She just stands there, shivering.

“I mean it. Get on this bike, or I’ll have to come get you.”

The girl shrinks in on herself, her shoulders rounding, pulling up to her ears. For a moment, I think I’m actually gonna have to do it. I think I’m gonna have to get off my bike and forcefully put her on it. I’m seconds from doing exactly that when she cautiously steps forward and throws her leg over my ride. I can feel her looking for something to hold onto, a handrail at the back like the street fighters have. She’s not going to find anything, though. I reach back until I find one of her arms, and then I pull it around me. “Now’s not the time to be shy, sweetheart. Hold onto me and you’ll be fine.”

I’m not stupid; I know the last thing she wants to do is wrap her arms around me and get all up close and personal, but we don’t have time for me to explain why holding on is a good idea. We really need to get the fuck out of here.

“You been on a motorcycle before?” I ask over my shoulder.

“No.” She answers very quietly, but I can still hear her over the roar of the engines.

“Then the smartest thing you can do right now is hold onto me and not let go until I tell you. Unless you want to die, of course?” Slowly, very carefully, her other arm snakes around my waist. “There’s a good girl.” I gun the engine again, jerking my head to Carnie. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before they change their minds and kill us after all.”

“Copy that.” Carnie takes the lead. He burns off into the desert, and the only thing I can see as I charge after him, an unknown woman clinging onto me for dear life, arms growing tighter and tighter as we go faster, is the red flicker of his taillight.

SOPHIA

I’m going to die.

The cool desert air whips through my hair as we burn the night, ruining the intricate style Ramona created so that I’d be pretty when my new owner came to collect me. My heart is in my throat. I press my cheek into the back of this stranger’s back, and I stare out into the abyssal darkness¸ not seeing anything. Not caring. Practicing at stilling the screaming panic in my head.

This can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening.

This is happening.

This is happening, but it will be okay.

Everything will be okay.

Eventually, we come to a highway—god knows how these guys knew which direction to head in—though everything is still pitch black. No streetlights. No other cars. Nothing. I loosen my grip around the guy’s waist, not that I don’t feel like I might be tossed out of my seat any second. The seams in the blacktop make regular thrum, thrum, thrum noises as the motorcycle’s wheels travel over them. I think about jumping.

What are the chances of me seriously damaging myself if I throw myself off this bike? What are the chances of me dying? It’s almost as if the guy in front of me guesses what I’m thinking. The motorcycle speeds up, tearing up the open road, the engine roaring in my ears. No chance I can do it now. I’d be road-kill the second my body hits the ground.

I allow myself the luxury of a few tears as we travel on, on, on into the night. There seems to be no end to this journey. It feels like I’m going to be trapped here on the back of this motorcycle forever, forced to hold onto a man who paid a huge amount of money so he can do god knows what to me. So he can own me. That thought makes me feel sick. My head’s still spinning from where Raphael’s men hit me, which doesn’t help.

I can feel the last reserves of my energy draining from me, my body falling limp, as the sun begins to peek over the horizon. We pass a Winnebago at first light, the driver honking his horn at us in greeting. He obviously hasn’t seen another person on the road for a long time, either. As we pass the souped-up vehicle, I catch a glimpse of the guy behind the wheel—he’s grinning, wearing a bucket hat, the kind people only ever wear on vacation, and there’s a small kid in the front seat beside him. They both look so damned happy, flashing their middleclass smiles at us. I wonder if they can see the terror in my eyes as I whip by them in a blur.

Probably not.

The guy with the glasses on the other motorcycle revs his engine, and suddenly the front wheel is off the ground. He’s pulling a wheelie. I can hear him hollering as my guy pulls forward to catch up with him. Underneath my now very lax grip, I can feel his stomach muscles contracting as he…as he laughs. I hate him. It’s wrong that he should be laughing at the stupid, reckless behavior of his friend after he’s basically just kidnapped me. Tertiary kidnapping—that’s what it was. Raphael first, then that Julio guy, and now this one. I’ve been passed from pillar to post like lost property. The worst part of now being bought and paid for by this new guy is that he’s really good looking. There’s no way he would have a problem getting any girl he wanted, which makes me think scary things. Maybe normal women won’t let him do the things that he wants to do. Maybe his sexual proclivities run so dark that he can only act out his fantasies on people who have no choice in the matter. That could be part of it, too—the sense of power he’d feel as he took something precious from someone who didn’t want to give it.

An hour after we hit the highway, the guys pull into a diner at the side of the road—Harry’s Place. My body is aching from sitting on the back of the motorcycle for so long; my back, my butt, my shoulders, my legs—all of me is throbbing or complaining in one way or another. It hurts even more when the guy kills the engine and makes me get off, my limbs protesting at being straightened out after remaining in one position for so long. The guy swings off the motorcycle and kicks out the stand, letting the heavy machine rest.