Page 8 of Property of Fox

The words hang between us, heavy with possibility. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine a life beyond this town, beyond Tank's abusive control on my life and my mom’s. A life where I can breathe freely, make my own choices, and live a normal life.

Before I can respond, the thunderous roar of a motorcycle engine shatters the moment. The sound reverberates through the cafe, rattling the windows and sending a chill down my spine. My heart leaps into my throat as panic floods my system.

"You need to go," I hiss urgently, my eyes darting to the door. "Now!"

Keira's brow furrows, confusion and concern etched across her features. "B, what's wrong? Who is it?"

"It could be Tank, or one of his prospects," I explain hurriedly, already moving to usher her towards the back exit. "If they see you here..."

"Then come with me," Keira pleads, her voice laced with desperation. She grabs my hand, her touch electric even in this moment of fear. "We can leave right now. My car's just around the corner. We can go get your stuff, and be halfway to Dallas before anyone realizes you're gone."

For a heartbeat, I'm tempted. The allure of freedom, of escaping this suffocating life, is almost overwhelming. But then reality crashes back in, cold and unforgiving.

"I can't," I whisper, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

"Not yet," I add hastily, seeing the hurt flash across Keira's face. "I need time to plan, to make sure my mom will be okay. But soon, I promise."

Keira's eyes search mine, a mix of disappointment and understanding swirling in their depths. She nods slowly, squeezing my hand one last time before slipping out the door.

The roar of the motorcycle grows louder, then cuts off abruptly. My hands shake as I return to the counter, forcing a smile as customers glance nervously at the door. The bell chimes, and I brace myself, but it's just a group of college students, laughing and chattering as they enter.

The rest of my shift passes in a haze of coffee orders and small talk. Every time the door opens, my heart leaps into my throat, expecting to see Tank's hulking frame fill the doorway. But he never appears, and gradually, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease.

I hang up my apron, its fabric worn soft from countless shifts, and gather my things. My coworker, Jenna, shoots me a sympathetic smile as I head for the door. She knows bits and pieces of my situation, enough to understand why I always seem on edge.

"Take care, Brea," she calls softly. "See you tomorrow?"

I nod, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Yeah, see you then."

The drive home is a blur of familiar streets and stoplight reflections. My mind races, replaying Keira's words over and over. The promise of freedom, of a life beyond this town, feels tantalizingly close. Yet, the weight of responsibility to my mom pulls me back like an anchor. God, I wish dad was still here. None of this would be happening if he hadn’t died.

As I turn onto my street, the sunset's glow has faded, replaced by the harsh glare of streetlights. Our house looms ahead, a modest two-story that's seen better days. The chipped paint and sagging porch seem to mirror my own weariness.

I park in the driveway, next to my mom's ancient Volvo. Tank's motorcycle is parked behind her car. Great. He’s home tonight instead at his clubhouse. I walk into the house from the back door in the kitchen. My mom stands by our small harvest table looking anxious. Tank stalks into the room with a black duffle bag in his hands.

"Got some business out of town for a few days," he states without preamble while running a hand over his beard-covered jawline absentmindedly before locking eyes with mine directly now. “You need to call off work until I get back. Neither of you are to leave the house.”

“Excuse me?” I blurt out. My mother flinches at my response.

“I thought we were past this bullshit, Brea,” Tank fires back. “It’s either here or at the clubhouse. Take your pick.”

The thought of being inside that seedy place makes my skin crawl. A few of his club brothers made passes at me at the last family meet up. Men far too old and married for my tastes.

“She’ll stay home, baby,” my mother answers for me. “I’ll make sure of it.” Her voice is so sickeningly sweet and demure it makes me want to vomit. My father has to be rolling in his grave knowing that my own mom is allowing his daughter to be treated like a second-class citizen under the roof my dad built with his own two hands.

“See to it that she does. One of the prospects will be checking on you both. You so much as step a toe outside of this house, and he will tell me. Do you understand?”

“We do,” my mother answers for me again.

“Good.” Tank steps forward, his hand cradling my mom’s neck tightly as he kisses her in front of me.

A bitter taste floods my mouth as I watch the display of affection between them, a sickening contrast to the storm brewing in my chest. Tank's grip around my mother's neck is meant to reassure her but it’s really a chokehold on the very essence of our freedom. When he pulls away, I’m left staring at my mother’s placated smile, the way she veils her fear beneath the layers of her dutifulness and the bruises he leaves on her.

I forcefully bite down on my tongue to keep from speaking again. I know any further outburst will only escalate his temper, and I have seen firsthand what happens when you challenge authority in this house.

“Brea—” Tank's gruff voice snaps me back. “Do I need to repeat myself? This ain’t a request.”

“No,” I say quietly. The silence after my reply stretches heavy, taut with unresolved tension.

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