Page 21 of Biker's Prisoner: Property of Bucky

Scouring the shower for any product, I see a lonely ass 5-in-1 shampoo, conditioner, body wash, dishwashing liquid, and carpet cleaner.Carpet cleaner?! The lump in my throat turns into a ball of thick, sticky dough. I have to use this in myhair.I feel like Nair would have been a better product.

But I bite my tongue and use the damn product in my hair. By the end of my shower, I’m much cleaner, and I smell like a sexy male werewolf stuck in a pine forest. This is how I imagine Jacob Black from Twilight smelling… But I have towels and Ruger says that he has clothes out there for me. I’ll take his word for it. When I turn the shower off, Ruger moves noisily on the other side of the door.

My heart drops as I get this strange sense that he’s going to shove the door open to the bathroom. But he doesn’t. He knocks.

“I got you some clothes. They look fucking stupid but… I think they’re gonna fit.”

I throw my hair up in one towel and then wrap the other tightly around my body. I can practically hear him panting against the door. And I know it’s not Zeus. Ruger has a very distinct sounding breath, as strange as that seems. It’s just noticeable how oddly slow his breathing is. When I open the door, seeing Ruger up close reminds me that he’s just a weird, fucked up and murderous racist who openly admitted to me that he used the n-word.

I wish I could put a wall between us instead of a towel.

He makesno efforts to hide that he’s looking me up and down. He smiles at my angry expression, which he seems to enjoy.

“Why didyou put the hair up?”

“Because it needs to get dry.”And I don’t need his racist ass comparing me to any animals, foods, or any other racially charged items.

Boldly, Ruger reaches for my head towel and unwraps it. I freeze. I don’t stop him, because I’m clutching the towel covering my ass and boobs for dear fucking life. But no, he doesn’t go for that towel. He wants to see my hair.

If my hair had any chance ofnotlooking a mess later, Ruger just ruined it. His 5-in-1 danger-product was bad enough to lather in, but now all this messy humidity will mess up my curls. Ruger scowls with disappointment. Or maybe confusion.

He explains himself quickly.

“It’s longer.”

“It’s wet.”

Ruger smiles.I don’t like that smile. I keep one hand on my body towel and try to snatch the head towel from him, but he throws it into the bathtub so it gets wet and I won’t even want it anymore. If I ever forget for a single second that he’s a maniac, Ruger reminds me. What type of people name their child after a fucking firearm brand?Crazy ones. And the crazy ass apple doesn’t fall far from the crazy ass tree.

“It’s pretty,” he says.

“My hair doesn’t need your approval.”

He sighs. “You get offended byeverything.”

“Who said I was offended?”

“My hair doesn’t need your approval,” he repeats in a mocking, high-pitched voice. I want to smack him across the face, but I’m in a high risk situation. It’s hot in here, and I already know Ruger wants to get naked.

“It doesn’t.”

“I just said that your hair was pretty. I don’t like fake hair.”

“Black women don’t have to wear hair that you like.”

“You’re right,” he says, instead of arguing with me like he normally does. Maybe the beast is teachable after all. “I just said your natural hair was pretty. Does that somehow make me a racist?’

“No. Saying the n-word as an insult makes you a racist. Holding creepy opinions makes you a racist. Being a bigot makes you a racist.”

“What’s a bigot?”

“Give me the clothes.”

Ruger reveals the contents of the bundle he has wrapped beneath his other arm. He has to be out of his mind.

“Please tell me this is a joke.”

The grey sweatpants are fine. I can roll the waistband and pull the strings tight. But that t-shirt?

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