Page 11 of The Order of Disorder
The collar presses into my neck but the noise of the clubhouse below fades away like I’m sinking underwater as I breathe low and slow and focus on being anywhere else but here.
If I think hard enough, I can remember a version of Billy who didn’t treat me like his property. A version of Billy I wasn’t afraid of.
I was thirteen when we met. Billy was seventeen. Already tall, and walking with that insouciant swagger, like the world owed him something and he intended to collect.
Our foster home was a shitshow. Dirty and full of kids. The walls were thin and the locks on the doors were more for show than safety.
Dan was the kind of foster father who drank too much and hovered too close, and Billy slept on my floor at night to protect me from him, curled in a sleeping bag beside the bed. He never touched me, never asked for anything in return. He just protected me.
And after he aged out, I ran to him.
He was crashing in a shitty apartment with too many people and too little space, so it only made sense that I shared Billy’s bed.
He never forced it—not then. Never even asked. But I was young, and I was grateful, and I didn’t know the difference between safety and salvation yet. I thought I owed him something. Thought maybe love could grow from a life raft.
And for a while…he felt like family.
He used to brush my hair. Bring me breakfast in bed when we had it. Used to make me laugh—real, deep, belly laughs.
I loved him.
And I think he loved me too.
But somewhere along the way, that love got twisted. Billy got bigger. He started the club, bought the hangar, and then the tenderness dried up. Protectiveness curdled into control.Affection became ownership. And I didn’t even see it happening until it was too late. Not until I wasn’t allowed to say no anymore.
Something breaks my reverie.
A laugh.
Downstairs—deep and rich. It slices right through the haze of memory like a scalpel.
The sound of it is comforting and familiar. Like family.
I leap up, swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, crossing to the window. I don’t even know what I’m hoping to see, but the laugh is already gone.
Behind me, Silas speaks, his words calm and cool and rancid.
“Looking for someone?”
I don’t answer. I search the floor below looking for something familiar—I don’t even know what anymore.
But Silas continues, his voice oily and slick. “Hope you put on another show tonight,” he adds casually. “You did real good the last time.”
A pause.
“Almost made me think you liked it.”
I turn just enough glare at him, and he meets my eyes, smiling coldly.
“Relax,” he says. “I didn’t touch you.” He smiles wider. “Yet.”
A beat.
“Billy’s still in the honeymoon period now that he’s got you back. But trust me, he’s getting bored. You won’t be off-limits forever.”
My mouth is dry. My skin itches like it’s too tight for my body. If he ever touches me, I’ll kill him. I swear to god, I’ll kill him.
But I’ve learned how to survive. I don’t look at him again. I just lie back down and disappear.
