Page 47 of The Order of Disorder
There are no safe places inside the hangar, but Wyatt keeps trying to find one. We’re prisoners together now, but that means I’m not alone in hell anymore. I have a shield.
Billy loses interest in me completely. After weeks of tormenting me like a cat with a trapped mouse, he seems almost relieved to be rid of me.
Wyatt’s presence changes everything. The way he keeps me close, the way he moves with me through crowded rooms, silent and watchful, looks like a claim the others respect, and overtime, the dynamics shift. I stop being Billy’s, and I start being Wyatt’s.
With that shift comes certain freedoms. No more collar, no more public humiliations just to remind me where I stand. It’s like Billy believes the lie we're living—that Wyatt and I might carve out some kind of future here together.
Wyatt leans into it hard, making himself indispensable—running errands, attending strategy meetings, and fixing every problem that crosses Billy’s desk. All while he tries to buy us a way out.
The runs are local these days, thank God, but as Road Captain, Wyatt’s out constantly. Hours at a time, sometimes the entire day. Every time the engines roar back into the yard, I hold my breath. And every time I see him—when I know he’s made it back—something tight inside me releases.
When he’s gone, the emptiness is gutting. I feel like I’m holding myself together with tape and glue, just white-knuckling it until I hear the sound of engines roaring back in.
The boundaries we used to have get blurry. How could they not? Out in the club, we’re a couple. In the room, we share a bed.
At a club party, I sit on his lap, feeling him go tight with discomfort beneath me, but he places his hands on my hips as if it’s easy and natural, and I’m too aware of how big they are. How strong and capable and safe. I flirt as a test, daring him to break, leaning in close and brushing my lips near his ear, and he laughs and slides a hand up my back. But I swear I feel the heat inside me reflected in him.
Sometimes I wrap an arm around him in bed, or curl in close so that he has to let me sleep on his shoulder, and I feel his body yield as he sighs, like his very bones are softening.
One night after a long day on the road, Wyatt’s tired and tense. Quiet.
We’re lying in bed, the fan running, his forearm draped loosely across his face like it’s the only way to hold himself together. His shirt’s off, the solid muscle of his chest impressively cut, sparse chest hair half gray, and I have the strongest urge to trace a finger through it except I know he’d probably start sleeping on the floor if I did.
“Any news?” I ask, not sure why.
He lowers his arm, turns his head slightly toward me.
“They’re prepping a big meeting,” he says quietly, in the whispered tone we’re so used to using. “Someone important coming in, a Mr. White. Could be the high-level connection we’re looking for. Could be interesting to find out more, but if we get the chance to get out of here beforehand, we take it.”
My stomach lurches. My breath gets tight.
“I know who that is,” I say. “That’s the senator.”
Wyatt turns to look at me full-on. “The senator? Who?”
“His name’s Jack. I don’t know if he’s a real senator, but that’s what Billy calls him. Mr. White is, like, Billy’s code name for him. He comes in a big black car or Billy goes to see him. He never comes inside, and no one’s allowed to see him.”
No one but me. Billy often dragged me along to his meetings, affording me a kind of trust not even Silas had, while at the same time somehow expecting me not to notice any of the things that were discussed. Like I was just supposed to sit prettily and not understand the numbers, the land deals, the talk of shipments and money laundering.
The senator always had one eye on me. He never said much. Just stood too close, smiled too slow. Looked at me the way powerful men look at girls they think are helpless.
He smelled faintly of menthol, like he was perpetually taking cold medicine, and he wore a heavy silver ring on one hand that stood out. Like he was a mobster, or a pope. I remember the way he kept tapping it against his glass in the limo that night.Taptaptap. Waiting for my spiked wine to kick in so he could claim his prize.
“But you know him?” Wyatt asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Billy used to bring me to their meetings.” And I leave it at that.
But Wyatt furrows his brow and cocks his head, looking at me curiously.
“Billy brought you to meetings,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to process it, “with a high-level government contact?”
“Billy’s…needy.” I shrug, remembering the way he used to check over my appearance like it was his own reflection. How afterwards he’d ask questions that fed his ego.
Did the other guy seem nervous? Was he jealous? Did he look scared?
He would sit me down like a doll and talk blood and money over my head, assuming that all I was paying attention to was his performance.
“And he’s controlling,” I add. “I think maybe he liked having a pawn beside him, to show other people what he was capable of.”
