Page 29 of Biker's Prisoner: Property of Bucky

What the fuckam I thinking? I have no money. I have no back-up job. If I called my mom to ask for help, she would tell me to go back to that school and hold my head high. She doesn't understand these kids.

They meant those threats. I'm not being hysterical. I saw the look in Reid Moreland's eyes as he groped my ass in the hallway. That shit eating grin that says "I can do what I want and I know it". His family donated the entire goddamn football field to that school. He's untouchable.

I have to do this.

Dear Mr. Sutter,

I regret to inform you...

I don't wantto give a two weeks notice. I want to leave this job and never look back. I don't even want to clear out my desk. I'll have to sacrifice my beat up copies ofEat, Pray, LoveandThe Body Keeps Scoreto the great lost and found bin.

I backspace a little bit.

Dear Mr. Sutter,

Fuckthis job and fuck you too.

Okay.Maybe that's too far.

Dear Mr. Sutter,

Considerthis my official resignation letter. I will not be returning to the school to collect my things.

– ZaynaFontaine

I genuinely don't knowwhat else to say. There doesn't feel like anything else to say and it's not like I care what he thinks or what he says in return. I feel giddy as my hand hovers over the send button. I shouldn't over think it.

My front doorbell rings.It's a somewhat-smart doorbell -- so a smart doorbell for women on a budget who get the cheaper option.

Bong, clink, dong-ping!

Okay. This is a sign, then. I have to answer this doorbell, which means I don't have another second left to reconsider. I lowkey hope it's Tazara surprising me with pho. I don't know why she would be doing that, but it's not like that many people come to my apartment.

I smash down on the send button and hop up from the couch, shaking my ass instinctively in the carefree way you can only achieve when you just quit your damn job with no backup plan and there's nothing left to do but shake. That. Ass.

The front doorbell makes its annoying sing-song noise again. Okay, damn... Can't a woman do her happy dance? I keep happydancing to the front door and just swing it open without a second thought.

When I see who is standing there, I scream. A loud, shocked shriek that comes straight from my gut. I slam the door against his hand, but he just grunts and shoves back against me, throwing the door open and knocking me to the ground.

Three teenage boyswalk into my apartment. Brooks. Grant. And Reid.

And I don't have a fuckingclue how they got here, or how they know where I live.

I'm justlucky when they shoved me back that I didn’t hit my head. Pain shoots through my elbows as I land, but I'm conscious, which means I can run. I don't see any other way out of the situation and I don't even think running will necessarily allow me to escape. Brooks, Grant and Reid are all football players.

They chase and tackle men twice my size regularly. I don't think of that. Mostly because I don't have time to think. I scramble backwards as Reid lunges for my foot. I scream loudly and grab a random object, hurling it at his head.

My winter boot wasn’t designed to be a weapon, even with the heavy rubber soles. Plus, he’s an athlete, so he catches it easily. But I distract him enough to get to my feet and I haul ass to my bedroom, which is at the end of my one bedroom apartment's short hallway. I can hear them pounding down the hallway behind me, silent except for heavy breathing and heavier footsteps.

What the fuck is happening? What the fuck is happening?

"Miss Fontaine, don't run," Grant mocks me as I ram my body into my bedroom door, fumbling with the jerky awkwardness caused by the surge of adrenaline. Every second counts and I give them time to close the distance between us with just a second delay on opening my door.

I roll my body on the other side of the door and this time, I don't fuck around when I slam it against the hand sticking its way into the frame. Grant (Or Reid) yells out like a hurt dog and the other two laugh at him as he whines.

I slam the door and it shuts. Temporarily relief floods through me as I slide the deadbolt shut. I can hear my heartbeat and feel the fucking thing moving up and down the length of my throat, closing it and opening it up with each brutal pump of adrenaline and blood.

My phone is in the living room -- along with my laptop. I have no way to communicate with the outside world. I can still hear the three boys on the other side of the door, but they aren't moving. I can hear breathy whispers, but not the contents of their speech.

---