by Daisy March
Motorcycle Daddy’s Captive
A DDLG Age Play Instalove Romance
Daisy March
Contents
Chapter 1
Beth
Chapter 2
Slater
Chapter 3
Beth
Chapter 4
Slater
Chapter 5
Beth
Chapter 6
Slater
Chapter 7
Beth
Chapter 8
Slater
Chapter 9
Beth
Chapter 10
Slater
Chapter 11
Beth
Chapter 12
Slater
Chapter 13
Beth
Chapter 14
Slater
Chapter 15
Beth
Chapter 16
Slater
Chapter 17
Beth
Chapter 18
Slater
Chapter 19
Beth
Chapter 20
Slater
Epilogue
About the Author
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Also by Daisy March
F.A.Q about DDLG
For all those who need looking after
1
Beth
Beth was in her bedroom when it all began. She was laid on the bare mattress, looking up at the ceiling, waiting for her father to go out so she could leave her room and sneak something to eat.
Not that there was likely to be much in the cupboards. Since his wife had died, Marty Grodin, patriarch of the family, had survived primarily on takeout, pizza as the pizzeria was on the corner of the block.
Beth got the crusts and whatever Leanne could sneak her.
Leanne was their neighbor. She lived in the apartment next door. In her late seventies, she couldn’t do much about Marty’s parenting. She could and did make sure Beth didn’t starve, sharing her meals on a regular basis.
When Beth heard the knock on the apartment door she sat up quickly, thinking it might be Leanne bringing her something to eat. If she could get there before her father, she might to able to get the food into her room before Marty even noticed the knock on the door.
She stood up, squeezing between the boxes of products Marty had acquired but not been able to sell.
Her earliest memories were of boxes crammed into her room, towering above her. Filled with knock off stereos, dirty magazines, pills of all shapes and colors. Her room had always been the storeroom. Most recently it was sealed wooden boxes she was forbidden to open.
Another knock, louder than the first. He’d hear that in a second and then she’d be for it.
A third knock, like someone was trying to break down the door. Leanne never knocked like that. Who was it out there?
“Beth,” her father roared, sticking his head out of the lounge to yell down the hall at her. “Go see who that is and get rid of them.” He turned back to his call. “I don’t know, do I? I just know it’s my ticket out of this shithole. No, of course they won’t find out.”
Beth walked down the hall to the front door, pulling it open in time for a dead body to fall straight into her arms.
She staggered back under the weight of it. “Billy?” she asked, sinking to her knees. “What happened?”
Billy was still breathing but only just. There was so much blood soaking his shirt Beth had been sure he was dead but his eyes opened as she rolled him onto his back. He looked up at her and whispered, “Help me, Beth.”
She looked down at the wound in his chest, his shirt ripped open. She pressed her hands to it. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding,” she said, memories of her mother coming back to her.
Billy roared with pain as she pressed harder. He clawed up her arms. “It hurts!” he shouted. “It hurts so much.”
“What’s that noise out there?” Beth’s father yelled from the lounge.
“Call an ambulance,” she yelled back.
“You can’t stop it,” Billy said, shaking his head and starting to cry. “I’m dying, aren’t I?”
“You’ll be all right,” Beth replied. “I’ll get help.”
“Here,” he said, reaching up, pressing something into her hand. His fingers felt cold to the touch. “Don’t let them take it,” he added, coughing up a gout of blood.
“Hold on,” she said. “Just hang on in there.” She twisted her head. “Dad, call an ambulance!”
It was too late. “Tell Sally…” His mouth moved as if he was trying to say something else but then it simply hung open, his chest falling still.
For the second time in the nineteen years she’d been alive, Beth was holding a dead body in her arms. “No!” she said, shaking his shoulders. “Don't die!”
He slumped to the ground, blood continuing to pool on the bare floorboards underneath him.
Her only friend. The only boy not to pick on her in school for her torn clothes and greasy hair. Dead at nineteen.
“What the hell is all this noise?” Beth’s father snapped, appearing in the hallway. He stopped dead. “What have you done?” He looked at Beth and there was fury in his eyes, fury she knew all too well.
“I didn’t do anything,” she said. “You need to call an ambulance.”
“You need to shut the hell up,” he said, grabbing her by the armpits and yanking her out from under Billy’s body. “Bringing him in here, what were you thinking?”
He dragged her down the hall, shoving her into the room she shared with all the boxes. “Stay there and keep your mouth shut,” he said, slamming the door shut. The all too familiar rattle of the padlock and then she was locked in.
She didn’t bother hammering on the door. She’d long learned not to bother. All it led to was more pain. She looked at her hands. They were covered in Billy’s blood. So were her clothes.
Her jeans were ruined. Not that they were in great shape anyway. She owned a grand total of one pair of pants and she was wearing them.
Her father’s voice reached her from outside the room. She pressed her ear to the door and listened hard.
“I’ve no idea,” her father was saying to someone. “Looks like a knife wound to me.” Silence. “How the hell am I supposed to do that? He’s sitting in my hall and I’ve got the stuff in here. What am I supposed to do?” Silence. “Like I would plan something like this. Oh, fuck, someone’s coming.”
Then a man’s voice. “We heard a report there was a body,” the man was saying. “I’m Detective Johnson and this is Detective Smith. You are?”
“I…I…” her father stuttered, for once lost for words. He coughed. “He just knocked on the door and burst in like this. I’ve no idea who did this to him.”
“What’s your name, Sir?”
“Marty.”
“Marty what?”
“Marty Grodin.”
“You live alone, Marty?”
“What?”
“Any witnesses see what happened apart from you? Anyone who can back up your story?”
“I just found him like this, I swear. Hey, what are you doing? You can’t come in here without a warrant!”
A noise so loud Beth’s ears rang. It was a sound she’d heard before but never so close up. A gunshot. There was a thud and then a second gunshot.
Beth clamped her hands over her mouth. She knew what had happened. She couldn’t see out of the room but she knew. The detectives had shot her father.
“It’s not on him,” Johnson said a second later. “He had
it in his hand when he ran this way. It must be here somewhere.”
“Search that one,” Smith said. “I’ll clear the place.”
Beth looked down at her hand, unfurling her fingers to reveal what Billy had given her. A one-inch square computer memory card. Mem was stamped on it. Below was the number 51, the rest smeared with blood.
She scrambled back from the door as footsteps approached. She’d never felt so scared. “Locked,” Johnson said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Kick it down. Do I have to think of everything for you?”
“But it’s locked from the outside.”
“So what?”
“So there can’t be anyone in there, can there? Not if it’s locked from this side.”
“Check anyway. For all we know he’s got some Filipino hooker in there. And hurry up, the uniforms will be here soon.”
Beth pressed herself down between two tall cardboard boxes, trying to burrow as far back into the corner of the room as she could get. A second later there was a thud and a crunch as the door flung open, the padlock flying through the air.
“Anything?” Smith asked as she pulled a box over her head.
“Nothing,” Johnson replied. “Just boxes of shit.” The sound of ripping cardboard. “Hey, there’s titty mags in this one. Some real kinky shit.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh, shit. Three boxes of Cake.”
“Bring them. That it?”
“Just a mattress that stinks to hell and a stuffed bear.”
Eleanor!
Beth put her hands over her mouth. She’d forgotten to grab Eleanor.
“Check it, he might have hidden it in there.”
She could handle Billy dying in her arms. She could handle her father being shot at the hands of whoever was out there. But when she heard the ripping sound of her childhood stuffie being ripped in two, she lost it.
Tears ran down her cheeks and she felt like they would never stop. She was sure they’d hear her hitching breath so she kept her hands clamped over her mouth. She’d learned to cry quietly a long time ago.
Eleanor.
The bear Billy had given her when she started school. The one thing she’d kept all these years. Or more realistically, the one thing her father hadn’t thrown out. For some reason, he’d not touched it either.
“Nothing,” Johnson said.
“Come on,” Smith replied. “Get the boxes and let’s go.”
“Detective Johnson.” A new voice, coming from out in the hall. “What are you doing here?”
“We were in the area when we heard the call, chief. Thought we’d come and help out.”
“And contaminate the scene before CSI get a look in? What the hell’s wrong with you, man?”
The voices started to fade away as the detectives walked out of the apartment with the newcomer.
“What’ve you got?” the third man was asking.
“Looks like a drug deal gone wrong, chief. Found this one by the door with a knife wound to his chest and a discharged gun in his hand. My guess is he got stabbed and then shot this one in turn.”
“What makes you think it’s drugs?”
“We’ve had an eye on this place for a while. He’s been selling the new stuff for the last few months. Got some in these boxes.”
“Get that straight into evidence.”
“Sure thing, chief. Don’t want to leave it for uniform. It might walk.”
“They’re on the way up. Put a man on the door until CSI get here.
Then the voices were too quiet for her to hear.
Beth remained where she was until she could hear nothing at all.
When she was sure it was safe, she squeezed herself out from between the boxes and stood up. Eleanor was on the floor in two ragged halves, stuffing strewn over the mattress. She scooped the two halves up, hugging them to her chest as if she could make her whole again.
“Move,” she said to herself. “Before they come back.”
Taking a deep breath, she walked over to the bedroom door and peered out around the corner.
A police officer was standing by the open front door, his back to her, facing out into the corridor. By his feet was Billy’s body, exactly where she’d left him.
She turned the other way. There was her father. He’d tried to run, his back to the front door, slumped against the wall, looking like he did when he came back from one of his benders.
Head down.
This was different.
Blood smeared all over his wool jacket, the one he insisted on wearing inside and outdoors, no matter what the weather. She tried to feel grief that both her parents were now dead. She felt nothing.
She was an orphan. Orphaned at nineteen. Alone in the world. She looked back at Billy.
She’d always said that one day she’d run away with him. She had barely seen him since she’d been forced to drop out of high school.
She only ever bumping into him in the corridors of the apartment building, never making eye contact, ashamed of how she looked, not being allowed soap or shampoo, told they would only make men want to assault her more.
Billy was gone. She just hoped Leanne had been out when it happened, that she hadn’t been caught up in all of this. If she’d been killed too, it would have been too much to bear.
She walked around her father’s body, avoiding the creaking floorboards, glancing behind her to make sure the police officer hadn’t spotted her yet.
Her father had always said he had contacts in the police. Was the man on the door an honest one or like the ones who’d shot her father? There was no way of knowing.
She was better off running. She’d have more of a chance of surviving on her own than in custody.
Whoever had shot her father wanted the memory card in her pocket. They’d come back here for it. She couldn’t stay here. What was on it that was so important?
If Billy had it, maybe it had something to do with his job. He’d called after her last time he saw her, told her he’d managed to get a job at the Bugle. “Journalist at large,” he’d yelled as her father yanked her into the apartment, slamming the door in Billy’s face.
“Running with boys again?” he father said, slapping her across the cheek. “What have I told you about boys?”
She hadn’t seen Billy from that day to this. She tried to piece things together. He’d been disturbed in his place, stabbed protecting the memory card. Presumably by the two detectives. Johnson and Smith. Had they thought he was dead and then he’d made a run for it? That would make sense.
He’d run to hers but it was too late. He’d lost too much blood. The detectives had come looking for the card when they couldn’t find it in his place.
They’d killed her father.
He’d never slap her again. He’d never do anything again. His body remained slumped against the wall.
Still she couldn’t cry for him. She’d cried for the damage done to Eleanor but she had nothing for the death of her father.
She turned the corner and stopped dead. There was the fire escape. She could get out that way.
The only problem was it couldn’t be opened silently. Pushing that handle would make a loud clunking sound.
She remembered it all too well from the times she’d been forced to spend the night on the fire escape. The police officer would hear the clunk. She needed to be ready to run when he did.
Her battered sneakers were on the floor by a pile of empty drinks cans. They were filthy and the soles were peeling off but they would be better than trying to run in bare feet. She slipped them on as quietly as she could.
This is it, she told herself, taking a deep breath. She leaned on the bar and pushed hard.
The door clunked and then swung open and as she heard the police officer start to yell behind her, she took off, literally running for her life.
2
Slater
Slater didn’t expect a nineteen year old girl to burst into his office. When she did, he took o
ne look at her and made the decision that would change his life, though at the time he had no idea by how much.
He was working through the intel he’d been given about The Milk Bar, cursing his misfortune that he could get so close but no closer.
“Hide me!” she begged as she ran in, scrambling around the desk and tugging at his arm, looking petrified.
Whoever she was, she was in big trouble. The last thing he needed was more trouble. So the fact he wanted to take her into his arms and hold her tight was bad news. Very bad news.
She wasn’t a Little. She was just a girl running from something bad.
“Down there,” he said, tugging at the handle that lifted up the trapdoor to the cellar. She looked down the hatch into the darkness and then up at him, still looking afraid. She was hugging something in her arms. What was that?
“Trust me,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “Go down, lights on the left when you get to the bottom.”
She looked behind her at the door to the office and then at him. “Trust me,” he said again, managing a smile that felt strange on his face.
He hoped it was reassuring but it had been a long time since he’d smiled. It might have looked like a snarl. Or maybe even a leer.
She seemed reassured, heading down the steps and out of sight. He dropped the handle, sliding a rug over the trapdoor just as he heard raised voices out in the bar.
A fight was about to break out. Again.
It had been a tough morning. He’d woken up to a message on his answerphone that solved one problem but created another.
“It’s coming out of The Milk Bar,” the message began in the gruff tones of his Sergeant-At-Arms. “I’ll get the clothes over to you tonight but you still need to find yourself a mark to get in without them suspecting.”
