Page 48 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

"Right. I'll have imprisonment to look forward to."

"I have a PS5."

"What an appealing prospect for a woman."

"I also get ESPN. You can work on becoming a Chiefs fan."

"I'm a Patriots–”

Ethan glares at me, and I don't bother finishing my sentence. I'm not really a ‘Patriots fan’ so much as it's the only football game I've ever been to, and it was with a Hinge date who ended up having a lizard who he let shit in his bed…

"If you want, you can look after the farm animals and learn how to cook."

"You think I can't cook?"

"Most women can't anymore."

I bite my lower lip to stop a spicy and racially charged comment from coming out. I don't know what type of women Ethan hangs around, but I don't know a single black woman who suffers from a kitchen related disability.

"I don't have to take this from a man who probably can't tell the difference between thyme and dill."

"Get on the bike, brat," Ethan grunts. "You can prove you're a good cook when we get there. I'm sure we'll both get tired of Cracker Barrel and McDonald's."

I don't know what the hell Cracker Barrel is, but the name has a strange old-timey racist vibe to it. I keep that opinion to myself, because Ethan climbs on the bike, expecting me to follow.

I steel myself for another rough ride across the country and dealing with Ethan's crabby ass attitude the entire way.

The worst part about giving in to his cross country kidnapping so easily is that... I feel a weird connection to him. I'll have to cut that shit off as soon as I can return to Boston, but I feel it and I don't entirely hate it.

He's more fun than any Hinge date and his tongue game is... sigh.

It's just not realistic. I'm a doctor. A therapist. I have a life in Boston. And I don't know anything about Ethan except that he needs fixing... and that he's so good in bed he scrambles my damn brain. This man could rip me to pieces. I just have to remember that.

If the good guys with college degrees can hurt me, the gun-wielding maniac who completely disregarded my humanity as I screamed for him to set me free can do the same thing.

I don't trust my feelings and whatever I would say to my clients doesn't work on my own damn heart.

Ethan's attitude softens when we stop for the gas for the first time in Pennsylvania. I don't catch the town name. He sends me inside for snacks and warns me to report anyone who behaves inappropriately directly to him. I nod, hiding my discomfort.

I've never been protected before. Never. I learned to protect myself, but it feels strange to now have Ethan looking after me in this bizarre situation.

It's a small gas station, so he has eyes on me the entire time I stock up on snacks. He appreciates the Zyns I bring his way too, popping a 6mg one in his lip the second he gets the new container.

That definitely calms him down. He watches me eat a few snacks, only indulging in a pint of milk for himself. When I finish up my peanuts and banana, Ethan kisses the top of my forehead. The kiss sends a strange flicker of emotion through me that I do my best to suppress. He’s a criminal, not a boyfriend.

"Much better job not clawing the life out of me," he murmurs and my heart does this little backflip for my crumb of validation as a biker chick.

Shit, if I make it to Missouri, it's not stolen valor. I'm officially identifying as a biker chick. I don't know about wearing this leather jacket around clients but... maybe I do look a little bit fly.

We head back out onto the road and I relax my stance a bit, getting comfortable with Ethan's swaying and turns as we ride along the highway. Looking at the speed limit just gets me anxious about his speed, so I rest my head against his back and cling to him for dear life.

The hours pass slowly. My mind has time to travel to so many places. There's one place I keep returning to. That bed in Brooklyn. Ethan spread my pussy lips with so much fierce desire, I thought he would lose control and spear me with his dick.

We stop outside of Columbus at a Super 8 motel in Choctaw Lake, Ohio for the night. Ethan promised a manageable amount of riding, and he was right. He pays in cash for the motel room and uses a fake name. Ruger Blackwood.

I don't know where he came up with a crazy ass name like that, but I let it slide without asking questions, especially when Ethan says something agreeable for once.

"I need steak for dinner. There's gotta be a place nearby..."

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