It’s amazing what happens to a person when they break free from their mind; when they don’t think and just live. It’s not easy to shut out the noise, most of the time I struggle, but when I’m with Deuce it seems to disappear without any effort whatsoever. I temporarily forget what I’ve been through and get to experience things I never thought possible, like picking out my own clothes and discovering I have a weird obsession with dental products. Or learning that raw fish isn’t so bad if you dip it in that spicy mayonnaise they give you on the side. And let’s not forget kissing. I never imagined it possible that I could enjoy a kiss; that I’d learn it’s so much more than someone violently assaulting your mouth.

It was intimate.

Powerful.

And very underrated.

We didn’t talk about it afterwards and it didn’t happen again after Target, but kissing Deuce was one of the times when my mind paused and I felt normal.

That’s not saying that when I go to sleep everything changes, because it doesn’t. My subconscious doesn’t let me forget, it drags me down and I wake up screaming. I’m reminded I’ll never be normal.

In the time I’ve been staying at the motel with Deuce, I’ve woken him with my screams almost every night. And each time he comes into my room and sits on my bed with me. He doesn’t ask me any questions he just lets his presence comfort me. Some nights I confide in him, finding it easy to talk to him. I think it’s mainly because he doesn’t force me to. It’s like we have a silent agreement, both of us understanding I’ll share when I’m comfortable and he’ll be there to listen.

The nights I choose to keep the horror bottled inside, he takes my hand and we go back to his room. He pops in the DVD and we lie on his bed watching Bonnie and Clyde until I finally doze off again.

Toothpaste isn’t my only obsession; I’m infatuated with the classic movie. I won’t lie and tell you it’s because the acting is so on point or even because Faye Dunaway is a beauty. No, it’s the story. The crazy love between two flawed people and the hidden message behind every heist; reminding us that the heart wants what it wants and nothing can stand in its way. It’s Bonnie’s fierce love for Clyde despite his bad decisions. It’s knowing she’d die before she ever gave up on him. It’s discovering ride or die is an unbreakable bond between two ill-fated souls who only have love to guide them through the mayhem.

Oh, and Bonnie is kind of a badass. I want to be her when I grow up. Well, I don’t want to rob banks, but I want to be fearless like her.

“Earth to Ally,” Deuce calls, waving a hand in front of my face.

Blinking away my thoughts, I turn to him as he pulls breakfast out of a brown paper bag.

“Sorry,” I say, taking the foil covered sandwich from his hand.

“We have to hurry or you’ll be late for your appointments,” he says, handing me one of the coffees.

We have a routine. Deuce wakes up early every morning, grabs us breakfast and then takes me for my daily dose of methadone. In the first few days I didn’t make it through breakfast. My body didn’t want eggs it wanted the methadone. I became irritable, counting down the minutes until the liquid swirled down my throat. As soon as the doctor was able to regulate my dosage things started to change and I didn’t wake up dreaming of a fix. I showered, dressed and patiently waited for Deuce to return with our breakfast. I didn’t glance at the clock or beg him to choke down his food.

Today, our routine is slightly different. I have therapy and this time I don’t plan on running, not that I planned to run the last time, but I wasn’t ready. While I’m not a hundred percent sure I’m ready now, I’ve decided I need to give it a chance. If for no other reason than to say I tried. It also helps knowing Deuce will be there waiting for me.

Unwrapping the foil, I glance down at the bacon, egg and cheese sandwich then lift my eyes just in time to watch Deuce take a huge bite.

“Are you trying to make me fat?”

“Eat your breakfast, Ally,” he replies through a mouthful of food. Pointing a finger to my sandwich he narrows his eyes as he swallows. “Ain’t nothing wrong with adding on a few pounds to that body,” he says, taking the lid off the coffee cup. Keeping his eyes glued to me, he blows against the steam and quirks his lips. “That way you’ll be proportioned.”

“Proportioned to what?”

“Your ass.”

“My ass?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What about my ass?”

“It’s fucking perfect.”

“You’ve been looking at my ass?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

Since our shopping excursion he hasn’t made any attempt to show interest in me. It’s like he kissed me and that was it. We didn’t talk about it and there hasn’t been anymore. Occasionally, I will catch him staring at me and I did hear him moaning in the shower the other day, but I didn’t give it much thought.  A man has needs I suppose.

“Darlin’, it’s hard to miss,” he points out before taking another bite of his sandwich.

Turning my attention to my seat, I try to look at my ass. I never thought of it before. My body wasn’t something I paid much attention to. I was thin, that I knew. Drugs kept me thin, and they also kept me from staring at myself for too long. After a while, a person gets tired of seeing how worn they look, how used and abused their body has become.

Lifting my eyes back to Deuce, I take a bite and watch his lips curve. The beauty mark above his lip disappears as his smile widens.

“What else have you been looking at?” I question as I swallow.

“A man doesn’t divulge all his secrets, some things are best kept to himself,” he replies with a wink. Bunching the foil in his hand he pushes back from his chair and cleans up after himself.

“Oh, listen, tomorrow after the clinic I have to stop off at Pipe’s garage for a little bit,” he says, leaning against the dresser. “So I was thinking instead of staying here by yourself I could drop you off at the hospital. Maybe you could visit with your brother or Celeste.”

“What’s Pipe’s garage?”

“It’s where I work,” he explains, taking another sip of his coffee. Staring at him, I feel kind of silly. For some reason I didn’t think he had a job which is a ridiculous assumption.

“One of the guys, Pipe, has an auto body shop that he signed over to the club. Stryker, your brother and I keep it running in his absence.”

“So…you fix cars?”

“Not really, your brother does most of that shit. Stryker too. I work more with the bikes. I’ve been rebuilding Harley’s since I was a kid.”

“I didn’t realize you had a job,” I admit.

In my defense, Rush didn’t have a job. None of the guys in Albany worked nine to five jobs. Every dollar they pocketed was as dirty as their souls.

“What else do you do?” I ask as I continue to finish my breakfast.

“The club has a few businesses and we rotate the responsibilities.”

“Legit businesses?”

“Some,” he answers vaguely. “We got a shooting range up in Jersey that I sometimes work at.”

My eyes widen at that.

“Really?”

He smirks, placing the cup down on the dresser. Crossing his arms against his chest, he widens his stance and laughs.

“You itching to hit a paper target?”

Thinking about it, I shrug my shoulders and bite down on my lower lip.

Blackie wasn’t the first man to ever point a gun to my head. I’ve had my lips around one on more than one occasion but I never held one in my hand. Sometimes when things were bad, and the truth was too harsh, I’d devise these elaborate plans in my head. Most of them involved me robbing Rush’s gun and shooting my way to freedom. That was in the beginning before I depended on him—when I still had hope I could escape.

“I’ve never held a gun,” I confess, gauging his reaction. “Does that surprise you considering where I’ve come from?”

“No,” he says with a shake of the head.

“I wanted to,” I blurt. “There were times I wanted to grab Rush’s gun, times when I thought about killing him.”

“What stopped you?”

“Fear, I suppose.”

“You were afraid of pulling the trigger?”

I shake my head.

“Afraid of missing.”

Staring at him, I wait for his expression to change. After all, I can’t imagine in his life too many girls have confessed to wanting to kill someone. However, he surprises me by nodding his head in understanding and I wonder if maybe he had a Bonnie in his life. A fearless woman who’d ride or die for him, someone who wasn’t afraid she’d miss because she met her mark every time.

“You want to learn?” he asks, shocking me some more.

“You’d teach me how to shoot a gun?”

“Why not?” He shrugs, unfolding his arms. “I reckon it’s your constitutional right,” he adds, cocking his head to the side. “If not as an American then as a survivor.”

A smile spreads across my mouth and I cock my index finger.

“Bang, bang!”

Amused, he shakes his head and chuckles at me.

“After therapy we’ll head down to Pop’s,” he promises, pointing to the half-eaten breakfast in front of me. “Finish your breakfast.”

Twenty minutes later we’re driving to the clinic and I’m trying my hardest not to think about the dreaded therapy session. I tell myself this time will be different. This time I’m the one who made the appointment. It’s my choice to seek help and not something I’m being forced to do.

The pep talk doesn’t seem to work and after I leave the methadone clinic I start to sweat. I pull my sleeves over my hands in an attempt to stop myself from clawing my arms. Deuce seems to catch me and quietly reaches over, cuffing my sleeves so they rest at my wrists like they’re supposed to. Then he takes my hand and gives it a slight squeeze as he stares at the television in the waiting room of the therapist’s office. The gesture is simple and the perfect distraction as I stare at our hands, comparing his inked fingers to mine.

When the nurse calls my name, I freeze and Deuce releases my hand. Cupping my chin, he turns my attention toward him.

“Don’t be the girl waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel…” he murmurs, trailing off the rest of the sentence.

He doesn’t have to say the rest.

I know the words by heart.

I live those words of encouragement every day.

Turning to the nurse, I strike the match and follow her into Dr. Spiegel’s office. The door closes behind me and instantly my mind switches to that dark place I dread. Suddenly, I’m not standing in a doctor’s plush office. I’m in the back of a van frightened beyond belief.

“Have a seat, Alexandria,” Dr. Spiegel calls.

Her voice seems so far away and I struggle to follow it, to let it guide me away from that van…from that horror.

“Ally,” I hear myself say.

Blinking slowly, the room comes into focus and I stare across it, to the woman sitting behind the desk. She sets her pen down and crosses one hand over the other as she slowly nods.

“Okay, Ally,” she amends. “I’m Dr. Spiegel.”

I don’t say anything, because really what am I supposed to say? It’s nice to meet you? That’s pretty ridiculous if you ask me, especially considering the only reason I’m here is because I was abused. So, no, it’s not nice to meet her. I shouldn’t be here at all. I shouldn’t have to know this woman. I should be living the life I dreamed of not the one created by violence and abuse.

“Why don’t I explain how therapy usually works?”

“I know how it works,” I snap. “I come here once maybe twice a week and pour my heart and soul out in the hope you’ll somehow have all the answers that are supposed to make every bad thing that happen to me a distant memory.”

“That’s not exactly how it works. I’m here to listen. I’m here as someone who won’t judge you and someone that can help guide you. The only person who has the power to heal you is you. The goal here is to provide peace and resolution to the unfortunate circumstances you’ve suffered. We’re going to work on finding your place in the world.”

“Unfortunate circumstances, is that what we’re calling kidnapping these days?” I sneer as I feel tears sting my eyes. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with for rape,” I hiss, tearing my eyes away from her.

She doesn’t answer me back and that angers me. For some reason, I want her to argue with me. I want to fight. I want to scream and yell. I want to tell her she doesn’t get to classify what happened to me as unfortunate circumstances. She doesn’t get to downplay my pain.

“I was kidnapped at fourteen,” I say instead. “By a man who appeared to be normal, a man who begged me to help him find his missing daughter. A man who later took my innocence and forced himself on me repeatedly.”

I turn to her expecting to see the pitiful look I find in everyone’s eyes but she remains neutral and that compels me to speak of the one thing that haunts me the most. The single thing that wakes me every night.

“I was raped. Not once, not twice…I was raped for nearly six years until some poor slob took pity on me and bought me off the bastard,” I say. As the truth pours from my mouth so do the tears.

“I hadn’t even had my first kiss before I was on my knees being forced to give a blowjob. I didn’t know what I was doing and I cried the entire time. When it was over, when he forced me to swallow, I realized I had been so nervous that I peed my pants.”

I pause.

A moment of silence for my childhood.

Another for my purity.

Lifting my hands to my face, I try to mask the shame as I sob.

“We can stop,” Dr. Spiegel says.

“No,” I cry, pushing my hair away from my face. “They didn’t stop so why should we? I begged, pleaded and prayed and they never stopped. They took and took until there was nothing left to take, until my body no longer belonged to me. It happens, you know…after a while, you lose yourself. You look in the mirror one day and you hate everything you see because every inch has been marked. Like a dog pisses on their territory so do monsters. The only difference is they brand you in a much more vulgar way and when they scar you, they cut deep, so deep that when the marks fade you still feel them in your bones.”

Dr. Spiegel hands me a box of tissues and as quick as I wipe away the tears, they are replaced with fresh ones.

“Have you had enough yet?” I ask her.

“Have you?” she counters and I nod.

“Yes, I believe I have,” I whisper.

“Say it.”

“I’ve had enough.”

“Enough what?”

I stare at her, watching as she lifts an eyebrow, challenging me.

“What have you had enough of, Ally?”

I don’t have to think very hard, the answer comes as natural as breathing does.

“Everything, I’ve had enough of everything.”