Chad’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning when he approached me, his jeans unzipped and his erection full and tight in his hand.

“You sure you don’t want to do this, Pop?” he asked Dornan, his eyes full of lust and malevolence. 

Dornan laughed and shook his head, slapping his oldest son on the back. My eyes grew wide as he lowered himself onto me and forced his leg between my thighs, creating a juncture.

I did the only thing I could think to do. I started to beg. “Please don’t do this,” I begged him. “Chad, please. I’ve never … I’ve never done it before.” Shame at being exposed in front of eight men turned my skin red and I began to cry again.

Chad grinned that grin, and I started to struggle against the hands that held me down. I bucked and screamed like a wild animal caught in a snare as Chad draped himself over me, a wicked glint in his eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut, unwilling to see what I knew he was about to do.

And then. Pain. Burning, searing pain that never stopped. It felt like I would break in half. I screamed so loud, my throat felt like it would collapse. A hand covered my mouth, muffling my sounds, and I bit down on that soft flesh, choking as I tasted coppery blood spring forth.

“Bitch!” Chad yelled, punching me in the jaw so hard I felt bone crack. I gargled an unintelligible noise as something soft, some kind of fabric, was stuffed into my mouth to still my screams.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Chad groaned, as I burned and cried. “Tight little bitch was telling the truth.”

 I tear my gaze away from Chad, a scowl on my face, and watch impatiently as Jase kicks his bike over. It roars to life, the sweet sound of a roaring Harley and the exhaust fumes conjuring a lifetime of happier memories of my father. I focus on those, trying desperately not to slip back into that other memory, determined not to let Chad best me before I’ve even put up a fight. Jase nods his head to the side and I swing my leg over the seat of the bike, shuffling forward and wrapping my arms around his hard midsection.

The minute my feet are securely braced on the passenger pegs, Jase takes off, and I hold on tighter as he accelerates. He maneuvers the beast of a bike deftly through the stack of other gleaming machines, until we are at the roller door. He fishes a remote out of his pocket and presses a button on it, sending the roller door skywards. Sunlight drowns the artificial light and I squint without my sunglasses.

My entire body relaxes as we leave the confines of the clubhouse and drive through the open gate, the bike hugging the road as Jase rides with precision and skill. I can feel a smile growing wider on my face as my long hair whips behind me, my legs snugly wrapped around the first boy I ever loved. Even if he doesn’t know who I am, even if he can never know… in this moment, just to be alone with him, on the open road, is enough for me.

After we get a few miles, Jase slows the bike and pulls over to the shoulder. Smiling, he turns his head and speaks. “Where to?” he asks. Elliot.

“I need to get this tattoo colored in,” I say, loud enough so that he can hear me over the roar of the engine. “Lost City Tattoos?”

He nods and turns back to the road, checks his mirrors, and we take off again, destined for Elliot and his needles and his questions.

I think I need a drink.

I saunter casually up the sidewalk, Jase by my side. I am a squirming bundle of nerves inside at the prospect of Elliot chewing me out, but outwardly I attempt cool, calm, and collected.

“Here we are,” I say at the door to Elliot’s studio, handing Jase my helmet. “Meet me back here in a few hours?”

Jase looks uncomfortable and scans the sidewalk on both sides of us.

“What?” I ask him.

Jase breathes out audibly. “If you run, my father will fucking kill me. Literally.”

“Wait, you think I’m going to run?”

Jase shrugs. “I would if I were you.”

I point to a Hooters across the road. “You can keep an eye on me and order beer from hot girls with nice racks,” I say. “What do you say?”

He shifts from foot to foot. “I’ll just come in with you,” he says.

“Wait,” I say, putting my palm flat against his chest. “If you must know, I kind of … cried last time I got tattooed. And he told me the coloring in is worse than the outline.”

Jase relaxes perceptibly and steps back. “Okay,” he says. “Well, I’ll be just across the road.”

I smile sweetly. “Thanks.”

I wait patiently until he has crossed the road, wave him off and take a deep breath, pushing the heavy glass door to Elliot’s studio open. The bell above the door chimes to signal that someone has entered, and I jump ten feet in the air.

Elliot is tattooing a butterfly on some woman’s lower back when I walk in. He notices me immediately and stops his work, the gun clattering onto the tray beside him.

“Okay,” he says to her. “We’re all done for today. Make sure to give us a call next week and book in for your final appointment.”

The lady sits up, a look of confusion on her face. “Aren’t you gonna finish it now?” she asks.

Elliot squirts her skin with a layer of antiseptic solution and tapes a piece of plastic-backed gauze on top. “Nope,” he says. “You’re bleeding too much. Have you been drinking, ma’am?”

The guilty look on her face provides an answer. Elliot gently but firmly pushes her out of the door, promising that her finished tatt will look just gorgeous next week. Once she leaves, he spins around to face me.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks, his expression frustrated.

I smile in case Jase can see us from here. “We’re being watched,” I say to him through my cotton-candy grin. “Are you gonna take me back there and color me in, or what?”

His entire demeanor changes when he understands that there are eyes on us, and he points to the table that the old lady had been prostrate on only moments before.

I take my shirt off and hang it over the seat beside the table, my breasts covered by a plain black bra that is struggling to contain their ample size. Elliot seems a little flustered, and I grin wickedly. “You like them?” I ask him, waiting for him to bite. “I got them for a good price.”

“Shut up and get on the table, whatever your name is,” he says, and I can’t tell if he is amused or annoyed.

I hoist myself onto the table and lay down, wincing as I rip my bandage off in one go. “They’re just boobs, El,” I say, settling against the squeaky plastic.

He takes a moment to look at them dubiously before shifting his attention to my face. “They’re hot. I don’t want to talk about your boobs, though.” He snaps a plastic bag open and withdraws a single-use needle chock full of ink that will stain my skin permanently.

“I want to talk about where the fuck you’ve been for three days not answering my calls.” His words are bitter and I can tell he has thought of nothing else except me and my safety since I left here three days ago.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “They took my phone and smashed it.”

“Well, are you okay?” he asks me, his voice straining to sound normal under the weight of his despair. His blue eyes are oceans of worry and hurt, and I have to look away before I really do cry.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I got in there. They bought my story. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Elliot stops fumbling with needles and packages and stares at me questioningly. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, the events of the past three days a broken record of pain, blood, and lust playing on repeat in my addled mind. I can’t tell him about Michael. He would never speak to me again if he knew the depths of my treachery.

“Dornan liked me straightaway,” I say in a monotone voice. “He liked me a little too much.”