Page 13 of Biker's Prisoner: Property of Bucky

“Woman stuff. The bottles.”

“I don’t have a baby. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ruger turnsto me and I expect him to look like the crazy ass maniac from before, but he just looks genuinely confused.

“You don’t know how to do that?”

Ruger looks me up and down. I hate how his eyes feel on me, but if he’s looking for evidence that I’m lying, he won’t find it. What the hell is wrong with this man? Does he think every woman comes programmed with this knowledge? Judging by the look on his face… he does.

“No. I don’t have a baby.”

His confusion heightens.

“You’re too old to be a virgin.”

What the hell is wrong with this man? Who in their right mind would say that to a woman?

As soon as I have the thought, I know the answer is in the question. I hate that he says the word.

“Just tell me what to do.”

He chuckles. “You’re not gonna run for the hills.”

“We’re in the middle of Oklahoma. I don’t know where the hell I would go. But I’m guessing you won’t want me leeching off you forever.”

“Hm,” Ruger says. “Go take a piss and wash your hands. I’ll show you how to make the bottles tonight. I don’t want to get up and do them tomorrow.”

I go to the bathroom and when I return, Ruger just stands there, staring off like he’s thinking about murder again. I shiver and try to pull him back into the moment. I can think straight now that my bladder isn’t messing with my head.

“Does she have a name?”

Ruger looks at me and shakes his head. For a moment, I detect an emotion.Fear.I don’t know why seeing him scaredboth amuses me and scares me. But I think for a second that maybe this man hassomehumanity in him.

“It doesn’t feel right to name her, considering I killed her mother.”

My head swims. I feel the strong urge to keep his emotions right where they are right now. Level. This man gutted the mother of his child…

“But… she’s yours.”

He glares at me, like I grabbed and squeezed his balls or something.

“That baby isn’t mine. My wife fucked somebody else,” he says. His voice gets so damn quiet and then says. “I don’t ever want her to know.”

“She’ll need a name,” I tell him.

“What’s yours?” he asks. He never asked and I honestly assumed he didn’t give a shit. I saw no need to volunteer the information. We didn’t talk for the entire three hour car ride. He just stared at the road and I fell asleep.

“Zayna.”

“That’s an ethnic name,” he says without missing a beat. I try not to let the comment offend me. I bet that’s the least offensive thing that could come out of this man’s mouth.

“Yes.”

“My baby is white. I need to give her a white name.”

“Becky sounds cute,” I respond dryly. I don’t expect Ruger to pick up on the sarcasm. But he chuckles.

“White but pretty,” he says. “In my family, all the boys are named from the Bible.”

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