Page 13 of Motorycle Daddies

She taps her foot like an impatient mother rather than someone who’s helping to hold me hostage and refusing to tell me anything about it. Her words ring in my ears. She has a job to do. Maybe her job is something that’s forced? If that’s the case, I’d hate to find out who she’s working for.

I turn around to face her and let her go through the entire checkup process. I feel more like a kid right now than anything. As she’s wrapping it up, I try one more question. “Can you at least tell me why you have to check to make sure I’m not dead? Is it something to do with what was shot into my neck?”

The woman looks me up and down, and her face is fierce. She’s very intimidating for her small size. She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head, whispering something under her breath in another language.

“Fine. I suppose there’s no harm in that. Yes, it has to do with what was shot in your neck. You’ve been unconscious, along with a couple of the other girls. You’ve been asleep much longer than anyone else, like maybe you had a bad reaction. It’s unusual, but it can be dangerous. Lucky you, you’re just going to be a little bit groggy. You’re fine, though, so I’m going to clear you for prepping. My job’s done here.”

She turns on her heel, her tennis shoes grinding against the floor. Then, she’s out the door as quick as a single breath.

She was talking about prepping. I’ve been drugged and taken somewhere. As my half-asleep brain tries to process this and figure out what it means, another memory from what feels like another life comes to me. A time when Harlow was in trouble.

The way she was kidnapped. And the people who did it. What they were after.

I shake my head, as if I can shake away the thoughts.

It can’t be. I thought all of that was dealt with.

Close to hyperventilating, I start to count my breaths, a hand on my stomach and my diaphragm as they push out and then pull back in with each breath. I have to stay calm. If I really am with the Bratva like she was, I’ve found myself in a place where panic can get me killed. I’m going to have to stay calm and cooperate until I see a safe way out.

I don’t have to wait in the room much longer. Two women and one man come into the room, speaking another language the whole time, and start to look me over. I’m made to follow them, stripped down, and forcibly bathed.

It’s particularly humiliating when you’re an adult and complete strangers are holding you down and scrubbing you over and over until you’re red and raw and shiny. Especially when one of those people is a man. The whole time, his eyes are moving up and down my body, but I don’t know that it’s attraction. It’s almost scrutinizing. As if he’s trying to give me some kind of rating or something.

I don’t want to think about what that could mean.

Instead of using a towel or allowing me to dry off, I’m quickly taken into another room where my whole body is blow-dried. The heat further irritates the patches on my skin that have been rubbed raw, and I stand with my eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears of pain. There are probably going to be much more worthwhile opportunities to cry later on.

When this is done, I’m taken into yet another room, the winding halls so confusing I could never find my way back to the room I was in, much less the way out. The three people who have been “prepping me” leave me in this room.

Soon I’m sitting in a chair in front of a mirror, and there’s another woman in the same position a few chairs down. She’s sobbing into her hands until a woman with red hair comes into the room. The redhead doesn’t say anything, but she has a smile on her face. And then I notice the clippers in her hand. And the box next to the other woman—a box full of hair care products.

Apparently, I’m meant to get the full spa treatment today. If only it was easier to pretend that’s all that’s really going on. Maybe it would make it easier to get through this.

If I was doubting what this was all about before, I have no doubts now. They’re prepping me for somebody. It could be a member of the Bratva, or it could be worse—it could be trafficking. Straight up trafficking.

How I could be pulled into some kind of trafficking ring while I was on a college campus in the middle of a run with people around, I have no idea. I must be the most unlucky girl in the universe. Next to Harlow, I suppose. Though, she makes a reasonable target, being the daughter of the president of a motorcycle club.

Me, I’m nobody.

I find myself sitting in the chair for at least an hour, if not longer, as my light-brown hair is curled and teased. I look like some kind of southern beauty queen when the woman is done.

Then, I’m shuffled away into the room next door. This room is even more obvious than the last. There are women just like me in various states of upset. Some seem to be praying, some crying, and others have gone catatonic in freeze mode. All of them are having makeup smeared all over their faces.

The makeup is heavy and dramatic. Nothing at all like what I would normally wear. But I’m guessing this is meant to make us all stand out.

My body betrays me and starts to shake, showing my fear, as I’m placed in yet another chair. I go back to my deep breathing. It’s the only thing I can do.

When the makeup woman starts working on me, I just close my eyes. I play home movies in my mind of the best times. Most of them involve Harlow. She’s more my family than my parents ever have been, but there were a few good moments with my parents here and there, especially when I was really little. I replay all of them over and over until the woman lets me know I’m done.

I have no idea when this roller coaster is going to end. I’m sick of being buck naked and passed around from person to person, none of whom seem to see me as anything other than a doll meant to be dressed up. No one, even those who speak English, talks to me about anything.

This time, I’m in a large fitting room. If I didn’t know any better I’d think it was some kind of styling room backstage before a fashion show.

I used to be obsessed with fashion and runways when I was younger, as if I was intending to be some kind of model. I’ve never really fit the profile, and eventually I got over it and stopped following all the latest trends in the magazines. But that’s exactly what this looks like. There’s even a massive closet—the only difference is, all the clothes are lingerie. Something I’ve never actually worn or had a reason to wear.

I shiver as I consider something that, if these people found out, would probably make me infinitely more valuable in their eyes—the fact that I’m a virgin.

I’m greeted by an older woman with curly hair, gray mixed in with midnight black, all piled atop her head in a messy bun. With her thick glasses and her pen and paper, she could be a schoolteacher. She doesn’t look like anyone malicious, and my body tries to relax a little in her presence.

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