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"No, I..." I said, shaking my head, looking around the unfamiliar room with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
If there was one thing a woman didn't want, it was to wake up feeling drugged in a place she didn't recognize. Unless, maybe, that place was a hospital. But judging by the gray walls and uber masculine vibe and scent, an altogether way too appealing scent I might add, it was most definitely not a hospital room.
And the only reason it was even vaguely familiar was because the last time I had been conscious, I had been in it held by a man I didn't know, getting my back stitched up, and crying through the pain.
"You're at The Henchmen MC compound," a smooth male voice said, unfamiliar and when I turned my head and looked over toward the end of the bed, I found the source.
He was tall and a thin kind of strong with tattoos snaking up his bare arms. He had on a black leather cut and a white wifebeater underneath with black jeans and black slip-ons. He had a face full of angles, sharp cheekbones, a strong forehead, an appealing mouth. His eyes were a piercing blue. And perhaps the most notable feature he possessed was his copper-red hair that he had cut a little long on the top and close to the sides. By some miracle of engineering, he seemed completely devoid of freckles.
A redheaded biker.
I almost wanted to laugh.
"The Henchmen MC," I repeated, my voice sounding raspy, rougher than it usually was.
"The place you got directions yesterday. We found you today all beat up so we brought you here and had you fixed up."
I nodded at that, seeing the truthfulness of it.
But something didn't quite add up.
"Why didn't you take me to the hospital?"
Why had I been subjected to battlefield medicine when I could have had a nice, painless stitching experience at a hospital?
The guy looked a little sheepish, tucking his hands into his front pockets which made his shoulders slump forward slightly, giving him a boyish appearance.
"See, if we brought you there, they would think we did it."
"Why? Because you're bikers?" I asked, feeling a headache start to pound behind my eyes.
"Yeah, most cops don't take too kindly to the likes of us."
"But you didn't hurt me," I said, brows drawing together, trying to stitch the memories together, finding it harder than I thought it should of been. But I knew one thing- these Henchmen guys weren't the ones who hurt me.
"We know that and you know that. But you weren't exactly conscious when we found you." The guy moved closer to the side of the bed, making me turn back and my eyes fell on the woman sitting there.
She was pretty. Somewhere in her late thirties or early forties with long straight blonde hair, brown eyes, a great rack, and long legs. She had on green khakis and a tan tank top, showing off her strong arms. There was something about her, and I couldn't exactly tell you what it was , but there was something that gave you the impression of capability. She was capable. Of what, I wasn't sure. Everything, it almost seemed.
"My name is Lo," she said when she noticed me looking at her. "And this ginger biker here is Renny."
"And you're Penny, right?" Renny asked, hands closing over the woman's ankles and pushing them upward so her knees went to her chest and he could sit down by her feet.
"Ah, yeah. How do you know that?" I asked, suddenly very aware of two things. I didn't know where my purse was. And I was not in my own clothes.
Someone had stripped and changed me.
"Hey, hey," Renny said, voice low and calm, dragging the words out on the end the way you do when talking to a scared kid. "We know your name because you told it to Shredder and Duke yesterday. Nothing creepy going on here."
"Where are my clothes?" I asked, looking at the woman, somehow hoping she would understand my distress over that fact.
"Your shirt was torn," Renny answered instead. "And it had to be taken off to do the stitches on your back."
"Okay. Yeah," I said, nodding. "Fine. But where are my pants?" I asked, knowing just about everywhere hurt but below my waist, except a small ache in one of my ankles like I had maybe twisted it or something.
The two shared a look, silently communicating something that had me stiffening and slowly pushing myself up into a seated position, feeling the material of my panties and mildly relieved by that fact.
"I asked you where my pants were. And, while you're at it, you'll need to explain why they are off in the first place."
Then my mind went there.
Because, really, where else could it go?
You find yourself in a strange room in a biker compound full of rough and tough men without pants on, that was where it went.
