Page 25 of Biker's Prisoner: Property of Bucky

Tamiya has nearly scratched my eyes out a few too many times… I’m getting soft. Not my dick unfortunately, but another part of me that I promised nobody would ever touch again.

“A story?” Zayna says after giggling. “What, like the Fox & The Scorpion?”

“No,” I reply, because I don’t need her making fun of me for all of her school opinions. “Where’d you come from?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“New York?”

“No.”

“I can’t tell.”

“Massachusetts.”

“Is that in Boston?”

Heat coursesthrough me as she gets quiet. She does that thing everybody does when they think you’re stupid as fuck. You don’t drop out of high school without learning every goddamn sign, signal and turn of phrase that means somebody thinks you’re dumb as shit.

“Why did you leave Massachusetts?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “I got tired of it.”

Lie.I watched her ass lie before and she has the same goddamn tell. I pretend I don’t notice it through the shower glass. But I do. There’s not a single detail about Zayna I’m interested in allowing to slip through my fingers.

“Ain’t it pretty over there?” I ask her casually.

“Yes. It’s the most beautiful state in America.”

Okay,that’s bullshit.

“What’s so funny?”

“Have you ever been to Utah?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t need to see a bunch of sister wives. I’m good.”

“What did you do in Massachusetts?”

She shifts uncomfortably. Which is just fine. I squirt another handful of my fancy soap on my hands and move on from my hair to the rest of my body, carefully avoiding my dick until Zayna answers my question. I know she’s still looking.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s what people ask. Your job. Did you work at a titty bar or something?”

“That has racial undertones.”

Here we go again.Unfortunately, unlike in the rest of the world, accusing me of being a racist can’t actually stop me from questioning her.

“If you answered me, I wouldn’t have had any undertones.”

Again, my hand carefully avoids my dick. But I’m teasing her. Threatening to touch it. Which I have to, in order to get it clean. But it’s obviously a small act that can escalate into something else.

“I was a teacher,” she says. “Don’t gasp in surprise that a black woman can actually read.”

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