Erica

Three days. That's how long it took for my body to feel like mine again. The bruises from the rope had faded to yellow-green smudges along my ribs and hips. The soreness between my legs had dulled to

Lisa still didn't know. That was the part that made my stomach flip every time I thought about it — not the stage, not the twenty-plus men Max had vetted, not the fact that my asshole was about to bec

The parking lot was already half-full when we pulled up, cars angled toward the squat cinderblock building like moths to a flame. Headlights flickered, engines hummed, and the air smelled of sweat, le

The front door felt different under my hand. Not heavier, exactly. Just final. Like the last page of a book I'd been forcing myself to finish for years. I could hear the television before I reached t

My name is Erica, and last Tuesday I found a receipt in my husband Marcus's jeans pocket. It was from a hotel downtown — the kind of place you don't book for a business meeting. I didn't say anything

The Tuesday started normal. I was in the clubhouse kitchen making eggs, wearing nothing but one of Max's flannel shirts and a pair of fuzzy socks because the concrete floor was cold. That's the thing

Collateral My name is Erica, and three hours ago I was sitting on my couch in yoga pants watching a baking show. Now I'm standing in the middle of a biker clubhouse with my hands zip-tied behind my ba