Biker's Virgin

“She was taken two days ago,” I replied.

I saw the sheriff’s jaw clench, and he nodded. “We’ll help you,” he nodded. “But now that we’re involved, we’re doing this my way. You need to stay calm… that means not doing anything stupid.”

I had expected as much, but I wasn’t willing to give in to too many concessions either, nor was I willing to lie. “That depends,” I said. “On whether we find Mila or not.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Mila

I heard the door creak open, but I no longer held my breath anymore. It felt like I had been in this room for eternity, and some of my fear had abated slightly. It took too much energy to be scared all the time.

The old man walked in with the usual tray of food. There was three pieces of stale bread, a few pieces of meat, and a glass of water. He set it in the same place he always did and then he turned to me.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?”

We had a routine set up now. He would enter the room three times a day for meals. After he set the food down, he would ask me if I needed to use the bathroom, and I would nod. Then he would call in two meaty guys, both of whom were carrying guns, and one would escort me into the bathroom, while one would stand outside the door.

The large bald man, who escorted me into the bathroom, would remove my cuffs and leave so that I could use the toilet. The door was never fully shut however, and every once in a while, one of them would peek inside to make sure I wasn’t up to anything. It was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life, but after that first day, I had grown detached from the whole experience. I no longer cared that the door was open. I no longer cared that they watched me. It didn’t matter.

The bathroom was well and truly sealed. There were no windows and no source of natural light, much like the room I was in. It was perpetually dark, and there was only a vent in the roof that sucked up all the circulating air. I suspected that the room I was in was underground, which was why there were no windows anywhere. I was probably being held in the basement of a house in the middle of nowhere.

When I was finished, and the moment I flushed, the big beefy bald guy would re-enter and take me back to the bed where he would attach me to the headboard once again, leaving my right hand free so that I could eat, and then they would both leave. Only the old man would remain long enough to give me a small nod before he too disappeared.

I had refused to eat anything the first day, but hunger had got the best of me, and I realized that refusing to eat was just making me weak. I needed to keep my strength up. After that, I would even ask for more food sometimes. The old man seemed a little reluctant at first, but he always brought back more food, which told me he was making the decision on his own. I almost liked him now; he was the only face I saw with some small level of sympathy.

“Girl?”

“What?”

“Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“Oh… not now,” I said. “Maybe after I eat.”

He nodded. “I’ll tell them,” he said, as he came forward to free my right hand.

“Uh… I’ll eat with my left hand today,” I said.

The old man frowned at me.

“This is not a trick,” I said. “My wrists have been rubbed raw by those cursed cuffs, and I want to give my left hand a chance to breathe.”

He stared at me for a second and then nodded with sympathy before releasing my left hand. I felt the sting of cuts that had formed around my wrist, but I tried to detach myself from the pain.

“My name is Mila by the way,” I told him.

He turned around and nodded.

“What’s your name?” I asked, realizing that he wasn’t going to return the favor and tell me his name.

He paused for a moment, wondering if he should be sharing that information with me. “Steven,” he replied, at last. And I realized he was only telling me his name because he was sure I wouldn’t make it out of this alive. The thought made me sad rather than scared, and I wondered if there was such a thing as preparing yourself to be murdered.

“Steven,” I replied. “Why are you doing all this?”

“It’s my job,” he said shortly.

“Your job?” I repeated. “He pays you to keep women hostage so that he can torture and kill them later?”

Steven looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I do what I’m told,” he said. “I’m paid to look after the house and whatever else I’m asked to do.”