Erica

I woke to the sound of breathing. Not mine, not Lisa's — though hers was close, steady, warm through the bars between our cages. The other women. Six of them, I'd counted before sleep took me. Six bod

Lisa came back into the bedroom carrying two mugs of coffee, her dark hair piled up in a messy bun, wearing one of my oversized t-shirts that hung off one shoulder. She looked domestic and soft and co

You sat across from me in that leather chair, legs spread, watching me stand in the doorway of your bedroom with a towel wrapped around my body. The steam from the shower still clung to my skin, and I

You've been asking me questions all week, and I keep dodging them like bullets in a war zone. But tonight, as we sit in Max's cramped back office surrounded by empty beer kegs and the distant thump of

Saturday morning light cut through the blinds in gold stripes across your bare shoulders, and I watched you breathe. Slow. Deep. Completely unaware of me propped on my elbow beside you, studying the w

Three days. That's how long it took for my body to feel like mine again. The bruises from the rope had faded to yellow-green smudges along my ribs and hips. The soreness between my legs had dulled to

Lisa still didn't know. That was the part that made my stomach flip every time I thought about it — not the stage, not the twenty-plus men Max had vetted, not the fact that my asshole was about to bec

The parking lot was already half-full when we pulled up, cars angled toward the squat cinderblock building like moths to a flame. Headlights flickered, engines hummed, and the air smelled of sweat, le

The front door felt different under my hand. Not heavier, exactly. Just final. Like the last page of a book I'd been forcing myself to finish for years. I could hear the television before I reached t

My name is Erica, and last Tuesday I found a receipt in my husband Marcus's jeans pocket. It was from a hotel downtown — the kind of place you don't book for a business meeting. I didn't say anything

The Tuesday started normal. I was in the clubhouse kitchen making eggs, wearing nothing but one of Max's flannel shirts and a pair of fuzzy socks because the concrete floor was cold. That's the thing

Collateral My name is Erica, and three hours ago I was sitting on my couch in yoga pants watching a baking show. Now I'm standing in the middle of a biker clubhouse with my hands zip-tied behind my ba