Chapter 6
They'd only stopped once, two hours after riding, and that was when they arrived at the Royalla clubhouse.
The man who'd bought her ordered her to use the bathroom.
Lydia hadn't tried to run. She'd taken one look at the six-foot fence circling the entire compound and knew there wasn't a chance in hell she'd make it two steps before someone grabbed her.
After she was finished, he forced her onto the back of his motorcycle and tied her hands together, making sure she couldn't get away from him again.
When he finally rode out of the compound and onto the open road, she didn't know whether to feel relief to be away from all the members of his MC or terrified to be alone with him. She didn't know where he was taking her, only that she didn't have a choice but to go.
As much as she hated Sonny, and besides the slaps and rough way he dealt with her, he hadn't sexually forced himself on her, and he protected her from the other men in Cusclan.
She knew nothing about the man who'd bought her, except that the patch on his vest said his road name was Baddy. That wasn't a good feeling. He'd earned that name for a reason.
The ride wasn't long. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Her legs were already sore from two long rides in one day.
He turned into a driveway. A driveway to a house.
She blinked at it, trying to memorize all the details. It was an actual house with a porch, a yard, and windows that weren't covered in cardboard or duct tape. It wasn't fancy, but the yard was mowed. There wasn't even a garbage can or a pile of scrap metal in sight.
None of her mom's biker boyfriends had ever lived in anything like this. They preferred dingy apartments with peeling paint and neighbors who screamed at each other through the walls.
Baddy parked and cut the tie straps from her wrists with a pocketknife, the plastic snapping free.
"You can grab a shower." He swung his leg off the motorcycle the moment she slid off the seat. "I'm sure you want to knock the road dust off. I'll fix us something to eat."
She stared at him. Shower? Dinner? Like this was normal?
No one bought another person. Not in her life.
Her first instinct was to tell him to go straight to hell. But she needed time alone. Time to think. Time to breathe. She needed to plan how to get out of the situation she found herself in.
She looked behind her. There were no neighbors in sight. She'd have to run down the street to the corner where there were other houses.
He grabbed her wrist and led her to the front door. Unlocking the house, he pulled her inside and pointed down the hall. "Bathroom's the second door on the left."
She didn't wait for him to say anything else. She hurried inside, nearly tripping over her own feet, and slammed the bathroom door shut. The lock clicked under her shaking fingers.
She pressed her back to the door. Her breath burned her chest as if she'd run a mile.
There was no way she was getting undressed. Not here. Not in some stranger's house. And she didn't even have clothes to change into.
Her throat spasmed. God, what was he going to do to her?
Never had she been so completely alone.
Her things were still at Sonny's. Her clothes. Her photo album. Her money—every dollar she'd scraped together over two years, hidden between the mattress and box spring.
The thought of losing it all cracked something inside her. Tears spilled before she could stop them, hot and silent, dripping down her face. This wasn't how she wanted to escape Cusclan.
She covered her mouth with the sleeve of her leather jacket, trying to muffle the sound of her breathing.
A knock startled her so hard she jumped.
"Hey, I've got some clothes for you," Baddy said through the door. "You can wash yours while you eat."
She didn't answer. Didn't move.
A moment later, she heard his boots against the floor as he moved away from the bathroom. She cracked the door open an inch.
A pile of folded gray sweats sat on the floor. No sign of him.
She snatched them up and shut the door again, locking it fast. Then, she took off the jacket, tied a sleeve around the door handle, and the other sleeve around the towel rack.
If he got past the lock, the coat would stop him for a few seconds.
She opened the medicine cabinet. There wasn't much in there but Tylenol, a hairbrush, and.
..she inhaled swiftly, grabbing a pair of scissors.
Yes. If he got past the jacket, she'd stab him with the scissors.
The shower quickly steamed up the room. She hesitated only for a second before taking off her clothes and stepping into the water. It was almost too hot, but it washed away the grime, sweat, and fear that clung to her skin.
She scrubbed fast, heart racing the whole time, then dried off and pulled on the clothes he'd left.
They swallowed her whole.
The sweatpants hung off her hips. Luckily, there was a string, and she cinched it as tight as she could. The sweatshirt sleeves covered her hands. She looked ridiculous. But they were clean. And warm. And hers for now.
She gathered her dirty clothes into a pile and stared at her reflection in the fogged mirror.
She needed her brush, her deodorant, and her toothpaste.
Everything she had was back at Sonny's apartment.
Somehow, she needed to go back there. The money she'd saved would buy her some time to figure out what to do next. She could get a cheap motel, a new job, and start over. It wouldn't be easy, but she'd be safe.
She could no longer stay with Sonny. It was bad enough that she had to put up with his abuse and attitude. But, he'd sold her as if she belonged to him. She didn't belong to anyone, especially the guy in the other room.
Tucking the scissors into her sleeve, she rolled the material until she was sure her weapon wouldn't fall out and be found. She stepped into the hallway slowly, dragging her covered feet across the floor. The house was quiet except for the soft clatter of something being stirred, and the smell—
God.
Her stomach growled loud enough to betray her.
The warm, rich aroma suggested something creamy.
It wrapped around her like a blanket she didn't ask for but desperately needed.
She hadn't eaten since early morning, and even then, it was only a stale granola bar she had shoved in her mouth while getting ready for work before Sonny dragged her out the door.
Baddy stood at the stove, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. When he glanced over his shoulder and saw her, his eyes flicked down her body.
The sweats were huge on her. The pants pooled around her bare feet, and the sweatshirt hung off one shoulder like she was a kid playing dress-up in her dad's clothes.
He didn't laugh. Didn't smirk. He pointed the wooden spoon toward the open door off the kitchen.
"Drop your dirty clothes in the washer. It's empty," he said. "I'll start the wash once we eat."
She froze.
Her clothes.
Her only clothes.
She swallowed hard and shuffled back to the bathroom, then carried them into the small room with the washer and dryer. She stared at the appliances. He never had to go to the laundromat because of such fancy machines in his house.
Once she put the clothes in, hiding her panties in the leg of her jeans so he couldn't see them, she returned to the kitchen. She looked everywhere but at him, afraid he'd see the panic she couldn't quite hide. For a biker, he was above the Cusclan members. Above her.
Her heart pounded, remembering that he'd bought her for five thousand dollars. He had to be rich to spend that much on her. And a man who would give away hard-earned money would expect something from her besides having her clean his house.
He turned back to the stove. "You like your stroganoff mixed, or you want the sauce on top of the noodles?"
She blinked. "My... what?"
He glanced at her again and raised his brows. "Stroganoff."
She stared blankly.
Her mom had never cooked anything that required more than a can opener or a microwave.
Lydia grew up on tuna sandwiches, gas-station burritos, and whatever takeout menu had the cheapest delivery fee.
Stroganoff might as well have been a foreign language because she had no idea what he was making.
It certainly wasn't something the restaurant served at the place where she worked.
Seeing her hesitation, Baddy said, "I'll mix it. It tastes better that way."
He said it casually, but something about the confidence in his voice made her chest tighten.
He moved around the kitchen as if he belonged there.
Of course, it was his house, but she'd never seen a man cooking homemade food.
He drained the noodles, stirred the sauce, and seasoned something with a flick of his wrist and a sip from the tip of the wooden spoon.
He was good at cooking.
Domestic in a way she'd never seen, outside of Sam, the chef at the diner who served chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn all day long.
She'd worked in the restaurant for two years, and while she could serve six plates at a time, she had no idea how to put the food on display.
She ducked her head quickly, staring at the floorboards so she wouldn't accidentally watch him. She didn't want to see him like that. Didn't want to feel anything warm or soft or grateful.
He wasn't her friend.
He wasn't her savior.
He was the man who bought her.
He was way older than her. She shivered. Probably old enough to have a kid almost her age.
Her throat tightened, and she wrapped her arms around herself, sleeves hanging past her hands. She patted the fabric, making sure the scissors stayed tucked against her forearm.
She needed to eat to keep her strength and figure out how to get back to Sonny's apartment to grab her things before he threw everything away or found her hidden stash of money.
But for now, all she could do was sit there in someone else's clothes, in someone else's house, while a man she didn't understand cooked her a meal she'd never tasted before.
And pretend she wasn't terrified of what came next