Page 13 of Knocked Up By the Bikers

I stare at the locked door for the better part of a minute until a thought occurs like a tendril reaching out to me from the darkest depths of my mind.

“I could try it,” I mutter to myself as I take the screw out. It’s worth a shot.

I’ve seen enough movie scenes where the protagonist jimmies the lock with a screw or a paperclip, or even a butter knife. How hard can it be? It could be impossible, but I still need to try.

“All right, here we go,” I whisper and stick the screw into the lock.

I listen to the faint metallic sounds inside, the scraping of every movement as I try to wiggle the mechanism in any possible direction. From what I recall, it only takes a few wrist movements to push the right piece into the right rift, and the tip of the screw is sharp enough to—CLICK.

“Holy shit,” I gasp.

No way.

My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. No way it worked. With a trembling hand, I turn the knob, and it opens.

“Holy shit …” I silence myself, trying not to draw any attention.

I just need to get out of here.

Where should I go, though? How do I leave the clubhouse? The parking lot is filled with motorcycles and pickup trucks. Not to mention there are always customers milling about, standing around outside. They’ve got a full house tonight, too.

The music blares from downstairs, and there’s a persistent waft of oil frying in the hall. My stomach growls in protest, but I console myself with the thought that I will soon be a free woman.

When that happens, I will shamelessly massacre an entire bucket of spicy nuggets and call it a day. But I have to get out of here first.

Okay, step one, just across the threshold. Come on, Ariana, you can do it.

As soon as I’m standing in the middle of the hallway, I exhale sharply. I even smile because I’ve made it this far.

Okay, one more step. And another. And another.

I don’t know the layout of this place so I’m looking around for an emergency exit. There seems to be only one set of stairs, and it leads directly into the vipers’ nest. My throat starts closing. The walls start closing in. I thought I had a handle on my anxiety, but clearly, I do not; definitively not, but I can’t turn around either.

What the hell am I going to do? Go back to my room like a good girl, as Kendric said.

A good girl. I need to be a good girl.

“Screw that; I need to be a free girl,” I mutter and decide to try my luck with every room on this level in the hopes that they don’t all have bars on the windows.

I don’t even make it to the first door when Sky’s voice booms across the narrow and semi-dark hallway. “Ariana.”

Shit.

I’m frozen, both hands on the doorknob as I turn my head ever so slowly. Out of the corner of my eye, I register movement.

He moves like a shadow, this mountain of a man with dark hair and dark eyes, smelling of leather and notes of tobacco, as he hooks his arm around my waist and effortlessly picks me up off the ground. I’m not sure if I’m actually screaming or if it’s just in my head, but he takes me back to my room and throws me on the bed.

I roll over and land on the floor like an electrocuted cat while he locks the door and turns to look at me, rage simmering in his gaze. “We had one rule,” Sky says, his voice low and cold.

“I had to try,” I mumble, but I am shaking like a leaf and rattled to the core while his scent still lingers in my nose, filling my lungs and frying my circuits. “I’m sorry.”

I’m actually apologizing. What the hell is wrong with me?

I’m trying to survive. There’s nothing wrong with me. If you piss off your kidnapper, you try to appease them because you can’t afford to lose a finger—or worse.

“The rule is in place for a reason, Ariana. It’s for your sake, not ours,” Sky replies, taking careful but decisive steps toward me. “I could just keep you in the basement, hogtied, day and night. Would you prefer that?”

“No.”

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