Page 22 of Biker's Babygirl

I’m so lost in my thoughts that he has to say it twice before I hear him, and I can tell from first glance that he’s not happy about it.

“Take a seat.”

Sure enough, there is a straight-backed dining-room chair in the center of the living room. I swallow, hard. I don’t know exactly what is about to go down, but it doesn’t look good for me. I force my feet to move—what other choice do I have?—and when my butt hits the seat, it’s almost like it’s a totally different chair than the one I’d sat in earlier that evening.

I turn my eyes to Duke, and even though I know I’m in deep trouble, my traitorous pussy still clenches, despite the circumstances.

But it is Shep who asks the questions. “Full name, please.”

Crap. They had tostartwith that one?“J-Jessica Marie Fu-Fuller,” I answer, trying to make it sound like I hadn’t pulled it all out of the dry, thin air.

Shep tilts his head to the side, his eyes narrowing as he does. “You’re not sure?”

“No.” I lick my dry lips. “It’s not that. I’m just… nervous.”

“You don’t have anything to be nervous about if you’re telling the truth,” he responds, but somehow, I don’t feel comforted. “Can you prove it?”

His question makes me do a double take. “Wh-what?”

“Can you prove you are who you say you are?” His voice is soft, his words smooth, but they make me tense more with each one spoken.

“I…um…” I can’t help but fidget.

“Show me your ID,” he presses. “If you’re not hiding anything, what could be simpler?”

My gaze glides over to Duke, but his arms are crossed, and his face is hard. My belly gives an ominous flip, and I know I won’t find any help there. “Look, I know I’ve pissed you off?—”

“I’m not pissed off,” Shep objects. “Duke?”

“Nope,” Duke replies, but his voice is so gruff I’m not sure I believe him.

“What I want is for you to tell the truth. Maybe your nameisJessica.” Shep’s tone makes it clear he doesn’t think it is. “But you are hiding something, and if you want our help, we need to know what it is.”

I can feel my ID burning a hole in my back pocket. If I give it to them, it will stop this interrogation, but then what? Resigned, I drop my head and draw in a deep, ragged breath. “My name isn’t Jessica,” I whisper to the clean, but frayed carpet. “It’s Ginny Abbot. I… I’m sorry I lied. And yes, I have proof.” I can feel their eyes on me when I stand up, reach into my back pocket and produce my license. I don’t look up, simply hold it out and feel when it is plucked from my fingers.

The silence in the room is stifling.

“I’m sorry,” I say again to the cream-colored carpet. “Just give me my license and I’ll be on my way.”

I feel the license being relinquished back to my hand, and I’m slipping it back into my pocket when I hear Duke speak up at last.

“Not so fast. I believe we have some business to settle first.”

Duke

Everything is happening so fast and there’s too much to process. I wish I could say I’m surprised by this turn of events, but in my gut, I knew something was off, even if I wasn’t willing to admit it to Shep. There’s so many questions swirling around in my brain, and I’m not even sure I’ll get the chance to askthem, or if the answers even matter. All I know for sure is that Jessica—Ginny—whoever she is, isn’t going to leave until I’ve taught her a very important lesson. Not for any other reason than I’m a man of my word, and she needs to learn that there are consequences for her actions. Tonight, the consequences will be for her bottom, but they could have been much, much worse.

“You think you could give us the room, Shep?”

My brother doesn’t even hesitate, leaving without a word, and I’m grateful for that. The woman in front of me—really, more of a girl than anything at a mere twenty years old—is clearly scared. Is it the promised punishment, or something else? Shep pointed out that she’s hiding something. Was it only her name, or is there more? Regardless, it’s late, and I know I won’t be finding out much tonight.

I watch as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, her nostrils flaring slightly in her peaked face. It’s a visual reminder that she’s lost some blood, and needs time to rest, and my protective instincts surge again.

“Have you ever been spanked before, Ginny?”

“Sp-spanked?” she croaks, and her question is an answer to my own.

I nod to myself. It had been my plan, and indeed, my palm is itching to mete out justice to what I’m sure is a very cute behind, but I hesitate. Not because I’m waffling on whether she deserves it, or even lacking the nerve to administer it. My eyes are raking her body, and I’m trying to carefully consider what’s best for her.

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