7. Origin Stories

Origin Stories

Saxon

" T old you about Camilla. How I watched her for months, supposedly preparing for the hit I was ordered to carry out but couldn't go through with. I fell in love with her from a distance, without ever seeing her face to face, let alone talking to her." I sigh. "It was…more of an infatuation, I suppose. Can you really be in love with someone you've never even talked to?" I shrug. "Whatever. I told you I let myself into her condo—"

"How?"

"Climbed up the outside of the building and used a laser cutter to cut a hole in her window." My voice is dry, inflectionless. She stares at me with her arms crossed over her generous—and goddamned distracting—chest until I can't help but laugh. "I picked the lock, babe."

"Didn't she have a security system or something? Rich girl, daughter of a mafia kingpin…seems like something she'd have."

"Oh, she did. But I knew the code."

"How?"

I sigh. "I watched her put it in. Anyway. I told her what was going on, who I worked for, that I'd been contracted to kill her but couldn't. That she should get out of town and stay gone. She'd never been interested in the family business. Wanted nothing to do with it. She'd spend the money but didn't want to know where it came from. I mean, she knew …she knew damn well. She was there when the Moreno cartel dumped her little brother's body on her dad's doorstep…in a lot of very small pieces. Thus, the panic attacks."

"Why would they do that?"

I shrug. "Who the fuck knows? Cartels, crime families, syndicates…they're all fuckin batshit crazy. Cross them in the slightest and they'll murder your whole family out of spite, saving you for last. Sergio Marccione was a real blood-thirsty bastard, by all accounts. He probably cooked and ate one of the Moreno bosses' kids, I don't fucking know." I glance at her. "No, not really. Point is, Camilla knew damned well what her family was and thought she could pretend she wasn't involved. The Cabal wants Marccione territory, but the Marccione are connected to other even more powerful families. Even the Cabal has to think twice before starting a war with them. So, they figured they'd have me kill Camilla and make it look like it was the Morenos, have them fight each other, and then the Cabal would mop up and take everything. Brilliant plan and it would've worked…if I'd gone through with the hit."

"But you didn't."

"No, and it fucked the Cabal. I knew it would, but by that point, Si and I were…disillusioned, you could say, with the life. Mainly the sex trafficking. Drugs, guns, murder—whatthefuckever. But kidnapping and selling innocent women, girls, and boys? Putting them in cargo containers without food, water, light, or air and shipping them across the goddamn ocean? Keeping the working girls in debt so they can never quit working? We couldn't stand that shit. Couldn't stomach it. Couldn't stop it but couldn't be a part of it. Si was faced with a similar choice, with the same results."

I'm quiet for a while. Remembering and hating every second of it.

"I knew that I was signing my own death warrant by failing to kill Camilla. I didn't much care. I had no way out. I have no skills other than violence. I'm not fit to be in society. I belong in either a shallow grave or a prison cell, and I knew it then. So I figured fuck it. I warned Camilla, figured I'd make a run for it and go down in a hail of bullets, you know? Sell my life as best I could. Only, it didn't go down that way. Camilla and I started talking, and we talked all night. Drank wine and shared our shit." I feel my voice go rough and heavy. "I let my guard down. Told her shit. Listened to her. Things sort of…happened." I glance at her and then back to the road. "I told you she seduced me…that's a lie.

"We didn't just fuck. It was…"

"It was real," Terra murmurs. "It meant something. To you, at least."

I nod. "Yeah." I go quiet again for a few seconds. "Cabal showed up. My own guys—people I'd trained. See, when I wasn't carrying out hits, I was a trainer. Squad leader. I had rank." I produce the coin, flip it, and pocket it. "They don't just hand these out to anyone, you know. I was on track to be a boss by forty. Anyway. They knew where I was, and they came in force. I had to kill guys I'd trained, guys I'd bled with. See, when you're in a gunfight, the cause don't mean shit. It don't fuckin' matter we were at war with another group of fuckin' murderers. What matters is the guys next to you. You bond with them. And I had to fuckin' put 'em down. And I did."

I swallow hard.

"Camilla took a round, a ricochet. I had her in the tub, but one bounced just right and hit her face. Nearly killed her. I took…shit, three? Four? I don't know. I was in bad shape. But I…I loved her. Or thought I did. Thought we had something. We'd talked about both of us getting out, you know? Pillow talk. Delusional bullshit, I realize now. We'd take as much money as we could and hide out in the Maldives or some shit, and then suddenly she was bleeding from the fucking face and I was dying." I touch three round, puckered scars—just below and to the left of my throat, just above my navel, and my left shoulder where the arm meets my chest.

"I finished them off, the poor bastards. Got Camilla out. Not sure how—pure adrenaline, I guess. Carried her out of her condo building and put her in a cab to a hospital. I ran. I didn't know where I was going, just that I wasn't ready to lie down and die. I figured they'd send more for me, and that's how I'd die. I hid under an overpass. Woke up in the back of a van with a woman I'd never seen before patching me up like she knew what she was doing. Told me to just relax, I was safe, and we'd discuss things when I was up to it.

"Which wasn't for a week, I'm told. I lost a lot of fucking blood, and nearly died a few times. When I finally did wake up, I was in a hotel room, hooked up to IVs and all that shit. The same woman was sitting across the room, stripping and cleaning a Beretta like she'd done it a million times. Introduced herself as Inez. Said she represented a very wealthy, very powerful man I would only ever know as The Boss. She said I had a choice to make. Once I was able to get out of bed, I could go my own way and take my chances out there. The implication was pretty obvious—I'd be dead inside a week, if that."

"Or?" Terra prompts, when I go quiet.

"Or…become a Broken Arrow. Her employer was a strange, reclusive man, she said, an entrepreneur who was putting together an exclusive nightclub in Las Vegas. He needed security. But he didn't want just anyone. He wanted specific individuals—or rather, a specific type of individual. Someone at rock bottom, with nowhere to go, no life, no way forward. Broken men. Products of violence and war and addiction, who wanted to become something more."

I sigh and scrub my face with one hand. "Did that sound like me, she wanted to know. She knew damn well it did. How she knew, I don't fuckin' know. The cabal doesn't exactly advertise, you know? Like, officially, I don't exist. I was listed as a runaway at 16, and I think all records stop there. No fingerprints, no credit history, no criminal record, no photographs, so social media or other internet presence. I vanished on the streets as a runaway and was presumed dead. So how this Inez and employer knew me and my story, I don't fuckin' know to this day."

"So, she rescued you, saved your life…and offered you a job with some weirdo who wanted to, what, rehabilitate you? What was the catch?" She asks.

I wave a hand. "Exactly my question. The catch was it was a permanent assignment. A forever job. Not just a job, but a whole new life. And I had to decide before I knew anything else about it, what it entailed. It wasn't much of a choice—die or go along with the whole weird business. I didn't want to die, I realized." I rub my face—I only slept an hour or two, so I'm still exhausted, but at least I can function, now. "So, I agreed. I had no idea what I was agreeing to. I had no idea where either of my brothers were, but I knew there wasn't much I could do for them anyway, so…" I shrug. "I went along with it."

"And?" She rests her elbow on the console and her chin on her hand, angled toward me, turquoise eyes gleaming with interest, with focus.

I'm all there is, on the whole planet, her eyes say. She cares about the story, they say.

"And I spent another two weeks in the hotel room recovering, and then once I was well enough to move, she took me by car out into the desert outside of Las Vegas. There were two men and a campfire. When you do for a living what I did, you recognize people like you. Killers. Warriors. These dudes were that and then some. Huge motherfuckers, one of them especially. Seven feet tall, built like a fuckin' Mack truck. Polynesian tattoos, long hair, no shoes. Eyes that said he was a hard-ass motherfucker. The other was six-six, had a mohawk, and looked like he ate nails for breakfast. Chance and Rev. Two of my brothers, now." I pause. "There was a branding iron in the fire."

I can see it, still—stars a brilliant countless wash of glittering diamonds, endless and shocking in the desert sky. Sand, hills, and nothing. The fire was a little flickering thing, orange and hot. Rev and Chance towered over me, men I'd not like to fuck with unless I had to, men I'd gladly have at my back.

"A brand?" She asks, voice high and concerned.

I nod. "Inez told me to go stand by the fire, next to the other dudes. Kick rocks and wait. So, we waited. An hour or so later, she came back in the same blacked-out van. Who should hop out of the back but Silas and Solomon. She'd gotten both, somehow. I know the story, now, but it seemed like a fuckin' miracle, then. They were both in just as bad of shape as me. Shot up, should be dead. No life to go back to, enemies waiting for them if they showed their faces fuckin' anywhere ever again. Rev and Chance were in the same boat."

I chew on the silence, caught up in the story now. I haven't talked about this with anyone since it happened. It's cathartic if I'm being honest. She makes it easy to talk, though. Her eyes draw the story out of me. Her spirit. Her strength.

"Inez had a little speech prepared. I can quote it." I call the words up. "'You five men are the start of something. My employer knows your stories. He knows what it feels like to be at the bottom, staring your own death in the face. Nowhere to go—no up, just death. Well, he offers you a chance at something else. You're all warriors, in your own way. I'll leave it to you to share your stories, but suffice it to say, you each have faced death and are standing here victorious. The question you have to ask yourselves is whether a life of death and violence is the life you want. Step beyond the light of this fire and you know what will happen. Your enemies will hunt you down and kill you. There will be no quarter, no mercy. Choose that, and, well…best of luck to you, and may whatever god you believe in be with you.

"'Or…vow to be different. And by vow, I mean a solemn oath, here among men like yourselves, men for whom your honor is the last thing you have left of yourselves. Take the iron and brand each other, if you choose this path. By doing so, you join a new family. A new brotherhood. The vow is simple: once you're in, there's no going back; never take a life; loyalty to the brotherhood above all. These men around you will be your brothers in arms. You will work for my employer, you will live with each other in the home my employer will provide—a safe place, a bunker beneath the club at which you will work. That will be your life. You can't go back to your friends or whatever family you may have. Your old life is gone. If you do try to return to your old life, you will not be welcomed back, even if you do survive your enemies. You will serve each other and forsake the lives now behind you. If you so choose, step forward.'"

I remember the pounding of my heart. Looking at Si and Sol and knowing what I'd pick. Not much of a life—work at a club and never leave? But what life did I have? None. I wouldn't go back to the Cabal even if I could.

"Rev was the first to take the step. Inez pulled the iron out of the fire, and he repeated the vow. She hit him with the brand, and man, that smell is one you never forget. Chance was next. Then Silas, then me, and then Solomon. Rev branded Chance, and so on. A few months later, we got another brother—Kane. A month after Kane, Lash joined us. We all took the vow and took the brand. Once the brand healed, we tattooed over it." He wedges his sleeve up past his bicep and shows me the tattooed brand—a stylized arrow, broken in half in the middle, the halves angled downward away from each other.

"And you never left?"

I shake my head. "Not until we got the call."

"That your parents were dead." Her voice is soft and compassionate.

"No, the call from Mom. She called Silas. Saying she was sorry. She didn't mean to, but he wouldn't stop." I swallow hard, remembering. "I heard it. The shot—over the phone. Dad had…he was…he was a monster. Beat the shit out of us and Mom. She couldn't take it anymore, after a point, so she shot him and then herself."

"Jesus, Saxon."

"I was walking away from the funeral when you attacked me on the sidewalk." I try to smirk at her, but I'm not sure it comes across properly.

"I didn't attack you," she mumbles. "So…you…you had just left the funeral?"

I nod. "I was walking, trying to clear my head. Planning on catching a train to Vegas and going back to the Club where I belong, hoping I could avoid any shit with the Cabal if I was fast enough, but…you had other plans. And now here we are."

She grimaces. "I'm sorry, Saxon. I had no idea. So, if I hadn't stopped you, you might have gotten away without any attention from your old pals in the Cabal?"

I shake my head. "Nah, babe, don't go there. They'd have caught up with me, sooner or later."

She passes a hand through her hair. "Still. I'm sorry for your loss…of your mom, at least."

"Yeah, I'm not mourning my dad. If anything, I'm due a drink in celebration. But Mom? I just…" I glance at Terra, unsure how my next admission will land with her. "I'm not sure how I feel. She loved us. She tried to soften him. To make up for how much of a fucking monster he was. But I…I just never understood why she stayed with him. For a lot of my life, I sort of assumed she was just weak for not taking us boys and leaving. Why did she let us endure the verbal, emotional, mental, and physical abuse? Why did she put up with it herself?"

Terra is quiet for a long time. "You can't understand, Saxon. You cannot —even if you try. Because you're not a woman."

"There's truth to that, I guess," I say. "Because I have tried. And I still don't get it."

She turns those turquoise eyes to me, serious, deep, intense. "Did she have her own money?"

"Mmmmm, I don't know." I think about it. " Her parents are loaded, too. Not like Dad's family, but pretty fuckin' rich. She may have had a trust fund. I don't know."

"Did you ever see her ask your father for money? Ever? For any reason?"

I consider it, and nod. "Yeah. She'd take us boys out for ice cream after sports practices, we'd go shopping with her, and she'd pick up a purse. But she had this car. A Jaguar. Dad had gotten it for her for a birthday or anniversary or somethin', I don't know. It was fancy and expensive, but it was a piece of shit. Kept breaking down. Spent more time in the shop than on the road. She wanted a different one. I remember the fight. He was drunk—shocker—and was all insulted that she didn't like his present. Even though he bitched more than she did about the repair bills and how much of a piece of shit it was, when she told him she wanted a new car, he just…he lost his fuckin' mind. Slapped her silly, called her a greedy, money-grubbing whore. Said other shit to her I won't repeat, basically telling her how she could earn the new car."

Terra nods. "And was she close to her family? Mom and Dad, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins?"

I shake my head. "Nah. We never saw them."

"Why?"

This is making me uncomfortable, all this shit I've never considered. "I…I don't know. They live in Connecticut, so not that far away. She has a sister, but she didn't come to the funeral."

"So, let me lay it out for you." She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "Your mother had three boys, close in age, I'm assuming. She didn't have access to any money of her own, for reasons we can't know. Not close to her family for the same unknown reasons, but I'm gonna guess it was because your father isolated and alienated her from them years ago, before you boys were born. That's textbook abuser strategy—make sure they don't have money or family, keep her dependent on you and only you. No money, no support system, nowhere to go, no skills or experience to get a job." She looks at me with sadness in her eyes.

"Your mother wasn't weak, Saxon, she was trapped . Where is she gonna go with three boys and no money and no family? A shelter? From the lap of luxury to the streets? It takes a kind of desperation most people can't fathom to take your children away from everything and everyone they know. You'd be away from the abuse, yeah, but how will she feed you? How will she clothe you? Where will you go to school? Where will you live? If she has no life experience, no work history, no degree—because your father kept her that way, mind you—what was she supposed to do?" A long pause. "She could've done what mine did, and be thankful she didn't."

"Which is what?"

"Die when you're five, leaving your already abusive and alcoholic father in even worse shape." She shakes her head, turning to look out the window. "At least you had brothers to share the pain. There was just little ol' me. Not making light of what you went through, or acting like my shit was worse. Just sayin'."

"Misery is relative, and subjective," I say.

"Damn right." She flicks a glance at me. "So, you're really not gonna ask?"

"Nope." I wince as the wound in my back aches and burns, randomly. "I know how that shit goes: once you open it up, you gotta tell the whole story. I want to know. But only when you're ready to share it."

"True enough, and fair enough." She grins at me. "Let's play twenty questions—but nothing serious."

I snort and shake my head. "Fine. Shoot."

"Favorite color."

"Blue."

"What shade of blue?"

I tilt my head. "Turquoise." I glance at her. "Not making it up, and not just saying it. My mom had this set of turquoise jewelry. She loved it. Wore it all the time. Your eyes are that exact shade."

"So you think of your mom when you look at my eyes?"

I laugh. "No. Well, yes, sort of. But not exactly. Not in a weird Oedipus complex sort of way."

"Good," she laughs. "Your turn."

"Why do you dye your hair red?" I pause. "If that's too serious of a question, don't answer."

She laughs, her eyes sparkling. "I just like red. I think it goes well with my skin tone and my eyes. I hate my natural hair color."

"Which is?"

"The exact color of old, dead grass."

I hum a noncommittal sound. "I feel like I need a picture, so I can judge for myself."

"There aren't any, so you're out of luck."

"There are no photos of you with your natural hair color?"

She shakes her head, scarlet hair swinging. "Nope. Emily may have one, somewhere. I hate having my picture taken, though. Always have. My life hasn't exactly lent itself to a lot of opportunities to be photographed, and I've never taken a selfie." She shrugs. "Least favorite food?"

"Ice cream."

She turns very, very slowly to face, shocked. "Excuse you, Satan?"

I snicker. "I hate ice cream. Makes my teeth hurt and gives me a headache. I've never had a flavor I liked."

"Rocky Road?"

"Gross."

"Chocolate with chunks of peanut butter?"

"Rather just have a Reece's."

"Superman?"

"Hold the wheel while I vomit."

She just blinks. "Mint chocolate chip?"

"Toothpaste, but with little bits of shitty chocolate in it."

"Butter pecan?"

"Boring and gross."

"Jesus. The fuck is wrong with you?"

I laugh, and god it feels good to laugh. I honestly don't remember the last time I did. "A shorter list is what's not wrong with me." I scrape my hand over my scalp. "Favorite movie."

She rubs her hands together. "I love movies. My idea of a perfect night is a bucket of popcorn and a good movie. I'm a homebody at heart." A pause as she thinks. "I watch Princess Bride several times a year. Cheesy and dumb, I know, but I love Notting Hill . It's cute. I watch Die Hard every Christmas Eve. And… Lilo and Stitch is the most underrated Disney movie, along with The Emperor's New Groove ." She lifts her chin at me. "Same question to you."

" Die Hard on Christmas Eve is an ongoing tradition for us at Club Sin because it's not Christmas till Hans Gruber falls off Nakatomi Plaza." I consider. " Terminator never fails. Fast Times At Ridgemont High ."

She sputters a laugh. "Only because of Phoebe Cates, right?"

"Transformational movie for my brothers and I."

"It is iconic."

I think, tapping my thumb on the steering wheel. "If you could go on vacation anywhere, all expenses paid, for a month, where would you go?"

She frowns. "Hell if I know. I've never left the East Coast. Em and I took a week's vacation in Myrtle Beach last summer. Tom paid for it. That was fun. I guess I'd go back there."

"Think bigger. This is all hypothetical. Where have you always wanted to go?"

"The easy answer is Paris. But I've read that it's underwhelming, and the people are rude."

"Still an amazing place to visit," I answer. "I think it's only underwhelming for people who build it up in their minds to the best place in the world."

"You've been?" She asks.

I nod. "We used to go to Europe every year when I was a kid. Paris, Rome, Berlin, Zurich. We were supposed to go to Tokyo the year Si and I ran away. Mom and Dad still went." I shrug. "I took some trips when I worked for the Cabal, too. Went to Moscow on business—Si was working a deal with some Russian gangsters, selling a container full of guns and ammo."

"Your brother was an arms dealer?"

"My brother was the top mover for all sorts of products, but mainly drugs and guns."

"So where else have you been? Maybe a better question is where would you go back to?"

"When I was following Camilla around, she took a trip to Mallorca. That place is amazing. I'd like to go back and visit just for fun. Hard to enjoy yourself when you have to monitor someone's every move without being seen."

"I don't even know where that is."

"Mediterranean. Off the coast of Spain." I glance at her, grin, and decide to spice things up. "Favorite sex position."

She cackles. "Oh, it's like that, is it?"

"Yeah, it's like that."

"Reverse cowgirl. Or regular cowgirl. Depends on my mood at the time. You?"

"Not sure if there's a name for it, but legs over my shoulders."

"Ooooh, bold," she says, smirking. "I didn't think you'd be flexible enough to put your legs over your shoulders."

"Ha ha ha," I deadpan. " Your legs."

"I know, I'm fucking with you. Least favorite?"

"Honestly, sixty-nine. Not a fan. Same to you."

"Anything weird where I have to hold myself in some stupid, uncomfortable position. I hooked up with this hipster barista yoga dude once, and he was all into fucking his way through the Kama Sutra. I was game, I really was, but most of the positions were just stupid, weird, and uncomfortable. Which defeats the purpose, for me." She looks at me. "Wanna know my hot take? I like good old-fashioned missionary. It's a classic for a reason."

"That is a hot take," I say. "But I agree."

"Who's your hall pass? If you were in a relationship, that is."

I shake my head and shrug. "I dunno. Never thought about it."

"Don't be boring. If you could bang any celebrity, who would it be?"

"Alexandria Daddario, I guess? I dunno. Never really cared too much about celebrities. You?"

"Henry Cavill, obviously."

"Why obviously?"

"Because he's hot as fuckballs, he's a giant nerd, which is adorable, and he just seems like a genuinely good guy. And he's hot as fuckballs."

"How often do you masturbate?"

She splutters. "Whoa…okay. Getting really personal."

"How is that any more personal than favorite sex position?" I ask.

She frowns, blinking. "I…I don't know, but it is." She bites her lip. "Every day. Sometimes more than once in a day." A shrug. "When I'm not, you know, running for my life with a sexy assassin—sorry, former assassin." A glance at me. "You?"

I hesitate. "I don't."

"You don't? Ever?"

"Nope, not really."

"Why?"

"Don't like it. I'd rather wait until I can hook up with someone."

"So, if you live in the Club place and can't ever leave, how does hooking up work?"

"It's more than a nightclub," I answer. "There's an exclusive members-only area. A brothel, sort of. But the girls work for themselves—they rent the room from the Club. We—the club, meaning The Boss--charge a flat monthly fee which generally works out to roughly five percent of their monthly income. We Arrows, provide security for them, and the club provides medical as well as free meals and drinks."

"And you avail yourself of their services."

I nod. "Occasionally." I glance at her. "How do you feel about that?"

"You care?"

I nod. "I do. Wouldn't ask if I didn't."

"They're treated well?"

I nod. "We make sure of it. The girls are all there of their own volition. They've chosen sex work for their own personal reasons. They rent the room from the club, which means they don't have to work out of cheap motels. They don't work for a pimp. The only requirement is that they're drug-free and clean. If they have or develop a drug problem, we get them help. We make sure the johns are respectful, and we don't hesitate to make a messy fuckin' example of men who aren't. So yeah. And obviously, I pay them their rate, and usually more."

She shrugs one shoulder. "Then I've got no problem with it. A man's got needs. You treat them well, don't expect freebies because you protect them, they're not trapped or kept hooked on drugs…I almost went into sex work, so obviously I don't, like, look down on it." When I don't press, she shakes her head. "You're really committed to not asking."

"I am."

"Why?"

"In this moment, because you said nothing deep."

"And in general?"

"That's the stuff that really, truly matters. It's yours to share or not."

"But you do want to know? You're not, like, not asking because you're afraid of getting close to me?"

"No. It's not that. There is a certain intimacy that comes from knowing a person's reasons for being fucked up, but I'm not afraid of that. Not with you, at least."

She nods. Looks out the window. After several minutes of silence, she speaks. Her voice is quiet, but pain is woven through each syllable. "Mom died when I was five. Told you that. It was an aneurysm. She was in the kitchen, making dinner. Chicken and biscuits…my favorite. Dad wasn't home from work yet. Mom was supposed to work that night—she was a hotel maid at a fancy place uptown. Midnights, because Dad worked during the day and I wasn't old enough for school yet. She just…dropped dead right in front of me. Bent over the counter, clutching her head. She puked everywhere, and then just fucking fell to the floor. She survived for a few weeks after, but she was in a coma. The doctors told my dad there was zero chance of recovery, so he pulled the plug."

"Fucking hell, Terra. I'm sorry."

"Thanks." A long pause. A wave of her hand. "So, my dad is a walking stereotype. Boston Irish frame carpenter. Real tough guy. Alcoholic son of an alcoholic. Loves the Red Sox and the Celtics and Jameson Irish Whiskey, in that order. Well, things weren't great up to that point. I remember them fighting. Dad yelling, Mom screaming. Dad hitting her. He didn't, like, kick the shit outta her, he'd just smack her when he got pissed off and she'd smack him back, throw plates, mugs. Real shitshow, both ways. Whatever Dad's damage was, Mom more or less balanced it out. They loved each other, just in a fucked-up way."

A long silence. "And then she died. And Dad just…I guess he died, too. He left for work at like six every morning, and came home at seven or eight, drank whiskey till he passed out in his chair in front of whatever game was on. I was more or less on my own from then on. He'd bring home food, but it was…fuckin…Cheetos, mac ‘n cheese, Coke, booze, and hot dogs. He'd throw clothes in the washer on Sundays, but he was drunk all weekend so a lot of the time he'd forget and I'd have to put on wet, moldy clothes for school. Sucked in the winter."

"Jesus."

"Oh, just you wait, buddy boy. It hasn't even gotten interesting yet." She blows out a breath. "The company he worked for got bought out and everyone got laid off. So, he found work at a different company, and that's when shit really went south. See, he made new friends, and these friends would come over and party with Dad every weekend. We had a nice backyard, a real back porch, a Weber grill, and a big garage with a project car. They'd get hammered and work on the car all weekend. At first, I thought it was good for him to have friends and a social life. People to talk to. But they…"

She swallows. "Fuck. Haven't talked about this in years." I stay silent, look at her, reach out a hand—she takes mine and squeezes. "I was eleven, the first time. They'd been drinking all weekend. Dad was passed out, and so were Gary and Danny. I woke up to someone opening my door. Dad's friend Sean came in and tried to touch me. I kicked him and screamed, and he left. I locked my door at night from then on. Well, Sean didn't like that. So the next weekend, he came in again. It was a shitty lock, you know? The kind you only need a paperclip to unlock."

A long, long silence.

"He put my hand over my mouth, pinned me to the bed, and raped me. I told Dad, and he just acted like I was making it up. When Sean came over that next weekend, Dad saw how scared I was of him, and confronted him about it. They fought, Dad won, and Sean never came back. Win! Right? Well, no. I was already developing by then. I got my period that year, and my boobs and ass started ballooning. His friends were always making comments disguised as jokes, and Dad would laugh it off."

"Are you fucking kidding?"

"I wish. And then Dad got hurt on the job, went on disability, and got hooked on Oxy. That's when the addiction issues started. Before, he was just a regular old alcoholic. But the pills? They led to other shit. You know how it goes, I'm sure. Dad would get high and his friends would try shit. I got good at dodging them, sneaking out and staying away till they were all passed out, and then barricading my door with a chair and sleeping with a bat. It happened twice more. Once right in the kitchen, right in front of Dad, only he was so strung out on Oxy that he wasn't even on the same planet. The bastard raped me right up against the fridge and then grabbed a beer and acted like nothing had happened. The other time, I was sneaking out. I usually climbed up onto the roof and read books by flashlight. Well, he caught me climbing out the window, pulled me down to the ground, and…yeah. That was one sucked the worst. He…well, let's just say he wasn't satisfied with vaginal rape. I bled from the ass for days."

I can't speak. She squeezes my hand, smiling at me sadly. "It's all right, Saxon. I'm okay, now. Still sucks, still hurts, but…it's old shit, now."

"Not to me."

"Yeah, I get that. Well, that's when I more or less ran away from home. Got sort of adopted by some older kids, teenagers, seventeen, eighteen. Rough kids. I was safe with them, though. Mainly because they all came from the same sorts of homes. They'd roll up to the corner and I'd jump in their car and we'd cruise, drink, smoke pot. I would stay out all weekend, crash on couches, or in someone's car. Anywhere else. I'd take care of Dad during the week. Keep the house from being roach-infested because I still lived there."

"Why? Why take care of him when he let that shit happen, to his daughter in his house?"

"I wish I fucking knew. I felt bad for him, I guess. He was just…so sad, so lost. I dunno. I tried to run away for good and never go back, but I always did. I'd clean up after him. Make sure there was food in the house. It got worse and worse as the years went on. It became obvious he wasn't…he wasn't going to be…he wasn't ever going to pull out of it."

"He doesn't deserve you."

"Fuck that word: deserve . Who deserves what? Did he deserve to be raised by a monster who beat him and sodomized him? Yeah, he would get high and talk, he'd tell me shit I wish I didn't know about him. Did my mom deserve to die of an aneurysm at thirty? Did I deserve to be raped three times by the time I was thirteen? Who deserves what? Fuck that."

I shake my head. "Yeah, can't argue with that."

"No shit." She cracks the window and lets cool night air flutter her hair. "I was goth for a long time. Big baggy black jeans, hoodies, eyeliner, crazy hair colors, spikes on my clothes, the whole nine yards. And yeah, I was the big titty goth girl. But I hid it. The big titty part, I mean. Hid my body. Hated everyone. Especially men—well, boys. I drank, smoked, went to heavy metal shows, and got into fights. Slept on the street and pretended I was immune to pain. I cut myself." She shows me her wrists, which are both crosshatched with fine white lines—some of the scars are hidden by her tattoos. "Never serious attempts at suicide. Not even cries for help, just… wanting to feel pain that was on the outside, I guess."

"What changed?"

"I met Em." She smiles. "Emily is everything I'm not. Comes from a middle-class home, Mom and Dad are married, together, and in love. Not to say they're not dysfunctional, because who isn't, but she had a stable upbringing. She was a rebel. They kept her on a super tight leash, so she went wild. We met at a concert—Cradle of Filth. She was in the pit and getting knocked around. Had no clue what she was doing. Dressed in cute jeans, a cute top, cute shoes…in the pit at Cradle of Filth." She laughs. "The balls on that one. That was my thought, so I adopted her. Taught her how to mosh, how to throw elbows. Kept her from being smashed to pieces. She, in turn, got me out of my shell. I still don't know how. Just talked to me. Accepted me. Showed up, no matter what. She was always down for whatever crazy shit I wanted to do and was usually the one to get us out of the trouble I got us into. We boosted a cop car, once. Took a joy ride around town, parked it back where we found it, and never got caught. No idea how we got away with it."

A long silence. " The more time I spent with Em, the more I started to just…move on, I guess. Slowly just…stopped being angry. She was the one who got me out of being goth and into fashion. We'd go to thrift stores, and at first, I just went along, but then I started to see things I liked, so I'd get them and wear them, but they didn't go with my goth outfits, so I needed other shit. But because I was short but with the body of a full-grown woman, it was hard to find stuff that fit, so I taught myself how to sew, so I could make things fit. But then it was like, well, I have this skirt all cut apart, why not add something to make it look even cooler? So I did. And that turned into making my own clothes out of thrift shop finds. And then my friend Rachel wanted a skirt I'd made, and she gave me twenty bucks for it. That was the start of my business."

"Badass."

She grins. "Making clothes is not badass."

"Sure it is. You taught yourself how to make something and you built a business out of it. That's badass."

"Thanks, then." She smiles at me, then sobers. "I was nineteen before I found my sexuality. Emily helped. She bought me a vibrator for my birthday. Didn't say anything, just gave it to me. I was too scared to use it for like two months. And then finally I did, and it blew up my whole world. It felt good . Amazing . And I could give that to myself. It took the tension out of a hard day. Took my mind off shit. Well, eventually, I got around to asking Emily about sex, like, cooperative, consensual sex. She was active, of course, and always had a boyfriend. Never serious, and I always came first. So she talked about it, how it can feel good. She gave me details. Still does, as a matter of fact." She laughs, smiling to herself. So I slept with a guy. One of my friends. He knew the basics of what I'd been through and sort of understood what I needed. He was super cool about it. Made sure I was for real about wanting it, super gentle, let me lead. Stopped when I got scared. Didn't make a big deal about it. Kept it between him and me. Knew I wasn't looking for a thing, and never tried to make it a thing. But that was the start. After that, I took sex back in a big way. Started dressing more provocatively. Enjoyed teasing guys. Yeah, I was a cock-tease. But I did also put out, so…yeah. I learned to enjoy sex, and then crave it."

"Crave it, huh?"

She shrugs. "Yeah. I'm not, like, a certified nympho or anything, I just like sex, crave it, think about it a lot—sometimes it feels like a need. A requirement."

"Why, do you think?" I ask.

"Ooooh, psychoanalyzation. Talk dirty to me, baby." She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "Classic sexual assault survivor reaction to trauma, Saxon. Repression and/or hyperexpression of sexuality. In my case, I went through both. Repression first, and then the hyperexpression. I had my power stolen. I was a child. I didn't choose it, didn't want it. It was brutal, violent, and vile. And that was after my mother dying, my father abandoning me through neglect, and being forced to care for myself at an age where all I should have had to worry about was fuckin' Blue's Clues and Dora the Explorer . Instead, I was fixing my own breakfast, brushing my own hair, and walking myself to school. Watching my father vomit off the side of the couch. Cleaning up said vomit. I remember watching him choke on his own puke and realizing at six that I had to turn him, a grown man, with my tiny ass six-year-old body, onto his side so he didn't fuckin' die .

"And then I was raped three times in two years. So, I turtled. I know the cliche and all that about goths—' It's not a phase Mom , it's who I am.' Maybe for some people it really is just an enjoyment of the music and the black clothes and all that. I know for me, though, it truly was a classic psychological thing. It was armor. Anger. An expression of rage and pain. Fuck the world and fuck everyone in it. I am pain, and all that. So fucking stereotypical, right? For years, I hid myself. Not just my femininity, but any semblance of who I was. Or maybe…maybe it was that I didn't have a self. My self was survival. My goth phase was an exploration of who I was and who I wanted to be. This shit can go deep, you know? How deep do you wanna go?"

"All the way, darlin'. Deep as you're willing to go."

"I've thought about it a lot over the years, obviously," she answers. "Me and Em have talked it to fuckin' death. Goth was armor. It was protection against the world while I healed inside. Gave those open wounds caused by all the shit I went through time to scar over. And then eventually, I was healed enough inside that I could take off the armor and start figuring out who the fuck I really was." She tugs at her jacket lapels. "This? Making clothes? It was something only for me, at first. I felt like I needed to set down this concrete thing, this…fuck, how do I put it? I had to be different . It wasn't enough to stop wearing baggy black jeans and baggy black hoodies and black eyeliner and all that shit. It wasn't enough to wear quote-unquote 'normal' clothes that put my femaleness out there for the world to see…and want. I had to have something that was only mine, so I started making things that only I could have. But then the act of creating clothing that was unique and beautiful and weird became its own thing. Its own reward. And then people wanted things I made, and that was the greatest thing I could imagine."

"Like I said, badass." I mean it, too. She's a hardcore badass survivor, a warrior in her own right.

"How does this all relate to sex?" She waves a hand. "Like I said, no big mystery. After I started emerging from my shell and Emily introduced me to pleasure and to what my body could feel that wasn't pain, it became almost an addiction. Or maybe not almost. I'd felt nothing but pain for so fucking long, emotional pain that made me crave physical pain just to dull the internal agony. And then, fucking miracle upon miracle, I discovered pleasure. I could touch myself and feel good . So instead of cutting to get away from the agony of all the bullshit, I could give myself pleasure. I could touch my pussy and make myself come and feel fuckin' amazing …and that relief, that escape lasted longer than cutting. It felt…healthier, I guess. I mean, duh, right? But when you're alone in the world with only another fucked up kid as your only guide in life? What's right, what's wrong? What's healthy, what's not? How do you know?" She shrugs.

"It was a big step from masturbation to sex, though. Sex meant contact with men. Sex meant letting men see me and touch me. It was fucking terrifying. I'd hidden my body for so long, because when you experience what I did, you don't want to give anyone the slightest reason to think about you like that, like something to be wanted, because being wanted means they'll take it from you. As I experimented with clothes that didn't just hide my body but even accentuated it, I found that if I paired it with a big fuckin' attitude, I had the power. As long as I never put myself in a position where a man could overpower me again, I could let them look. Let 'em see that I was a woman, and they could want me, but motherfucker, you can't have me. Not unless I say so. So yeah, I went a little power-mad, I guess. Dressed provocatively and refused to let anyone come near me. Tease? Maybe. But I had to know I had that power. That I could control what happened to me, to my body, to my life."

"How do you get over that last step?" I ask. "How did you find the courage to choose sex despite what you went through?"

"I knew I wanted more than what I could give myself. I'd talked to Em. I'd watched her hookup with guys and heard her talk about sex like it was the greatest fuckin' thing ever. She'd tell me about guys goin' down on her. Gettin' plowed and loving every second of it. She made it sound…fun. I watched her choose her boy toys. Watched her figure out her own power. I'd play her wingman, and honestly watching her journey from sheltered rich girl—rich to me, at least—to being a wild child who did what she wanted and gave zero fucks…that was inspirational to me.

"So I…I wanted it for myself. I wanted to walk into a club, pick a guy, make him want me, take what I wanted from him, and kick him to the curb. I wanted my own power. And there is power in female sexuality—a fuckin' lot of it. And I wanted it. Bad. I wanted it more than I was afraid. I picked Ricardo. He was this walking contradiction. Huge, built, tattooed, a scary motherfucker with a rap sheet a mile long, a dude I'd seen hand out brutal beatings like it was nothin'…but only when provoked. I knew he'd killed people, too. But then, he had this sweetness, at least around me. So fuckin' sweet. Like having a wild bear that adopted you and decided you were his ward to protect. And he did. I could walk through the worst neighborhoods in Boston with Ricardo at my side and know I was absolutely safe. Because no one fucked with him. And I mean no one ."

She smiles to herself. Thinks in silence.

"I told him I wanted him to be my first voluntary fuck. Because I trusted him. I knew I could trust him to not hurt me. Honestly, if it wasn't for him, I'd probably be one of those women who hates all men with a violent passion. But Ricardo proved to me that not all men were like the men who'd raped me. He took me to a motel away from everything, gave me a couple shots of whiskey to take the nerves off, and was just…so sweet and gentle. Let me set the pace. He seemed to just know when he needed to back off, and when I was too scared to take the next step and needed him to help me past it."

Her smile is happy and wistful and sad all at once. "I think he may have been in love with me, looking back. But I think he was savvy enough to recognize I was nowhere near ready for that, so despite whatever he may have felt for me, he gave me exactly what I needed and left it at that."

"What happened to him?" I ask.

She smiles, genuine and affectionate. "He moved to Puerto Rico for a girl he met online. They're married and he has four kids. He works with a nonprofit dedicated to keeping kids off the streets and out of gangs. I'm actually pretty sure he found Jesus somewhere along the way. Good for him, truly. I'm happy for him. I'm grateful to him, eternally." She pulls her hair back in both hands, shakes it, and fluffs it out with a gusting sigh. "After that, I went well and truly bananas. Pursued sex like a woman on a mission. Which, I was. My mission was to feel good because sexual pleasure is infinitely better than wallowing in such emotional agony that cutting your wrists into ribbons with a razor blade is preferable."

"And where are you now?" I glance at the GPS and note that we're fifteen minutes from our destination—somehow, the miles have vanished as we talked.

"In a weird place, honestly. Wanting something more." Her glance at me is wary, careful, and shuttered. "I'm at a point where hookups have sort of…gotten boring, I guess. Not boring. Um?" She rolls a shoulder. "I dunno. I just feel like there's something more, something I'm missing, like there's a puzzle piece missing inside me and I don't know what its shape is, I just know it's missing. That doesn't make any sense, maybe."

"No, it does," I say, exiting the freeway and gliding into suburban Jersey City. "It makes perfect sense."

"Saxon, I'm not saying—"

I grab her hand. "I know." I squeeze. "We're a few minutes out from Luka."

She straightens in her seat and nods. "What should I do?"

"Well, I'm not entirely sure. If my plans worked out timing-wise, the flatbed with the car should be at his place already. But Luka is one hell of an odd duck. Paranoid, with good reason, and just fuckin' weird. So we gotta play this carefully. I guess just follow my lead and play along. Just…keep your eyes open and be ready for anything."

She nods. Glances at me. "Can I have a gun?"