Page 10 of The Biker's Captive
I push myself off the bed and hobble across to the metal door.
Every step is an effort, and sweat pools on my forehead. My body is still weak and I probably shouldn't be out of bed, but fuck that. I shouldn't be in a cage either.
I’m trying to align the man who rescued me and gently tended to my wounds with the man who would lock me in a cage. One action so caring, the other so…weird.
My hands grasp the metal of the door and I pull, but it doesn’t give. I don't know what I was expecting. I saw him lock it.
I walk a circle of the cage checking out my surroundings. It's a square metal frame, reaching from the concrete floor to the ceiling above. There's a dark stain on the ground, and I shudder wondering about what has happened in here.
In one corner a low table has a plate of food, and I fall on it eagerly.
The bread of the sandwich is stale and the chicken filling slimy, but I’m too hungry to care. There’s a can of soda, and I drink it down in a couple of gulps.
My excursion has made me tired, and I drag myself back to the makeshift bed.
There's a metal trolley next to the bed with strips of my torn dress that Pans used for bandages. Next to the fabric strips is a pair of small scissors, and I slide them into the side of my underwear. Feeling better for having a weapon, even a small one, I collapse exhausted onto the bed.
The scissors dig into my side, and I adjust them so they’re flush against my hip and hidden in my underwear.
I'm wearing an oversized t-shirt that must be Pans’s. A thought comes unbidden into my mind of Pans’s hands on me as he peeled off my clothes.
I wonder what he thought of my body. I wonder if he liked what he saw. Heat flushes my cheeks, and confusion floods my brain. The man locked me up. I shouldn’t be thinking wicked thought about him.
Yet there’s something about the brooding, troubled biker that makes my skin heat and my insides go all gooey.
There's the sound of the basement door opening and voices on the stairs. I recognize Pans’s heavy tread alongside a lighter one.
A woman gasps.
"What the fuck?”
She rushes down the remaining steps, and I sit up on my elbows as she reaches the cage.
"What the fuck, Pans?"
The woman looks to be in her early thirties with her hair scraped back into a ponytail. She’s wearing a small denim skirt and a tight black t-shirt, unafraid to show off her substantial body. Under one arm she carries a canvas bag, and I’m pleased there’s a fresh loaf of bread poking out the top of it. I like her immediately.
The fact that she’s indignant on my behalf also helps.
The woman pulls at the door, and when it doesn't budge, she looks at Pans in disbelief.
"Why’s she locked up?”
Pans shrugs, and at least has the decency to look ashamed. “It's for her own protection," he mumbles.
But the woman isn't buying it. Pans opens the latch, and she pushes past him to get in.
She dumps her bag next to me and takes my hand in her plump one.
“I’m sorry he's got you locked up in here, sweetheart. I’m Gina.”
The concerned look on her face and the way she’s apologizing on Pans’s behalf gives me reassurance that at least someone else thinks this whole situation is fucked up.
"It's for her protection." But it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.
Gina gives him a stare that makes the hard-ass Pans look away chastised. She purses her lips together and turns her attention back to me.
"I'm going to change your dressings; I’ve got proper bandages and I brought fresh food and magazines.”
