Clean Conscience - Chapter One

Chapter One - Alaïa

I've been holding it in for dear life for the past three hours because I don't particularly enjoy using public bathrooms in pubs. I hadn't even planned on going to Bailey's, especially considering Lily and I had already been thrown out of this place multiple times for embarrassing reasons. The last time involved seven shots of tequila and Lily flashing the entire bar like it was Mardi Gras. We're not allowed near the pool table anymore.

But after the day I've had, I just needed to get out. Clear my head. Feel the wind on my face and pretend, even for a few minutes, that I'm someone else. Someone with a normal life. Someone who isn't so fucking tired all the time. I didn't plan on stopping. I was just going to ride until my head went quiet. But somewhere along the way, my bladder decided otherwise, and this shithole happened to be the closest option. Unfortunately, it also happened to be the least appealing.

I weave my way through a crowd of broad-shouldered men, each of them giving me a quick once-over as I make my way toward the toilets. I ignore them. I'm too exhausted to care.

My black fitted T-shirt clings to my skin, and my leather riding trousers feel heavy after hours on the bike. I just want to pee, get back on my bike, and go home. That's it. That's the entire plan.

The thought of all the bacteria multiplying on the toilet seat makes my stomach churn.

Once I reach the door, I pull it open with the hem of my shirt and pause for a few seconds, listening carefully to make sure I don't hear any suspicious sounds coming from inside before stepping in.

I glance around and grimace at the pungent smell of urine hanging in the air.

Lovely.

I pick a stall and work my way out of my riding trousers, which takes longer than I'd like because leather doesn't exactly cooperate. I hover awkwardly over the toilet seat, wondering how many other women do this exact same thing in this exact same pub.

When I'm done, I grab some toilet paper, wipe, and toss it between my legs. I grab another piece and use it as a protective barrier between my hand and the flush button.

For a brief moment, I stand still, thinking I heard something — footsteps, maybe? — while the toilet lets out an unnecessarily loud flush.

Whatever. I'm paranoid. It's been a long day.

I pull my trousers back up and use the same toilet paper to open the stall door before tossing it behind me into the toilet.

As I walk past the stalls toward the sinks, I hear another stall door slam open behind me. I freeze.

The moment I turn around, a large figure dressed entirely in black steps toward me. Blond hair. Broad shoulders. Eyes that lock onto mine like he's been waiting. I instinctively recoil.

"Alaïa," he says, and my blood turns to ice. "You should be more careful with a body that seductive. I'm probably not the only one putting this much effort into getting between your legs."

He knows my name. He knows my fucking name.

My stomach drops as something cold slithers through me. His voice, there's something familiar about it. Something that makes my skin crawl in a way I can't explain. I don't recognise his face, but my body does. My body wants to run. I force myself to stay composed. Show fear and you're already losing.

"What the fuck? You think I'm going to be intimidated by some random creep in a disgusting toilets?” I snap, keeping my voice steady. "I have no clue who you are, so if you don't mind, I need to wash my hands."

That's a lie.

Some part of me knows exactly what he is. I just can't let myself think about it.

"I thought you'd be a little more generous with me," he says, tilting his head. "Too bad."

Before I can say anything, he grabs me by the throat and drags me toward the sinks. His grip is brutal, practiced. Like he's done this before.

"Turn around for me, little skank. I want to feel how tight you are."

"Get the fuck off me!" I shout, swinging at him, but he dodges easily and catches my arm. He shoves me forward against the sinks, and I feel his hands grabbing at my waist, trying to find the zip on my trousers. "Let go of me!"

"Don't resist, Alaïa," he breathes against my ear, "or I'll have to make sure you stay still."

A violent shiver runs through me. My heart slams against my ribs. The room shrinks, walls pressing in, air thinning, that old familiar panic clawing up my throat. I know this feeling. I know it too well. And I refuse to let it win. While I struggle and he fumbles with my trousers, leather isn't as easy as he expected, my eyes land on a steel soap dispenser through the strands of my copper hair. I feel him shifting behind me, one hand leaving my wrist to deal with his own pants.

Now.

I throw my head back as hard as I can, slamming it into his face. I hear the crack, feel the impact vibrate through my skull. I grab the soap dispenser and spin around, smashing it against the side of his head with everything I have.

"Fuck! You fucking bitch!" he roars, stumbling back.

I bolt toward the door.

"You shouldn't have done that, Alaïa!" he bellows behind me.

I throw the door open and hear him chasing after me, his footsteps heavy and furious.

"Move!" I shout at the crowd of men blocking my path, and they step aside in alarm.

"Got rejected, big guy?" someone calls out behind me, and my stomach lurches because that means he's still coming.

Why the hell was I stupid enough to come to this damn pub alone?

I weave through the crowd, the music pounding through my skull, syncing with the frantic rhythm of my heartbeat until I can't tell which is which. My head spins. I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of him, blond hair, black clothes, shoving through bodies to get to me. I run.

Keys. Where are my keys?

I shove my hand into the zippered pocket on my riding trousers. Got them. I burst through the doors and immediately turn left, trying to disappear into a group of people gathered near the entrance.

Panting, I scan the car park for my bike while fumbling for the right key. Once I reach it, I yank at the padlock and pull the chain through the opening in my helmet. I let the padlock drop to the ground, no time, and swing my leg over the bike. Helmet on. Key in the ignition. My hands are shaking so badly I almost miss the slot.

I see him approaching. Fast. I start my bike and kick off the stand, catching him from the corner of my eye as he breaks into a sprint. I close my visor and twist the throttle just as his hand clamps around my arm. The bike tips violently against my left leg, nearly throwing me. I struggle against his grip while fighting to keep the weight from crushing me.

"Come here, you pathetic little whore," he snarls, "and I'll show you what happens to girls who think they can act tough!"

I lift my left leg and kick as hard as I can into his knee. He buckles forward, and I slam my helmet into his face with everything I have left. I shift into gear, twist the throttle open, and throw my weight forward. I weave through the car park between parked cars and push harder as I speed toward the road. My hands are still shaking. My whole body is shaking. But I'm moving. I'm out.

I head for the motorway, taking the main road that runs past the airport. I turn onto Oak Street and accelerate as the long stretch of empty road opens up in front of me. The wind cools the tears I didn't realise were streaming down my face.

For a moment, I let myself believe it's over. Then bright headlights flood my mirrors. A car. Closing fast. I furrow my brows and glance back. Could be anyone. Could be nothing. It pulls up beside me. Through the window, I see blond hair. That same sick face. My stomach drops. He followed me. He got in his car and followed me. This isn't some opportunistic creep, he's not giving up. I twist the throttle harder, trying to put distance between us. My bike screams beneath me. But instead of falling back, he speeds ahead, cuts in front of me, and slams on his brakes. I swerve hard, barely keeping the bike upright. He tries again. And again. I weave across the road, desperate to shake him, but he matches every move. He knows what he's doing. He's done this before too.

He accelerates one more time, pulls up beside me, and through my visor I catch his face — that sick, satisfied grin. Like he's already won. His steering wheel jerks right. Metal collides with my left side. The impact doesn't register as pain at first, just force, sudden and massive, like being shoved by something impossibly strong.

My hands rip from the handlebars. My bike disappears beneath me. I'm airborne. The world tilts. Road below, sky sideways. I have just enough time to think this is going to be bad before I hit. My shoulder takes the first impact and I hear myself scream — raw, involuntary — before the rest of my body follows. My hip slams into the tarmac, then my helmet cracks against the ground so hard the visor shatters.

I roll. Once. Twice. Gravel and road tearing through my clothes, my skin, shredding the sleeve of my T-shirt. I can't tell which way is up anymore. 

I stop in the ditch. For a second, nothing. Just high-pitched endless ringing, like my brain is trying to reboot.

I can't breathe. I claw at my helmet, yanking it off and gasping for air. Grass presses against my cheek. Dirt in my mouth. Then the pain catches up. Shoulder. Ribs. Arm. Everything screaming at once. I try to breathe and it comes out wet and shallow. That's probably not good. I need to get up.

I try to push onto my elbows and white-hot pain shoots through my shoulder. My arms give out. My face hits the dirt again.

Through blurred vision, I see my bike lying on its side about fifty metres away, headlight still on, pointing at nothing.

The car has stopped further up the road. The driver's door opens.

No.

He steps out. Slow. Unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world. Like he knows I can't run. I drag myself forward, fingernails clawing into the dirt. My shoulder isn't working properly. It feels warm and slick, and when I glance at my arm I see blood soaking through the shredded fabric of my sleeve, dark and glistening. That's a lot of blood.

I try again. Roll onto my stomach. Get my hands under me. My vision swims and I have to stop, forehead pressed into the ground, just trying not to pass out.

His footsteps crunch on gravel. Steady. Calm. He reaches me and I try to shrink back, but there's nowhere to go.

"Help!" I scream.

"Nobody's coming to help you, Alaïa," he laughs, grabbing me and flipping me onto my back.

I scream and fight, but my body won't cooperate. Everything hurts. Everything is slow. I'm not strong enough. I was never strong enough.

"Please, stop!" I cry, tears burning my eyes.

"If you stop resisting, it'll be over quickly," he mutters, undoing his trousers with one hand while the other pins me down. He grabs the collar of my shirt and tears it open. The cold air hits my skin and something breaks inside me.

This is it. This is how it happens. On the side of a road, alone, with no one coming.

"Help!" I scream again, but my voice cracks.

Who am I even screaming for?

And then, distant, the sound of a motorcycle.

"Help!"

"Shut up, bitch," he snarls, grabbing at my ruined trousers, yanking at what's left of the fabric.

Through my blurred, tear-filled vision, I see a bright headlight cutting through the darkness. A silhouette. Moving fast.

"Help," I manage, barely a whisper.

I can't breathe. I can't think. My mind is drifting, pulling away from my body like it doesn't want to be here for what comes next.

Shouting. Someone shouting. Panic radiating off the man above me. I feel it shift, feel his weight change. And then —

BANG!

BANG! BANG!