#gary roach

Quiet ones.

Nervous ones.

Men who couldn’t look her in the eye, or men who never looked away.

But John Price wasn’t like any of them.

He was the kind of man who moved with purpose.

The kind who filled the space around him without raising his voice.

The kind who wore gentleness like a coat—soft on the outside, hiding the weight beneath.

The first time he contacted her, his message was polite. Short. Almost too polite for the kind of meeting he was asking for. The kind of politeness that made the hair on her arms lift.

But the money was good.

More than good.

It was desperate-times good.

And she’d been having a desperate-times year.

So she said yes.

She shouldn’t have.

---

He picked her up outside a rundown liquor store where she sometimes met clients who didn’t want her knowing their address. The cold night air bit at her bare legs as she hugged her jacket closer, watching the dark blue truck idling near the curb. Its headlights were off. Engine humming like a quiet beast.

Saoirse hesitated.

It wasn’t unusual for men to arrive in trucks. Or sit with the lights off. Or act like they were doing something forbidden.

But something about the way the man sat there in the dark, unmoving, made unease crawl up her spine.

Still…

Money.

She pulled her phone out.

“Here.” She typed.

The driver door opened.

John Price stepped out.

He was taller than she expected. And broader. His beard was trimmed, flecked with gray. His eyes were steady, unreadable. He didn’t look like a man buying an hour of company.

He looked like a man buying time.

“Saoirse?” His voice was smooth, deep, too calm for how late at night it was.

She forced a smile. “That’s me.”

He nodded, polite to a fault. “You look cold. Let’s get you inside.”

“Where are we headed?” she asked lightly, trying to mask the edge of nerves.

“Somewhere private,” he said, the words warm, not suggestive.

Most men said that with hunger.

Price said it like an offer.

A courtesy.

She stepped closer and he opened the passenger door for her. He didn’t stare at her legs. Didn’t give her the once-over most men did. His gaze was level, almost distant.

The minute she climbed into the truck, she felt it.

A shift.

A heaviness in the air.

Like walking into a church after hours.

Like something waiting in the dark, holding its breath.

Price shut the door quietly.

Too quietly.

Like closing a lid.

Her hands fidgeted in her lap as he walked around and climbed in beside her. He buckled his seatbelt. She didn’t.

He noticed.

“Go on, love,” he murmured, nodding at the strap. “Put it on.”

Something about the way he said it made compliance feel like instinct.

She buckled it.

“That’s a good girl,” he said absently, starting the engine.

The praise hit her wrong—too practiced, too smooth—but she swallowed her unease. She’d heard worse from clients. A lot worse.

Price drove with the calm confidence of someone who didn’t speed, didn’t worry, didn’t need to fill the silence. Streetlights passed over the windshield like pale ghosts.

Saoirse glanced at him.

He didn’t look like he belonged in this part of town. His hands on the wheel were steady, scarred, clean. He wore a wedding ring. That wasn’t uncommon, but something about it felt off.

Married men usually hid the ring.

He didn’t.

“You’re quiet,” she said, trying to cut the tension. “Not nervous, are you?”

A tiny smirk tugged at his mouth. “Not in the slightest.”

She shifted. “Just checking.”

“I appreciate caution,” he said. “You should keep that. It’ll keep you alive.”

Her heart skipped.

What sort of thing was that to say?

Before she could form a reply, he continued, tone gentle:

“You don’t need to be afraid of me, Saoirse.”

She didn’t answer.

He didn’t look at her when he said it. His focus stayed on the road, on the stretch of black highway leading them out of the city. The lights faded away in the rearview mirror until the world outside became nothing but trees and darkness.

“That’s far enough,” she blurted, voice rising. “I don’t go outside the city.”

“Tonight you do,” he said calmly.

Her fingers flew to the door handle.

Locked.

“What the hell—? Stop the truck!”

He didn’t even flinch. “Seatbelt stays on. Hands in your lap.”

“Stop the damn—”

His hand moved faster than she expected.

Not hitting.

Not grabbing.

Just settling over her thigh.

Heavy.

Warm.

Commanding.

“Don’t make me restrain you,” he said softly. “We’re almost there.”

Every instinct screamed at her.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t threaten her.

That made it worse.

“Where?” she whispered, panic tightening her throat.

“To your new home,” he said.

Her stomach dropped.

She stared at him, horrified. “You—you paid for a night. That’s all. That’s all you’re getting.”

Price finally looked at her.

It wasn’t lust in his eyes.

It wasn’t anger.

It was decision.

“I paid for your time, yes,” he said. “But I didn’t buy you for myself.”

The world tilted.

Her pulse hammered. “What—what do you mean?”

“You’ll understand soon. Just breathe.”

“Take me back.” Her voice cracked. “Please.”

“You’re going to be well cared for.”

He said it like he believed it.

Like it was a kindness.

Saoirse’s breath came fast, shallow, her heart pounding so loudly she thought he could hear it.

“You’re not the first,” he added quietly. “And you won’t be the last. But you might be the only one he actually deserves.”

“Who?” she choked out.

“Simon,” he said. “My boy. You’ll be his wife.”

Her blood ran cold.

“No—no, I’m not—”

“Hush.”

Soft.

Soothing.

Patronizing.

Awful.

“You’re frightened. I know. Anna was, too.”

“Who the hell is Anna?!”

“My wife,” he said simply. “The woman I brought home the same way I’m bringing you.”

Tears stung her eyes. “You’re insane.”

Price sighed, almost regretful. “You won’t think that forever.”

She clawed at the door, at the seatbelt, at anything she could grip, but the truck kept rolling into the darkness, and the forest swallowed them whole.

He didn’t touch her again until the driveway appeared—a dirt path leading to a large farmhouse tucked into the woods, warm lights glowing in the windows. Smoke curled from the chimney. It looked peaceful.

That made it horrifying.

Price parked and got out, circling the truck.

Saoirse shoved at the door.

It wouldn’t open.

He opened it himself, looking down at her with an expression almost tender.

“I know you’re scared,” he murmured. “But we’re past the point where fear helps you.”

He unbuckled her seatbelt slowly, like he was undressing a skittish animal.

“Come now,” he said softly. “Let’s not make a scene.”

She pressed herself against the seat.

“No.”

Price leaned in, his cologne warm and woodsy, his voice low.

“Don’t make me force you.”

Tears blurred her vision. Her muscles trembled. And something in his tone—firm, unyielding, utterly convinced—told her he could snap her spine without breaking a sweat.

She slid out of the truck.

Price didn’t grab her.

Didn’t shove her.

He simply guided her forward with a hand on her back.

The house loomed ahead, deceptively inviting. The porch glowed with yellow light, the sound of laughter drifting from inside.

Not cruel laughter.

Family laughter.

She wanted to turn and run.

Price must’ve sensed it. His hand tightened just slightly.

“Don’t even think about it.”

They reached the door. Price opened it without knocking.

Warmth spilled out. Smells—rich, meaty, seasoned—filled the air. Her stomach churned.

A woman with long dark hair and tired, gentle eyes stepped into view, wiping her hands on an apron.

“John?” she asked softly.

Price’s whole face warmed. “Anna, love. We’re home.”

Anna’s gaze flicked to Saoirse.

And for a moment, something deep and sorrowful passed in her expression.

“Oh,” Anna whispered. “She’s lovely.”

Saoirse braced for pity.

Judgment.

Hatred.

What she got instead was something worse:

Sympathy.

Anna stepped forward and cupped Saoirse’s cheek with a warm, soft hand.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” she whispered. “I know. I know it hurts now. But it gets easier.”

Saoirse flinched back, shaking.

“No—no, don’t touch me—”

Anna didn’t pull her hand away quickly. She withdrew it slowly, like calming a frightened pet.

“You’ll learn,” she murmured. “I promise.”

Price closed the door behind them with a quiet click.

That sound sealed everything.

Saoirse’s heart hammered as footsteps approached from deeper in the house—heavy, slow, deliberate.

She turned.

A tall man emerged from the hallway.

Massive.

Broad shoulders.

Face shadowed by the dim light.

Eyes dark and unreadable.

A skull-patterned mask covered the lower half of his face.

He didn’t speak.

He just stared at her.

Stared through her.

Price’s voice was proud, warm—fatherly.

“Simon,” he said. “Meet your new wife.”

Saoirse’s vision wavered.

Simon’s head tilted slightly, assessing.

Measuring.

Something like sorrow flickered behind his eyes when he saw her trembling.

But he hid it instantly.

He stepped closer, slow, controlled, until he stood right in front of her.

So close she had to tilt her head back to look at him.

She couldn’t breathe.

His voice, when it finally came, was low and hoarse:

“…Hello.”

A greeting.

A claim.

A sentence.

She swallowed hard, tears spilling.

Price squeezed her shoulder.

“Welcome home, Saoirse.”

And somewhere behind her, Anna whispered:

“You’ll be all right. He won’t hurt you unless you make him.”

Saoirse’s knees nearly gave out.

Because the man in front of her—

the one she was supposed to call husband—

wore violence like a second skin.

And yet…

his eyes looked almost human.

Almost sympathetic.

Almost like he was sorry she was here.

hey anon! AHAHAH yes i write for this roach right here 🪳

LMAO no but seriously, i mean, yeah, i can! ive played the og modern warfare, so i don't see why not. go ahead and send in your requests for him! (when they open, that is.)

AND might i add, i'm gonna start writing for alex keller, so same goes for him! (i'm in my alex phase... can someone tell me that i'm being delusional and that he wouldn't actually like me?)

look how handsome

- I'm perfectly sane and i will explain that to them. - How? The more you try to act sane, the crazier you start to look. If you smile too much, you are delusional or you are stifling hysteria. If you don't smile you are depressed. If you remain neutral you are emotionally withdrawn, potentially catatonic.

My silly little bugboy,,, he’s as good as done,,