by Jessica Ames
Are bikers supposed to be helpful?
I stand silently as he puts each item into the open tote bag, unsure what to say.
“Your milk is fucked,” he tells me unnecessarily because I can see that, “but the rest should be salvageable.”
I stare at the river of white wending over the concrete. This means another trip to the supermarket, unless I can survive with black coffee for tonight.
“Crap,” I whisper.
He runs a hand over his beard, and I notice his tattoos span down his arms to the backs of his hands as well. His skin is covered with so many different designs that it’s difficult to take it all in, but I see he has the same insignia on the back of his leather vest tattooed on his left forearm. On his right wrist, just above the palm, the word ‘Karma’ is stamped. I don’t even want to think why he has that tattoo. What karma is he dealing out?
Realising I’m staring—again—I pull my gaze back to his face, but he doesn’t notice my gawking because he’s focused on the milk spillage.
“It’s only milk,” I say. “No use crying over it, right?”
Then his lips quirk and I forget he’s a dangerous criminal because my mouth is suddenly dry. It softens his entire demeanour and I suddenly want to see him smile every day.
“I guess not. I have some in the house, if you need it.”
I wonder when he was here to bring milk; this is definitely the first time I’ve seen signs of life at the house across the street.
“Do you want me to grab you some?” he continues.
As tempting as that is, I shake my head. “I think I’ll survive one evening without milk, but thank you.”
This is debatable but I’m not keen on being indebted to this man—even if it is only milk. It’s a ridiculous thought but my brain is completely frazzled right now. At least this is the excuse I’m giving myself.
He hands me the newly filled bag and I take it with murmured thanks, trying not to react as his fingers brush over the back of my hand. I can’t deny the way that feels. There is electricity between us—at least on my part, although I swear I see a slight widening of his eyes at our touch. Perhaps I imagined it because it’s gone so fast I can’t be sure it was there in the first place.
He sniffs then clears his throat and my cardiac muscle gets another workout as it beats faster.
“You just moved in?”
“Oh, yeah. Well, about three months ago.”
He blinks and then his brow pulls together. “Shit, really? Three months?”
I nod.
“I need to start coming to the house more.” He jerks a thumb in the direction of the property he disappeared into before. “I own number fifteen, but I spend most of my time at the clubhouse.”
The clubhouse. With the dangerous bikers where he is a member. This sobers me completely and brings me out of my fantasy. It doesn’t matter how nice he’s being, how polite, I need to bring this to an end. I do not need his kind of drama in my already drama-filled life.
“Thank you for your help, but I should get the food inside before it spoils.”
He studies me. Intently. I try not to squirm under that look. “I’ll help.”
“Oh, there’s no need.”
“I’ll help,” he repeats, as if I didn’t protest.
This annoys me, but I don’t have the chance to voice this because without invitation, he plucks the tote from my hands and reaches into the boot. He wraps a fist around the whole lot and pulls it out as if it weighs nothing, and without a word starts up the path to the front door.
My front door.
Crap!
I quickly reach for the boot, pulling the lid down and tug my handbag up my shoulder as I jog after him. His legs are longer than mine though and he eats up the space in a few steps. This means he’s waiting for me outside the porch when I reach him.
He lifts the bags slightly. “These are heavy, darlin’; do you want to open the door, so I can put them inside?”
I really don’t. It’s one thing him carrying my bags from the car to my front door, but him being inside my house... I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that at all. But I don’t want to be rude and I don’t want to upset the potentially dangerous biker with the cute face and overinflated sense of chivalry either.
I hesitate too long because his smile fades and his jaw tightens. I see the anger flash in his eyes as he realises why I’m hesitating. Muscle memory is a powerful thing because my brain doesn’t register it’s not Simon; all it registers is the perceived danger. To my mortification, I recoil back as if he struck me. My life with Simon may feel like a decade ago, but that primal instinct to protect myself is still the first thing to switch on when I meet someone new—someone I don’t yet know is safe.
His eyes narrow further. It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion, and I can do nothing to stop the destruction.
There is a moment of silence that seems to span an era. It’s so quiet all I can hear is my own ragged breathing and his huffing.
Finally, he speaks.
“Christ, you try to fucking help someone and this is how they thank you?” He grinds the words between clenched teeth. Then he snorts and shakes his head. Not too gently, he dumps the bags on the ground and leans into me. I pull away from him, my back hitting the side of the storm porch as he gets into my space, all six-foot-plus of him. I have to raise my chin to meet his gaze, and I wish I didn’t because he looks hurt beneath the anger and for some reason that doesn’t sit right with me.
“For the record, I was just going to take your bags inside for you. I usually leave the raping and murdering for the weekend.”
He gives me the dirtiest look I’ve ever seen, turns on a booted heel and starts back up the path. I let my lungs finally reboot and draw in air when he reaches the end of the drive, and I’m filled with a new emotion. This one is abject embarrassment. He didn’t do anything wrong. All he did was try to be nice and I treated him like crap. Did I really think he was going to come into my house and hurt me?
I don’t know.
Old habits die hard.
Shit.
Chapter Three
The Kingsley branch of Safe Shelter is called Hope House. It sits on a narrow lane on the north side of town out towards neighbouring Mountgerald and is surrounded by rolling fields as well as the occasional farmhouse. From the outside, it looks like any family home. It’s a large, double-fronted detached property, with sweeping bay windows and a double garage. However, it also has a ten-foot-high perimeter fence that surrounds the building, CCTV cameras on every corner and a set of gates that wouldn’t look out of place at Fort Knox.
It looks impressive, but the house is in serious need of renovation. The paintwork is tired, the furnishings are drab and the roof occasionally leaks in the kitchen. However, it is also a safe place for the fifteen residents we can house here, and those rooms are filled more often than I would like with local women and out-of-towners. In fact, I was a resident here myself when I first left Simon and my hometown of Bedford. Since then, I’ve been slowly working through my issues with Kath, one of the shelter’s regular counsellors.
Rebuilding hasn’t been easy, but it has been possible. I can never forget what happened to me in the past, but I can move on—or at least try to. For the most part, I’m strong and I keep the memories at bay, but every now and again my past slips out of the box I keep it in and I have to rebuild my walls. Yesterday with the biker was a perfect example of this.
But I’ve come a long way in a short time. My own determination to reclaim my life was a significant driver in my recovery. It meant after a time I was able to move out of the shelter and into a small flat in Kingsley’s town centre before I found my house—a house I loved until I realised it’s across the road from a Saxons’ member.
But Hope House in a strange way will always be home. Most women leave here never wanting to step foot over the threshold again. For me, this was not the case because the shelter represented a new start in a new
town, miles from my old life. It was a chance to reinvent myself and by the time I came here I was ready to do that. I was healing—not physically; I’d done that months earlier, but emotionally. For the first time in my life, I felt like I could be strong again, and I have been. There are days when I relapse, or I’m not as strong as I want to be, but those days are becoming fewer and farther between.
So, I made Kingsley home because it felt right.
The town is probably not a good choice of location, given its links to organised crime. In fact, the former mining town is rife with problems. There is poverty, deprivation and violence. The latter means we have a steady turnover of women seeking sanctuary who have been abused by their partners—women like me, who are trying to survive in hostile environments. Most of them are too scared to leave, as I was until Georgia—and later Holly—helped me.
Holly does what she can to provide a home for these women until they can work out their next step. Some we manage to help, others aren’t ready for intervention yet and all we can do is hope they come to us eventually.
Because of how vulnerable some of these women are we have strict protocols in place to keep the residents safe, including two sets of security doors to get into the building, the second of which can only be opened from inside unless you have a fob. In the six months since I started volunteering here, I have come to realise just how many incidents have been avoided by good security. More often than not a locked door is enough to deter a determined partner. If nothing else, it gives us time to get Kingsley Police out here and they are more than adept at dealing with any problems.
As I guide my car into the first available space, I notice Holly’s Jeep is already parked up. I hope like hell she actually made it home last night; she’s here so much lately she may as well take a room. The woman needs a social life, which is rich coming from me, Little Miss Antisocial, but I have other things outside the shelter—like my very boring, very underpaid admin job at Pearson’s. Holly has nothing. Her entire existence revolves around Hope House and its residents.
And I get it, I do. It’s hard to switch off, and as the shelter’s manager she has even more stress than the rest of us, but she needs to learn she can’t fix everything. If she carries on like this she’s going to burn out and then she’s no help to anyone. Not that anyone can tell her that. I’ve tried—we’ve all tried—but all she does is nod in agreement and is here until silly o’clock anyway.
I turn my engine off and reach for my bag. I don’t get out of the car, but instead I pull out my phone. Unlocking the screen, I open Simon’s social media page, cursing myself for doing it, for punishing myself this way. It’s been years; I shouldn’t still be checking this, but I can’t help it. I need to know, and I can’t relax until I do.
His profile is set to public, so I can see all his information at a glance and without having to login to my now defunct account.
Quickly, I scan the last four or five posts and sag back into the seat as I see them. He’s with Tammy in two of the photographs. She looks happy in the pictures, the kind of happy you can’t fake, so I let my relief slip out of me as I check through the other images of Simon and Tammy with their son. He’s a chubby little thing, with baby fat legs and a sprinkling of dark hair. He also looks whole and happy. Thank God. Yet again, I allow myself to consider the possibility he may have changed, that time may have mellowed him—despite the adage leopards can’t change their spots. I hope he has anyway, for the sake of that little boy.
Letting out a breath, I shut down the page and toss my phone back into my bag. Then I climb out of the car.
I jog up the two steps to the front porch, unlock it and step inside. Then I relock the door behind me before pushing the buzzer to get into the main building. I don’t have a fob—only Holly and June, the full-time staff, have one. Therefore, it takes a couple of moments before the lock disengages and I can open the main door into the building.
As usual, I’m warmed by the familiarity of the décor as I step into the corridor, and I pause once I’m over the threshold to check the door automatically locks behind me.
Being here is bittersweet. Some days it feels like I defeated my demons; other days it seems as if I just found new ones. But Hope House is like a second home, and while being here reminds me of my past and the trauma I dealt with, it also reminds me of how far I have come and the strength I now possess.
And that is as liberating as it is terrifying.
Volunteering was not an easy decision, but it was the right one. I’m sure Holly and the other staff thought I was crazy, but I needed to do something—anything—to prove that Simon hadn’t destroyed me. And I also felt like I had to give something back. I was helped by so many people. Without Georgia, and the other staff at the shelters I was moved between, I would not be standing here right now: healthy and happy. I needed to pay it forward and help others, so that was what I did.
But the shelter for me is more than a sanctuary: it’s the start of my new life—it’s proof that I’m a survivor. I’m not naive though; being here is not easy for me—particularly considering the violence I suffered—but truthfully, even given the hazards of this job, I feel safe. I know Holly will always do what she can to ensure we’re all protected; the house is next to impossible to get into. Even if it’s not, I’ve never had an issue standing between someone else’s demons—just my own.
“Olivia, honey, is that you?” Holly’s voice drifts down the corridor, a disembodied sound in the vast Victorian architecture. The high ceilings and roomy space means the acoustics are fantastic. The décor is not.
The peeling paint and faded wallpaper show how tired it is. Holly, me and the other women who work or volunteer here have done our best to make the shelter feel like a home. With a bigger budget we could do more, but we do a lot with what we have. I suspect Holly pays for a lot of things out of her own pocket. She’ll turn up with paint or new curtains out of the blue, but there is only so much she can do in a house this size—and on her money.
“Yeah, it’s me.” I head in the direction her voice came from. “Where are you?”
“In the TV room.”
I head down the hallway in that direction and find her in the television room, as she said. She’s sitting at one of the tables, a stack of paperwork in front of her while two of the residents watch television from the sofa. I wave to them, telling them good morning before my attention goes back to Holly.
Her hair is blonde like mine, but where mine is a natural ash colour, hers is dyed platinum. Today, she’s wearing it loose and it curtains her face as she scribbles away on her notepad. I don’t know why she has it this colour because she complains frequently about her roots, even though she gets it dyed by rote every six weeks, so I’ve never seen a hint of dark hair near her scalp.
She’s six and a half years older than me at thirty-five, but maturity wise she acts at least sixty-five. As far as I know, she didn’t come into this job because of personal experience, although why she chose to work in a women’s shelter, I don’t know. I’ve asked, of course I have, but her stock answer is always the same: she wanted to do something worthwhile. I suspect there is more to it than that, but I’ve never pushed her for answers. We all have our secrets and we all have our skeletons. No one should be forced to pull them out of the closet.
I slide my handbag off my shoulder and place it on the worn table top. “Did you stay here last night?” I ask as I start to tug my gloves off.
I’m relieved to see she’s not wearing the same clothes as yesterday, although that doesn’t mean anything. I’m pretty sure Holly carries a suitcase in the back of her car in case of emergencies.
“Uh, yeah.” She doesn’t look up from what she’s writing. “We had a new resident yesterday evening, just after you left.”
I volunteer two days a week, sometimes three if I can fit it in. I work it around my paid job as an administrator, which is rostered, rather than set hours to keep up with the international clientele we have. In my former
life with Simon I worked in PR for a big media firm. I would have liked to stay working in that area but Kingsley doesn’t have those kinds of businesses. In truth, it barely has a commercial spine at all: call centres, fast-food and a few little new start-ups means it is mainly service-driven, but not on the scale I’m used to. With few opportunities, I took the first thing I could find that fitted what I needed. It was a considerable downsize in my career, but it was a small price to pay for the lifestyle I have now.
“If I’d known we had someone new coming in, I would have stuck around,” I tell Holly sincerely. It’s Monday morning, but my working week doesn’t start until tomorrow afternoon, so staying late would not have been an issue.
Holly waves a hand at me. “Don’t be silly; you were already here three hours longer than you should have been.”
“You do understand the term ‘volunteer’, right? No one forced me to stay. I was happy to.”
She sighs. “You do more than you should.”
“I don’t do enough,” I counter. And I don’t. I would do more, so much more, but I also have to keep a roof over my head, which means I have to work. I share my job with two other administrators who also work rostered hours, so I have no doubt I am completely expendable.
“Sweetie, there are only so many hours in the day and you’re spending them all either working or here. You need to get a life.”
Is she seriously lecturing me on getting a life?
“Pot and kettle is the phrase that springs to mind, hon,” I tell her and she gives me a petulant roll of her eyes. Only because she knows I’m right.
“I’m paid to be here though. You’re not. I don’t want you too exhausted trying to do everything.”
Finally free of my gloves, I slide my bobble hat off my head and unzip my coat.