Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Tripp hands her an envelope. “Funds for whatever they need. No names.”
She nods. “You boys just did something good. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
We watch as the vans pull away — seven women, seven new chances.
Pretty Boy lights a cigarette and exhales slowly. “Think they’ll make it?”
“Some will,” Crunch says. “Some won’t. But they got a shot now. That’s more than they had yesterday.”
Tripp claps his shoulder. “That’s what we can give them, a second chance.”
Karma calls the cleanup crew. They’ll handle what’s left behind — erase the trail, close the book. The motel will be shut down. Maybe reopened with new owners. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. The poison’s gone.
The ride home is quiet. The engines hum low, a chorus of ghosts and relief. The storm that had been threatening finally breaks, rain hitting our cuts, washing the dust from our faces.
By the time I pull into our driveway, it’s near midnight. The lights are dim, the world still.
I park the bike and stand there for a long time, letting the rain soak through my shirt. The sound is steady, grounding.
Inside, the house is dark except for one lamp by the window. She’s there curled under a blanket, head resting against the arm of the couch. She must’ve fallen asleep waiting for me.
I take off my boots quietly, not wanting to wake her, but she stirs anyway, eyes blinking open.
“Tommy?”
“Yeah, baby. It’s me.”
She sits up, rubbing her eyes. “You’re late.”
“Ran long.”
Her gaze sharpens, tracing the rain dripping from my hair, the exhaustion in my shoulders. “You’re okay?”
“Yeah.” I sit beside her, taking her hand. “It’s done.”
She studies me for a long time, the silence between us full but gentle. She doesn’t ask what done means. Maybe she doesn’t need to. Maybe she already knows.
Instead, she leans into me, her head finding its place on my shoulder.
“You smell like rain,” she murmurs.
“Washin’ off the day,” I say quietly.
She tilts her face up to mine. “You did what you had to, didn’t you?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“Then don’t carry it,” she whispers. “You already carried enough for both of us.”
Her words undo me.
I kiss her forehead, breathing her in — soap, warmth, home. “They’re safe now,” I share with her. “All of them. The people who hurt you — they’re gone. They won’t hurt anyone else. Every piece of that world is gone.”
She closes her eyes, and I feel her exhale like she’s finally letting go of something she’s held too long.
We sit there until the rain fades, the quiet thick with peace and exhaustion.
When she finally drifts back to sleep against me, I whisper to the empty room, “No one touches her again. No one. Not while I’m breathing.”
Outside, thunder rolls far off in the distance, but inside, everything is still.
The next morning, sunlight breaks through the blinds. The storm’s washed the world clean.
Jami wakes slow, stretching, her fingers finding mine automatically. “You stayed up?”
“Didn’t want to miss a minute.”
She smiles, small and sleepy. “You look tired.”
“Earned it.”
She sits up, brushing her hair from her face. “You really think it’s over?”
“Yeah,” I say, meaning it. “The women are safe. The men who tried to profit off pain, they’re no ones memory.”
She studies me, then nods. “Then maybe we can start living instead of surviving.”
“Exactly what I was thinkin’.”
Eighteen
Jami
It’s strange how quiet life feels when the chaos stops.
Two months since I got home. Two months learning how to live again. It’s the little things that undo me — grocery lists, clean laundry, a toothbrush in the holder next to Tommy’s.
I keep a small notebook now, one I started in group therapy. Every day I write something real. Some days it’s just I made it through. Other days I surprise myself with gratitude.
Day forty-two: I laughed today without guilt.
Day forty-six: I kissed him and didn’t feel guilt.
Day fifty-three: I want to be alive tomorrow.
It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s everything.
Tommy’s been patient. He gives me space but never distance. He cooks when I forget to eat, leaves little notes under my coffee mug telling me affirmations or reminders that I have this.
The man doesn’t say much, but he shows it in a thousand quiet ways.
I get back to work again — cleaning construction sites after the crews leave. The smell of sawdust and new paint fills my lungs, something about it grounding me. It’s simple work, honest work. I get dirty and tired and go home feeling like I earned my place in the world.
Still, something’s been… off.
It starts as a weird ache in the mornings. I think it’s nerves or stress. Then the dizziness comes. Some days, I can’t keep breakfast down.
When Jenni shows up on Saturday, she takes one look at me and frowns.
“You look pale,” she remarks, kicking off her boots. “You okay?”
“I think I ate something bad,” I reply, shrugging it off.