The Stolen Girl
Page 13
I sagged back into my chair. I felt relieved, but also tired. I just wanted all of this to be over.
When I left the room, Roads, who had been waiting outside for me, fell into step beside me. His hand wrapped around my shoulder, comforting me and pulling me in close. “Are you doing okay?” he asked, concern weighing heavily in his voice.
I turned my head and smiled up at the big man. Now that he was my personal security guard, I supposed that I should technically start thinking of him as John, his given name. But despite this, even though he had given up most of his leather attire, I couldn’t see him as anything but Roads, the biker who had shown me kindness and decency when I was a captive. His nickname had now become my private term of endearment, and I still whispered it to him when we were naked in bed together, when I was riding on top of him with my eyes half squeezed shut in pleasure. Whenever I did so, bending forward to let my tits dangle in his face as I whispered in his ear, Roads would always redouble his efforts, so clearly it was serving its purpose.
“What do you think is going to happen?” I asked the man, leaning my head ever so lightly against his upper arm as his hand wrapped around my shoulders.
Roads looked thoughtful for a minute. “There’s been tension simmering in the gang for a long time,” he reflected. “Slammer always managed to hang on to the title of president, but he was never totally accepted. I think that’s one of the reasons that the other bikers were so willing to sell him out. We believe in honor, but only if the person has earned the right to that honor.”
“What about the rest of the bikers?” I asked next. “Now that the president is gone, and you’re quitting, are they going to just disband?”
My bodyguard shook his head. “Never gonna happen,” he declared. “The gang always lives on. That’s their life; they won’t just give it up. They’ll move on, find new members, pick out new leadership.” He stopped and thought intently for a minute. “Actually, I’d bet money on Flamer taking over. She’s always had that fire inside her, and she doesn’t tolerate any shit. She’d be a good influence on the gang.”
I did have to admit that the thought of that red-haired woman, clad in black leather and not hesitating to lash out at the other bikers whenever they made a sexist comment, fit well in my mind. “Are they going to end up serving any jail time?”
“Maybe a couple of months,” Roads guessed. “But it won’t be long. And then they’ll be out once again, on the road and enjoying the feeling of freedom. There’s really no replacement for it.”
We walked out of the attorney’s office, outside to where Roads had parked his bike. Despite my father’s best attempts to insist on it, the man had steadfastly refused to sell his chopper. “I am always going to be a biker at heart,” he had declared. “I will promise to be safe, but I won’t change who I am.”
My father had eventually settled for emphasizing that safety. Roads and I had both been sent off to a motorcycle safety course, where I sat wide-eyed in the front row and jotted down a constant stream of notes and Roads dozed off beside me. When we had gone on to the practical portion, riding around an empty parking lot on little 250cc Yamahas, I had managed to fight through my panic and do quite well, earning gruff but sincere praise from the instructors. Roads, on the other hand, kept on getting in trouble, revving the engines and trying to push the little bikes to their limits - that is, up until I reminded him that my riding with him was dependent on him passing this class. That finally forced him to simmer down and obey the rules. We had both ended up passing; I had the highest final score of anyone in the class, while Roads limped through and just barely avoided failure.
When we rode together now, we both always wore full-face helmets. I had found one online that was bright pink, which of course was perfect for me. Roads had grumbled about this safety requirement as well, but I finally bought him a cherry red helmet and told him that if he didn’t wear it, he wouldn’t be getting lucky any time soon. With that threat in place, the man never hesitated to grab his protective gear - at least, when my eyes were on him.
Once we were both astride the bike, Roads pulled up the kickstand and gunned it into life. I wrapped my arms around him, my feet on the side pegs, and we roared out of the attorney’s parking lot, cutting through roads and traffic as we headed back to my house. I had become somewhat accustomed to the vibrating pleasure I felt every time I threw my leg over the big metal hog, but I still sometimes felt myself slipping away, my breath coming in short little gasps as the seat shook between my legs.
While the futures of Slammer and the gang were still up in the air, my personal future was comfortably established. I had been accepted into Georgetown, and my father had promised to pay for whatever housing I decided on. Roads and I had taken a trip over to the campus and surrounding area. We had quickly found a lovely little one-bedroom house for rent, close to the university, and we both agreed that it would be perfect. Roads was planning on finding a job in the city while I was at class, and we calculated that we could easily afford rent. Yes, the future for us looked bright.
But that was all in the future; there was still nearly a month until school began and freshman orientation kicked off. And I was determined to avoid thinking about it for as long as possible. I still couldn’t get enough of this big biker that I had taken in, and I was determined to spend as much time with him as possible.
We pulled up at a stoplight that had just turned red, and Roads eased off on the throttle. The roar of the engine between our legs dropped to a dull rumble, quiet enough for our voices to be audible above its sound. “So, what do you want to do for the rest of today?” Roads shouted, tilting his head slightly so that the sound carried out through his open visor to me.
My arms wrapped tightly around him as the light turned green and we took off once again, I considered the question. We had spent the last few days lazing around at my house, curled up together on the porch swing on our veranda and sipping cool drinks. Perhaps it was time to do something a little more active, a little more exciting.
I looked around at the greenery of the trees along the sides of the road. An idea suddenly came to me. “Let’s go for a hike!” I shouted back to Roads at the next stoplight. “Outside! In nature!”
I both heard and felt Roads laugh heartily, his chest shaking as we zoomed along. But he nodded. “You got it!” he roared back.
I clung to my man happily. I could feel the wind blowing through the vents in my jacket as we rode to keep me cool, the sun warm on my back, the motorcycle vibrating between my legs. And I couldn’t imagine a single thing that I could change to make myself happier.
Samantha Westlake grew up in the heartland of the United States, surrounded by the open fields of the Midwest. But a farmer's life wasn't for her, so she set her sights on moving out to the coast, to the big city.
Samantha now lives in San Francisco, where she finds her creative genius constantly inspired and challenged. When she isn't hard at work writing, she spends her time sitting at the coffee shop down the street and watching the passersby, imagining fantastic lives and stories for them.
Samantha can be contacted at authorsamanthawestlake@gmail.com.
Samantha would like to thank the writer's circle that inspired her to pursue writing this work. Ava, Amanda, Olivia, Amy, Honey, Jenny, and the rest - your encouragement was invaluable in making this story a reality. And finally, a warm thank you to the reader! This work was made for you, and I hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed composing it.