The Stolen Girl by Samantha Westlake Read Free Book Online Page A

wanted to calm himself, to be prepared for what was undoubtedly going to be one of the toughest speeches he’d ever give.

 

     
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    I couldn’t even begin to say how long of a ride we took. It could have been no more than half an hour, or it might have been four times that. All I could remember was speeding along in the setting sun, watching as the last rays of light sank behind the trees at the edge of the highway, the wind rushing through my hair and blowing it out around my face, my nostrils filled with the heady leather scent of Roads’ jacket and my entire body shaking, both from the engine between my legs and from the pleasurable sensations rising up to suffuse my body and limbs. If I had ended up in this situation through a less stressful means, if I hadn’t been brought here against my will through a kidnapping, I would have actually enjoyed this memory.
    Eventually, I felt the revving of the engine between my legs ease off slightly, and I pulled my face up from where it was buried in Roads’ back. We had exited from the highway, I now saw, and we were turning off of the main road. When I looked around, however, I didn’t see much evidence of civilization. Where were we? Where had these bikers brought me to?
    We rolled along a couple smaller two-lane roads, eventually passing into a tiny town, one so small that I didn’t even spot a sign announcing its name. Of course, I might have simply missed it - the sun was well below the horizon, now, and only the headlights of the motorcycles illuminated the road ahead and the surroundings we were passing through.
    The town that we seemed to have entered had a “downtown” that didn’t seem to consist of more than a few small convenience stores, a couple of bars, and two or three cheap, sleazy-looking hotels. The stores were lit with a variety of neon signs, most of which seemed to be advertising for cheap beer. I wondered if we were going to turn into one of these hotels. Was I going to be spending this night chained to a radiator as well, forced to do everything in front of these men without any sense of privacy or decency?
    No, however; that didn’t seem to be the case. We rolled onward, through the center of the tiny town, past the shady motels with their blinking, flickering neon lights. Instead, we headed up a small hill, with a large house sitting at the top and silhouetted against the night sky. It seemed that this building, this tall and gaunt house, was to be our destination for the night.
    Sure enough, we pulled up the driveway towards this house. The house seemed to be built by itself. Instead of neighbors, it was surrounded only by trees. Gravel crunched under the wheels of the motorcycles as they ran up the unpaved driveway, and the loud, constant sounds of engines revving, to which I had almost become accustomed, died away one by one as the bikers parked their machines and cut the power.
    As the sounds of roaring gas-fueled monsters faded from my ears, I began to hear sounds coming from inside this house. It was a large house, vaguely similar to my own home, with a wrap-around porch and large front windows. Warm yellow light was shining out of those windows, and I could hear the faint but persistent sounds of booming music coming from inside. This was accompanied by the clinking of bottles, an occasional yell or whoop, and the murmurs of conversation. It sounded like there was a party going on inside.
    A moment later, I suddenly realized how cold I was, and how much I wanted to get inside and into that warm light. The ride had been long and hard, and I was definitely not dressed in enough clothing to handle being pummeled by seventy-mile-per-hour winds for that long! The engine between my thighs had helped keep my core warm, but my hands and feet felt as though they were made of blocks of ice. As I started to try and move them, I felt creaky, and my teeth began to uncontrollably chatter inside my mouth.
    Just as I was