The clinic smells like bleach and other people's fear, and my jaw still aches from last night.
I'm counting pills into paper cups when the front door bangs open hard enough to shake the glass.
Arlen: There she is. My hardworking fucking nurse.
He says it loud, so the whole waiting room hears, and a woman with a kid on her lap looks up.
Arlen: Cal's at the yard with Hank. He stays there now.
Dara: You can't do that. He's my son.
Arlen: Then come home and act like it.
Arlen: You want to see him again, you get on your knees tonight and ask me nice.
His hand closes around my wrist and squeezes until the bone grinds. The skin goes white, then red.
Arlen: Stupid bitch. You think you get to walk out on me?
He shoves me into the wall and the back of my head hits plaster. I bite my tongue and taste blood.
Arlen: Look at her. Can't keep a kid, can't keep a man, can't keep her legs shut.
The woman pulls her boy closer and looks at me like I'm the dirty one, not him.
Arlen: I'll call the county. Tell them you leave him alone with strangers.
Arlen: You'll never see him again. Not once, not ever.
I believe him. Arlen never says a thing he won't do.
The door opens again and the room goes quiet in a different way.
Kade: Take your hand off her. Now.
Arlen: This is private business, Kade.
Kade: So is a broken fucking hand. Move.
Arlen reaches for me and Kade hits him once, in the mouth, and Arlen drops to one knee.
Blood runs off his chin onto the clean floor. Nobody in the waiting room moves.
Kade: You touch her again, I'll cut your fingers off and make you swallow them.
Arlen: You're a dead man. You and that whole club.
Kade: Yeah. Keep talking.
Kade: Bode's got your boy. Picked him up ten minutes ago.
Dara: I have a shift. I can't just leave.
Kade: You can. Get on the bike.
The Rustline clubhouse is long and low and smells like beer, oil and old smoke.
Bode is at the door with Cal asleep on his shoulder, and my legs almost give out.
Kade: The club hides people. It's not free.
Dara: What does it cost?
Kade: You.
Dara: I'm not going to be anybody's whore.
Kade: You're already somebody's punching bag. I'm offering you a better job.
Dara: Fuck you.
Kade: Later. Maybe.
Kade: You stay under my roof, you're mine. Every part. That's the price.
He says it flat, like a number on a sign, and my face burns.
He tips my chin up with two fingers, light, right over the bruise Arlen left.
My breath goes short and my nipples go tight under the smock, and I hate him for it.
Kade: Hate me tomorrow. Tonight you eat and you sleep.
He pulls off his vest and puts it around my shoulders, and it's warm and it smells like him.
I pull it tighter and tell myself it's for Cal.