vanilla and something herbal, and I shove a ticket at her without looking. “Table six needs their check.”

“Jesus, Fawn, relax. You look like someone’s got a gun to your head.”

I don’t answer.

I can’t explain what it feels like to be watched by men who own the darkness, to feel their eyes mapping your body as if it were territory they’ve already claimed. Marnie wouldn’t understand. Marnie’s nineteen and still thinks bad boys are fun, that danger is exciting, and that she’ll be the exception to every rule.

She’ll learn. Or she won’t. Either way, it’s not my problem.

I bus table four, stacking plates sticky with syrup and cold eggs, my movements muscle memory at this point. The Winter brothers don’t order anything else. They don’t need to. They sit in their corner like kings holding court in a peasant’s hovel, and the diner bends around them. Customers steer clear, and conversations drop to whispers as the whole place adapts to their presence.

By the time I clock out, my whole body is one throbbing bruise. Seven hours on my feet, and I get to do it all again tomorrow. And the day after. Double shifts every day this week because rent was due and Mr. Halloway doesn’t give extensions.

I count my tips in the break room, fingers moving through crumpled ones and sticky change.

Forty-three dollars.

Forty-three fucking dollars for seven hours of smiling until my face hurts and pretending I don’t notice the way men’s eyes roam my body like it’s public property. Forty-three dollars doesn’t even make a dent in the hole I’m sinking into.

I stuff the money into my pocket and grab my denim jacket, which has more holes than fabric, and step out into the night.

The cold air hits my face, and I want to cry. But crying takes energy I don’t have, so I walk.

The street is empty but feels alive with things hiding in the shadows, as if I’m being watched. I keep my head down, and my pace quick, keys threaded between my fingers as my dad taught me before he left, before the drinking got bad, and I became the kind of daughter who only called when she needed money.