Confession

by Garrett, Jamie

He stared at her recalcitrant, stubborn expression, arms crossed over her chest, eyebrows low, an almost-pout on her lips. He shrugged. “You don’t want to take a shower, don’t. No skin off my nose.”

  She finally caved.

  “Fine,” she said, leaning back in her chair, arms still crossed over her chest though the angry expression on her face now morphed into worry. “I already told you, I went to the auto shop—”

  “What’s the name of it? Who runs it?”

  She sighed again. “TJ’s Garage. The guy who manages it . . . his name is Roger.”

  “Last name?”

  She frowned again. “I don’t know. If I ever did, I can’t remember. My brains are all scrambled.”

  “This is the first time you took your car there?” Her tapping foot and the way she pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingertips made it obvious to him that she’d grown impatient with his line of questioning, but her story still didn’t make any sense. The Jokers were bad news, no doubt about it, but to risk a kidnapping just because she’d seen a chop shop?

  She hesitated and shook her head. “No, I can’t remember his last name. I’ve only taken my car there a few times. Just for oil changes and stuff like that. Nothing major. As a matter of fact, I never really went inside the bay, just a small office part in the front.”

  “Have you never noticed anything odd going on in there?”

  “No,” she shook her head. “But I wasn’t exactly looking, either.”

  Her shoulders suddenly slumped and her head tilted forward as she stared at the table. He figured if he pushed anymore now, she’d shut down. Maybe a shower would make her feel better. He gestured.

  “You can go take a shower. Leave the door open.” That got her attention back on him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

  “Are you serious? You expect me to take a shower and leave the door open so you can spy on me? My brains might be scrambled right now, but I’m not stupid.”

  He shook his head in annoyance. What kind of guy did she think he was? He didn’t need to take free peeks at vulnerable women in his shower. He had all the willing tits and ass he could want hanging around in the main clubhouse. And yet, ever since Nikki’s appearance, Seth hadn’t wanted any of the chicks than hung around the club, even for a second. The woman was making him lose his damn mind. “I’m not going to attack you. I’m going to sit right there on the couch.” He pointed to the leather sofa. She pulled her gaze from him, glanced at the couch, then at the bathroom door and back again. She actually got up, stepped to the couch, sat down, and looked toward the bathroom door. He almost laughed.

  “Fine,” she mumbled. “But if I so much as see you hovering in the doorway . . .”

  She didn’t finish her threat, and he certainly didn’t take it seriously. She’d do what? Throw a wet loofah at him? He moved into his bedroom, pulled open a dresser drawer, and pulled out a pair of sweatpants, and tossed them over his shoulder. He shut that drawer and pulled open another, retrieving a dark green T-shirt, which also got tossed over his shoulder. He stepped to the tiny closet and reached in for a short-sleeved button-down shirt on a hanger before returning to the living room and extending the clothes toward her.

  She grimaced in distaste, as if wearing his clothes was the most awful thing she’d ever been asked to do. He shrugged. “Go on. Take them to put on after your shower. They’ll do.” His nostrils flared as he got a whiff of her clothes again. “Those are toast.”

  She glanced at the clothes in his hand and reluctantly extended her own and took them, albeit reluctantly. “Thanks.”

  She stared at him, and for a moment they stood close to one another, both staring. What was she—then he realized. She waited for him to sit down on the couch before she stepped into the bathroom. He did, sitting down exactly where he had said he’d sit. From his vantage point, all he could see was a part of the bathroom doorway and beyond a glimpse of the edge of the sink, part of the toilet, and a smidgen of the shower, the part where the showerhead connected to the old tiles.

  She gazed at him as if trying to judge his honesty, and with a dismissive sniff stepped stiffly into the bathroom and closed the door halfway. He said nothing. He saw exactly what he’d been able to see before, just a little less of a shower. Whatever. In a few seconds, he heard the rustle of clothes, then one by one, her pants, her top, and her boots landed on the floor in front of the toilet. She stepped into the shower behind the door. The squeak of the faucets as she turned on the water, adjusted the temperature, the patter of the water pounding against the old porcelain bathtub, and then the sound of the curtain pulling shut, the rings clanking softly against the rod.

  He sat there waiting for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes, before curiosity got the best of him. Damn, he was an asshole. He leaned to the right, ever so slowly in case she watched the doorway from inside the shower, not that she could see him, but still . . . behind the pale-yellow shower curtain was her shadowy profile, her pert breasts obvious, a nice rounded ass, flat stomach, and long legs as she stepped forward, tilted her head back, and allowed the water to drip down her well-proportioned body. His dick approved and came to life. He shifted as he quickly grew uncomfortable, the blood pounding through his veins as he imagined her slick, wet skin glistening with soap, and how easy it would be to just step into the shower with her. To slide his alert and full cock into her pussy, take her from behind then and there, but he didn’t move. Well, most of him didn’t move. As his cock blossomed to full attention, he shifted and reached down to unzip his pants. He stroked his junk and took matters into his own hand. Release came in minutes and was brief and didn’t do a thing to abate his arousal or the fire that she’d stoked inside of him, but it would have to do. For now.

  8

  Nikki

  Seth had kept his word. When she stepped out of the bathroom wearing the clothes she’d borrowed, he sat right where she’d left him. She tugged at the sweatpants. They were large and bunched around her ankles, but the drawstring helped. The T-shirt was broken in nicely, and quite comfortable, but she hadn’t dared go out there with just the T-shirt on. She’d known that the moment she saw him sitting on that overstuffed leather couch of his that her nipples would harden with attraction. And of course he’d notice. Like all her clothes, her bra also stank, but after soaking it in the sink for a while, she’d hang it up to dry. She’d thrown the short-sleeved button-down shirt over the T-shirt, leaving it hanging open though covering her breasts.

  “Feel better?”

  She glanced at the vague smile on his face. He hadn’t moved and still sat with legs crossed, arms over his chest. She tried not to notice his bulging biceps, the fabric of his T-shirt tugging at the muscles. She gave him a nod. She supposed she should be grateful to him, but it stuck in her craw that she still wasn’t free to leave. Outside, darkness pressed against the cinderblock cabin, black and endlessly empty beyond. He tilted his head.

  “Might as well get some sleep. Nothing’s going to happen tonight. You can sleep on my bed. I’ll sleep out here.”

  She hadn’t realized until that moment how exhausted she truly was. She hadn’t slept for . . . well, she had been unconscious for a while, but that really didn’t constitute restful sleep. A couple of days had passed already since she’d been kidnapped. Hadn’t they? Or had she missed even more time? Without a word, she nodded and glanced toward the bedroom. “Do I have to leave that door open, too?” She couldn’t keep the wariness out of her tone that time.

  He nudged his head slightly and offered a tiny shrug. “No, you can shut the door if you want, but it’s going to get hot in there.”

  “So why don’t you open the windows? It’s stuffy in here.”

  “They don’t open anymore . . . rusted shut. What can I say, they’re old.”

  She said nothing, knowing that regardless, if she tried to get out of the cabin tonight, she’d have to creep right past the couch. She wouldn’t be surprised if he slept with one eye open. Neverth
eless, the thought of allowing herself to fall asleep . . . she didn’t like the vulnerability. Nikki didn’t trust him any further than she could throw him. Then again, the feeling was probably mutual. He suddenly glowered at her, impatience once again probably prompting him to frown as he spoke.

  “Look, Nikki, I’m tired. I’m not going to rape you, if that’s what you’re worried about. Frankly, it’s been a long day, and I’d like to get some shut-eye. We’ll figure out what to do with you in the morning.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that, talking about her like she was a stray dog. His face calmed, and some sort of regret flitted across his expression, like he’d tried to project more fierceness into his tone and words than he’d actually intended. But still, she couldn’t forget how intimidating he could be, the way he’d hovered over her at the kitchen table just a short while ago. She’d better not push him. But if he’d wanted to rape her, he could’ve done it already. If he’d wanted to kill her, she’d be lying out in the dirt in the darkness somewhere, her bones to be picked over by coyotes and vultures. Her thoughts racing, another one forced itself to the forefront of her mind. One she couldn’t ignore, try as she might. An attraction, a pull toward him that she was loath to admit, even to herself. How could she be attracted to him? So what if he was good looking? She’d known lots of handsome guys in her life, but never had she felt this pull, the sense of . . . she didn’t even have a word for it.

  With a tired sigh, she finally turned and stepped into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her. It was pitch black in the room, but she remembered where the bed was. She sat down on it, her hands squeezing into the mattress on either side of her, pushing back the fear and dread that threatened to overcome her once more. Every time she grew still, every time she couldn’t move, couldn’t do something, her thoughts immediately strayed to Stacey. She looked out the dark window into the blackness.

  Where are you, Stacey? I’m looking for you! Be strong . . . I’ll find you . . .

  She lay down on the bed, once again surprised that it smelled clean and . . . homey. Fabric softener and freshly washed sheets. A motorcycle club member who kept clean sheets. Never would she have believed it. She inhaled Seth’s scent on the pillow, and pushed thoughts of the biker from her mind. It was difficult, but she concentrated on doing what her father had once told her. Starting with her toes, she forced them to relax, then her ankles, her calves, her knees, working her way up inch by inch until every muscle in her body felt loose and liquid. Despite her worries and fears, in seconds, the world drifted away to sleep.

  9

  Nikki

  The aroma of coffee woke her up. She blinked, for a moment not remembering where she was. She had fallen asleep on top of Seth’s bed, wearing the clothes he’d given her after she’d taken a shower. Early morning sunlight shone through the window. She blinked and lifted a hand to rub her heavy eyelids, and as memory returned, her stomach turned.

  Stacey. Kidnapped. Missing. Dead?

  Fear gripped her chest, taking her breath away. Nausea returned. How could she endure this?

  Finally, she forced herself to move, focusing on more immediate matters. She had to pee. She rose from the bed, stepped to the door, and opened it. She heard Seth moving around in the kitchen area. Without a word, she turned a right angle and entered the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. Her bra had been removed from the sink and now hung on the shower curtain rod. She stepped to it, touching a cup. It was dry. Had he hung it up after she’d fallen asleep? Heat rushed into her cheeks at the thought of Seth touching her bra, maybe washing it . . . she sniffed the fabric. It smelled of soap. Okay . . . She quickly removed her shirt, settled her bra in place, and then redressed. At least she didn’t have to wear anything over the T-shirt now. She peed, washed her hands, her face, and lifted her head to look into the ancient, scratched mirror. Dark circles were layered under her eyes, and tension in her forehead pulled her eyebrows down. A dull headache started as she stared at herself. Psychosomatic? Probably. Right now, she’d do anything for Xanax, but the relief would only be temporary.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the bathroom and entered the living area of the small cabin. She wouldn’t mention her bra. To her surprise, two steaming mugs of coffee sat on the card table. Seth occupied one of the chairs, once again casual, one arm draped over the back, legs crossed as he stared at her. Despite her efforts, her face flamed with heat. He had to know she’d found her bra. He stared at her chest, prompting a surprising tingle in her nipples, then up at her face. He grinned.

  “Sleep well?”

  She nodded as she took the empty seat and reached for the mug of coffee he’d made for her and mumbled a soft thank you under her breath. She was raised to be polite, but did she owe anything, any politeness to this man? He was holding her against her will! She should be screaming her head off, fighting him as best she could . . . but maybe after coffee.

  She wrapped her hands around the mug and lifted it to her lips, hands trembling slightly. Leftover adrenaline? Or anxiety about what was going to happen next? She took a sip and relished the sensation of the hot, bitter liquid warming her throat and then her stomach. She glanced nervously at Seth, who continued to watch her, expressionless.

  “Hungry?” he asked. “I can make some scrambled eggs.”

  How oddly domestic. “I want to go home.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure you do, but I talked to Levi this morning . . .”

  She had slept so heavily she hadn’t heard him leave the cabin? Dammit! She could have escaped! “And?” she asked, sipping coffee.

  “To be honest, he’s a bit suspicious.”

  The mug froze in front of her mouth, steam warming her lips. “Why?” she blurted.

  “Because you’re not really coming across as a victim—”

  The mug thumped down onto the card table, a bit of coffee sloshing over the edge, scalding her fingers. She wiped her hand on his sweatpants, not caring if she stained them. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she snapped. “How do you expect me to act?” She didn’t wait for him to respond, but continued, her ire and frustration growing. “How dare you! I was kidnapped by a motorcycle gang! You’re the one who found me. With my hands bound, remember? With a gag over my mouth. What do you mean, I’m not coming across as a victim?” Her heart pounded as anger surged through her.

  He let her rant, sipping coffee calmly as if nothing untoward was happening. Finally, he spoke. “At any rate, he’s not sure he wants to let you go.”

  “He’s not sure? I want to go home!”

  “He’s thinking, and I happen to agree, that if we let you go, the Jokers might just nab you again.”

  She couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t tell him that that’s exactly what she hoped, but only because she needed to find her sister. Every hour that went by, every day that went by, her sister was getting further away from her. Frustration overran her, and she fought back tears. She was damned if she’d let him see her cry. And then even that failed. Her vision blurred, warm tears streamed down her cheeks, and she sat there, hands balled into fists in her lap, shoulders shaking. She wanted to go home. She wanted to find Stacey safe and sound. She wanted things to go back to the way they used to be. She wanted . . .

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, a firm, strong hand. Startled, she stood so abruptly the chair fell over, but before she could rectify that, she felt herself pulled forward, into his hard, strong frame. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, one hand gently pressing her face into the middle of his chest. She listened to the steady beat of his heart, felt his warmth, his rock-hard muscles . . . shocked, she nevertheless responded, wrapping her own arms around his waist, every emotion, every iota of fear, every bit of anxiety she felt bubbling upward as she sobbed.

  Oh, God. She finally came to her senses and tried to pull from his grasp. He didn’t let her go. She didn’t fight the comforting embrace. And that’s what it was. Comforting. Not threatening, not for
ceful . . . just . . . comforting. A surge of relief, desperation, and horror swept through her. Here she was allowing this stranger, this man who wouldn’t let her go find her sister, to hold her tightly against him. She felt the hard contours of his body against hers. She should be frightened. She should be disgusted. She should fight.

  She didn’t.

  He hesitated for just an instant, and a myriad of emotions raced through her. She’d never thought . . . how could she be reacting like this? All she could think of were his bulging biceps, that solid chest, his scent . . . a soapy scent combined with hints of . . . of motorcycle grease . . . a slight tinge of gasoline . . . and his own T-shirt, his scent invading her senses, prompting thoughts of . . . she looked up at him with confusion. The look in his eyes . . . pupils dilated but a frown of consternation on his own brow, his slight frown. Her gaze moved to his mouth, his full lips, the stubble of a day-old beard darkening his cheeks and jaw line. What would that feel like? That stubble rubbing against the soft, tender skin of her cheek—

  He shifted again, one arm wrapped gently around her back, the palm of his other hand now shifting, moving forward, coming to rest just below her left breast. Pressed up against his length, she felt every curve, every dip, every muscle . . . her hips pressed closer into his, and her body erupted as if she stood in front of a volcano. Heat enveloped every inch of her body, thrumming with a startling and powerful sense of desire. Was this just adrenaline too? Was this the aftereffect of desperate fear? One gentle gesture, even from a stranger, was enough to block common sense?

  She burned with sensations. She looked into his eyes but had no idea what he was thinking . . . all she knew that his pupils were dilated, his mouth hung slightly open, and the pulse in his throat throbbed. Then, he grinned. Not evil or malicious, but a soft, kind grin, one that invited comfort and compassion. Confusion reigned. He was a biker. Bikers weren’t kind. They weren’t compassionate. They didn’t care—