“Sorry, got distracted by a call and forgot I was cooking them.”
She doesn’t move from the door frame. “If you could help me get some clothes, I can pay you back when I get my bank cards. I’m good for the money.”
I take a step toward her, but then realize I should give her space. “I can take you to the store to pick up some things now, or you can eat some pancakes first, my mom’s recipe, so you aren’t shopping on an empty stomach.”
The indecision in her eyes stings. I grab the cloth, open the oven, and pull out the pot of warmed pancakes. The smell from them is heavenly, and my mouth waters. I set them on the table and pour her a glass of orange juice. “I said it last night, and I know me telling you that you’re safe doesn’t mean shit to you right now. But you are with me. I promise.”
I set about doing normal things. Grabbing a cup, pouring her a coffee without asking, because I don’t want to interrupt her while she’s clearly thinking through what she needs to do.
After I place the cup on the table next to the orange juice, I take a seat. “Sit, Briar. You don’t need to choose between the two. Eat breakfast, and then I’ll take you for some clothes, yeah?”
She lets out a breath of air in a whoosh, like she’s relieved I made the decision for her. The chair scrapes across the cheap-ass linoleum as she tugs it out from beneath the table. “Thank you,” she says, reaching for the coffee. She hugs the mug for a moment, then sips. “Christ,” she mutters after she takes a sip, blinking furiously as she winces. “That’s ... potent.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Sorry, I like it strong. You want me to add some water to your mug?”
“You got any sugar? Or cream? Anything to make it taste a little less bitter?”
“Sugar I can do,” I say as I get up and grab the bag from the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer. “I can do milk, but no cream. Otherwise, we can grab a drive-through coffee on our way to the mall.”
“Sugar’s fine.” She takes it from me and adds a spoonful to her cup before stirring it. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. Apologies if I did.”
“You didn’t.” I sit back down opposite her.
In the sunlight, I can see how pretty, and young, she is. She speaks politely, smiles softly. But beneath the facade, I know she’s still a terrified woman.
And I need to fix it.
6
BRIAR
As soon as I bite into the first sweet pancake, my stomach lets out a grateful rumble. Sticky syrup and butter are my weakness. Sugar and fat are my comfort, and I don’t hold back.
“Sorry,” I say between mouthfuls of food, keeping my eyes on my plate. “I wasn’t fed the two days I was ...”
I can’t think about that place now. I take a deep breath, focus on the blue sky outside the window, and try to relax my grip on the table.
“Fuck,” Saint mutters, putting his knife and fork down on his plate. “What do you need?”
I look down at the pancake on my fork. “I don’t know. What you said last night about basic needs. I think I’m still there.”
“So definitely no police?”
I shake my head. “I considered it, like you said. They said they had two police officers who could get them out of trouble. But what would they get charged with? Attempted abduction. Assault.”
“Can I ask? Did they ... were you raped?”
I pick up the fork and debate putting the pancake in my mouth. “I wasn’t. The guy seemed happier smacking me around, but I was terrified he might. Even if he’d sexually assaulted me, there are so many cases where women report rapes and they aren’t believed. Or the perpetrator gets some wishy-washy sentence. Did you know there was a research study done once? They gave over two hundred cops a police report of a rape. All the details were exactly the same, except in one version, the girl was a student, and in the others, they deliberately labelled her a ‘hooker.’ Not even a ‘sex worker.’ Just ‘hooker.’ Half the cops got one version; half got the other. In the ‘hooker’ version, the officers were more prominent in victim blaming and determined the consequences she suffered were far less, compared to the cops who reviewed the report from the student. Even when both reports of rape had the exact same data otherwise.”
Saint chews a mouthful of pancake, but he narrows his eyes as if he’s thinking. “Not all cops are—”
“Don’tnot all copsme,” I say.
Saint holds his hands up in surrender. It finally dawns on me that he’s shirtless. It makes me feel vulnerable. Even as I take in the shape of his arms and the ink that covers them.
“You’re right. I know some cops are rotten to their core. I’m sorry.”
The sincere and fast apology without defense catches me off guard. “I’m surprised a member of a motorcycle club would be so endorsing of them.”
