Page 28 of Biker's Collar: Property of Scrap

I’m high on my domination over her.

“And…” I continue. “I’m going to stick a black collar around your neck to let everyone know you’re mine.”

She gives me a dark, worried look, which makes me want to dial it up a notch and turn the heat up on Vickie’s ass. Remind her that she isn’t in control. I won’t be foolish enough to allow her to work her devil magic on me again.

“That’s right, buttercup,” I snarl. “It’s going to be a thick, black collar like one you would put on a Rottweiler.”

“Watch it,” she hisses, barely able to contain her rage, but smart enough to keep it under wraps as much as possible because she can tell I am serious. My heart drops down into my stomach. But I stay strong. Steady. Ready to lay down the law and wrap a collar around this woman’s neck because sheneeds it.

“The shit you pulled on me the first time won’t work again, Vickie. I’m done with the games. I’m fucking done. That thick black collar will have my name hanging around the middle so you and everyone else you come across knows exactly who you belong to.”

She trembles with rage and I tell myself there’s some fear in there too. Good. Because I am dead fucking serious about thosethreats. This woman’s neck – and every other part of her – belong to me.

Thirteen

Vickie

He shoves me into a small guest room with burglar bars on the windows and thick, heavy padlocks on anything I could reasonably attempt to open. There are no lamps. No brooms. No potential weapons. Just a queen-sized bed with slightly dusty cream-colored cotton-blend bed sheets. He shoves me into the bedroom and locks the door, making me feel strangely relieved.

I'm alive. I'm still this psychopath's prisoner, but at least I'm still alive. Does he really think this is convincing me that I made the wrong choice? He's worse than I thought. More addicted to demented thrills than I could have ever imagined.

But I let him close the door and lock me in... Listen, I got myself into some serious shit before and I know it's not looking good for me now but... I know when it's time to fight, and when it's time to pull back and plan. On my "Art of War" Sun Tzu shit.

I walk around the room, feeling along the walls in case there's a secret passage or some truly gangster shit. It's just a basic cabin. Basic, but a real log cabin all the same. The decor looks straight out of a 90s movie set in the Midwest, ripped out of a specific time period, but not particularly lived in.

He's not going to let me go. I don't know if he's serious about that collar thing but... I saw the look in that man's eyes and I've only seen him looking that way once in the past. I'll never forget what Owen looked like the first night I saw him. When I only knew him as "SCRAP". He had this dangerous and unhinged look in his eye as he bet every last ounce of his networth on an underground poker game.

I sensed then that he was dangerous. I didn't know how he would come back to haunt me. And how the strange feelings between us would come back in this twisted, fucked up way...

Why else would he have gone straight there...

I sit on the edge of the bed, fighting my sudden spell of dizziness as I consider everything that just happened between me and Owen. He grabbed onto my hair and fucked my face until he came hard down my throat with this look of utter satisfaction on his face. I had sex with this man before.

I know he'll want more. I mean, did he leave that up for me to guess? He was clear about what he wanted. Why? My humiliation? He'll get bored with that soon enough. Somewhere along the way, I'll take my first chance... and escape.

His footsteps are heavy, but slow as he moves around the cabin. I can't tell what he's doing until he starts talking on the phone and even then, I just hear the muffled sound of conversation, not specific words. I climb into bed out of pure exhaustion, my tired mind convincing me that it will be easier to hear Owen if I'm nice and comfortable.

I sneeze a couple times sliding under the covers, even after shaking the dust off. When I slip my hand under the pillow, I nearly get a papercut from a 4x6 photograph. I silently remove the photo from its hiding spot beneath the pillow.

It's Owen holding a little girl. He's shirtless, with the blond baby positioned on his broad, hairy chest. Her eyes are open, gazing up at him with wonder. And love.

This must be his daughter. It's easy to see the resemblance between their smiles. And damn, Owen looks hot with his shirt off. Clearly caught off guard. Cheesing like a maniac at his baby girl.

She looks just like him except for the blond hair. I wonder for a second who took the picture and the thought makes me slide it into the nightstand drawer. His ex-wife? His current wife? None of the facts I know about Owen should lead me to trusting him.

I need to be careful.

Those heavy, slow footsteps get closer to my door. I'm too exhausted to move. It seems easier to pretend to be asleep. He unlocks the door and walks up to my bed. I can smell him and feel his warmth. Even with my eyes closed, I sense Owen's closeness.

"I wish you hadn't left," he said. "If you hadn't..."

He turns and then leaves the room. Strangely agitated and hurried. Unlike himself. I want to move. I want to follow after him... but my body won't move. My eyes flutter closed and I fall asleep, waking up with a start several hours later to the sound of a motorcycle engine.

My body has an instinctive response to the noise now.

I rush to the window to see if he's leaving me alone in this cabin with no breakfast... no shower... nothing but windows with burglar bars. Once I find the direction of the sound, I see the sound is actually Owen coming back from somewhere... How late is it?

I have no way of telling time. Isn't that considered a form of torture?

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