Biker’s Collar: Property of Scrap (Rebel Barbarians MC #6)

Chapter 13 – Vickie

Thirteen

Vickie

H e shoves me into a small guest room with burglar bars on the windows and thick, heavy padlocks on anything I could reasonably attempt to open. There are no lamps. No brooms. No potential weapons. Just a queen-sized bed with slightly dusty cream-colored cotton-blend bed sheets. He shoves me into the bedroom and locks the door, making me feel strangely relieved.

I'm alive. I'm still this psychopath's prisoner, but at least I'm still alive. Does he really think this is convincing me that I made the wrong choice? He's worse than I thought. More addicted to demented thrills than I could have ever imagined.

But I let him close the door and lock me in... Listen, I got myself into some serious shit before and I know it's not looking good for me now but... I know when it's time to fight, and when it's time to pull back and plan. On my "Art of War" Sun Tzu shit.

I walk around the room, feeling along the walls in case there's a secret passage or some truly gangster shit. It's just a basic cabin. Basic, but a real log cabin all the same. The decor looks straight out of a 90s movie set in the Midwest, ripped out of a specific time period, but not particularly lived in.

He's not going to let me go. I don't know if he's serious about that collar thing but... I saw the look in that man's eyes and I've only seen him looking that way once in the past. I'll never forget what Owen looked like the first night I saw him. When I only knew him as "SCRAP". He had this dangerous and unhinged look in his eye as he bet every last ounce of his networth on an underground poker game.

I sensed then that he was dangerous. I didn't know how he would come back to haunt me. And how the strange feelings between us would come back in this twisted, fucked up way...

Why else would he have gone straight there...

I sit on the edge of the bed, fighting my sudden spell of dizziness as I consider everything that just happened between me and Owen. He grabbed onto my hair and fucked my face until he came hard down my throat with this look of utter satisfaction on his face. I had sex with this man before.

I know he'll want more. I mean, did he leave that up for me to guess? He was clear about what he wanted. Why? My humiliation? He'll get bored with that soon enough. Somewhere along the way, I'll take my first chance... and escape.

His footsteps are heavy, but slow as he moves around the cabin. I can't tell what he's doing until he starts talking on the phone and even then, I just hear the muffled sound of conversation, not specific words. I climb into bed out of pure exhaustion, my tired mind convincing me that it will be easier to hear Owen if I'm nice and comfortable.

I sneeze a couple times sliding under the covers, even after shaking the dust off. When I slip my hand under the pillow, I nearly get a papercut from a 4x6 photograph. I silently remove the photo from its hiding spot beneath the pillow.

It's Owen holding a little girl. He's shirtless, with the blond baby positioned on his broad, hairy chest. Her eyes are open, gazing up at him with wonder. And love.

This must be his daughter. It's easy to see the resemblance between their smiles. And damn, Owen looks hot with his shirt off. Clearly caught off guard. Cheesing like a maniac at his baby girl.

She looks just like him except for the blond hair. I wonder for a second who took the picture and the thought makes me slide it into the nightstand drawer. His ex-wife? His current wife? None of the facts I know about Owen should lead me to trusting him.

I need to be careful.

Those heavy, slow footsteps get closer to my door. I'm too exhausted to move. It seems easier to pretend to be asleep. He unlocks the door and walks up to my bed. I can smell him and feel his warmth. Even with my eyes closed, I sense Owen's closeness.

"I wish you hadn't left," he said. "If you hadn't..."

He turns and then leaves the room. Strangely agitated and hurried. Unlike himself. I want to move. I want to follow after him... but my body won't move. My eyes flutter closed and I fall asleep, waking up with a start several hours later to the sound of a motorcycle engine.

My body has an instinctive response to the noise now.

I rush to the window to see if he's leaving me alone in this cabin with no breakfast... no shower... nothing but windows with burglar bars. Once I find the direction of the sound, I see the sound is actually Owen coming back from somewhere... How late is it?

I have no way of telling time. Isn't that considered a form of torture?

He wants to torture me. I have to remember that.

Even if I wish he didn't want to torture me. Because... watching him dismount that motorcycle floods my mind with the dumbest thoughts. He's hot. Really hot. Age only helped this man. He got bigger. Broader shoulders. His beard looks way less patchy.

But what about that gambling problem, huh? That must not be going well or he wouldn't have been hovering over me in this very bedroom whispering weird shit to himself...

He looks up at the window, but he doesn't see me -- or at least he doesn't act like it -- he just looks self-assured as he walks up to the front door. I go from just seeing him to just hearing him. I move away from the window towards the bedroom door that connects me to the rest of the house.

Owen's footsteps get louder as he approaches my door. What happened to the baby in the picture? What about the person behind the camera? I'm not complaining about not seeing him, but what about his brother? I have a lot of questions that I shouldn't want answers to. I'll let go of my curiosity if I have a chance to run away.

I stand still a couple feet away from the door once I hear Owen opening it. I don't want him to find me seated. I'm not a particularly short or small woman, so I want to let him know that... he might be bigger than me and easily capable of subduing me but... I'm strong enough to give him a taste of his medicine if he tries to hurt me.

He pushes the door open carrying a brown paper bag. My eyes dart to the paper bag, ignoring all other details of Owen's unwelcome entry into my room. Hopefully it's a breakfast sandwich. I give him a pleading look and he slams the paper bag on the nightstand. Based on the sound it makes... that isn't a sandwich.

"Good afternoon," he says. "You slept all morning."

"What time is it?"

I try to sound confident, but I don't think I'm pulling it off.

"Twelve-thirty," he says.

"Lunch time..."

I'm not trying to be subtle about my hint. He gestures towards the bag.

"You can get lunch once you get this on."

"What is that?"

"It's a collar," he says, staring at me with unflinching eyes, daring me to question him. I'm sure the look I give him is just as bad as the look he's giving me. Because I feel my heart drop into my stomach. He's not serious.

"I'm not wearing an animal collar."

"So your pride is worth starving to death?" Again, his voice is calm and buttery smooth. No tension. He's the dangerous gambler I met in Vegas five years ago again. He loves this.

"You won't let me starve to death," I say to him calmly. "And you won't make me wear that collar."

There's even less space between us now. He occupies most of the space in most of the rooms in this cabin. Compared to Owen's immense size, this place is basically a dollhouse. I'm above average height and he still towers over me.

"You're going to wear the collar," he says. "Or I'll have to bruise your neck every night to make sure men know you belong to me everywhere we go."'

My stomach does another annoying and confusing flip. I shouldn't let him render me speechless. I should fight him.

"Then bruise my neck," I say to him, looking Owen dead in the eye, calling his bluff.

He won't make me wear that collar and he won't bruise my neck either. I glare at him, daring him to test me. Daring him to prove that he's actually that fucked up and cold-hearted. I was there five years ago. I know deep down... he has a soft heart. He won't hurt me.

My reflexes aren't fast enough for Owen's reaction. He sticks his hand out and when I think I have control over his forearm and push him away, I feel his fingers around my throat and he squeezes. Tight enough to hold me still. Tight enough that I don't want to test him.

Tight enough that my sharp inhalation feels... dangerous. I'm waiting to exhale, waiting for a sign it's safe, waiting for this crazy motherfucker to let me go.

"I know you think I'm bluffing," he whispers. "But I'm not."

Holding me in place with one hand, he unwraps the paperbag with the other and reveals a thick leather collar with a small metal heart in the middle. The center of the heart has his name in it with rhinestones. What the fuck? He grips my throat with a little more force as he moves the collar close to me.

"Don't fight this," he whispers. "Because we can do this the easy way or the hard way... and I don't think you're ready to see me hard again."