Page 6 of The Biker's Captive
I have kept the beast in check, but for how long?
3
WILLOW
My eyes flicker open, and a fluorescent light swims into my vision. I stare at it for a moment, thoroughly confused about where I am and why.
Then images of the day before swim into my brain. Slowly at first: cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway with George Ezra blaring through the speakers. The sky an impossible orange sunset. Feeling tired but pushing on, needing to get to Mom.
I remember the sound of motorbikes, then the black van that sped past me.
The images come faster now. Crawling on the road, powder in the air, one hundred dollar bills billowing across the tarmac. The smell of burnt metal and the taste of blood. The man who pulled a gun on me and the man who saved me.
I sit up with a start, gasping for breath as the weight of what happened settles on my chest.
A warm hand clasps mine and it’s my rescuer, disheveled and unshaven, dark circles under his eyes.
His hand squeezes mine, and it’s the reassurance of his touch that calms my racing heart.
We stare at each other, and his gaze is no less intense under the fluorescent lights than it was amid the carnage of the accident.
"You’re safe," he says in a gravelly voice that scrapes over my rough nerves, both calming me and making my spine tingle all at once.
The hand he clasps me with is pocked with red angry scars, the skin puckered and dead, and I wonder what pain he’s been through to cause those burns. Up close, I notice the silver flecks peppered through his dark hair and the deep lines etched into his face.
He looks like a man who’s seen some shit.
“You’re safe with me,” he says again as if reading my mind.
Memories swim into my brain of being lifted onto his bike, carried into this place. Swimming in and out of consciousness as this man bathed my sweaty forehead and tended my injuries, his touch impossibly gentle for someone who looks so hard.
"What's your name?" he asks.
I take a few deep breaths, collecting my thoughts. There’s something hard about this man, but a gentleness too. I immediately feel I can trust him, and besides, what other options do I have?
"Willow."
"Willow." His deep voice adds a gravelly rumble that belies the wistfulness of my name. I like the way he says it, and it sends a shudder all the way through my body which makes me wince with pain.
"Are you hurting?" His brow furrows with concern.
Hurting doesn’t even begin to cover it. I'm confused and in pain and my mouth is dry.
"Yes,” I croak. “My leg hurts like a motherfucker."
He smiles at my cuss word, and I’m annoyed at how pleased it makes me to get a reaction out of him.
“I’m Pans.”
“Pans. What kind of a name is that?” It slips out before I can stop myself. “Sorry, it’s just unusual. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s my road name,” he says without explanation. My gaze goes to the leather jacket he’s wearing and the MC club insignia there. I have so many questions, but my brain feels hazy.
"You've been in a car accident." That gentle rumble is doing weird things to my body, and I will him to keep talking.
"Where do you live?"
My brain feels muddled from whatever painkillers he must’ve given me, but even I know you don't give a strange man your address. Even if I did have one.
