Sold to the biker boss

Layla The night my life got sold started out like every other bad night. Greasy plates. Angry customers. Broken air conditioner blowing hot air instead of cold. I was dead tired, and my feet burned inside old sneakers that should’ve been thrown out two summers ago. I didn’t know it yet, but my father was out there gambling away what was left of our lives. Again. I kept wiping down tables, counting tips in my head — nine dollars and forty cents. Not even enough for a full tank of gas. When the diner closed, I clocked out, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and stepped outside. The heat hit me like a wall. Nevada nights weren’t kind. Our apartment sat over a busted pawn shop three blocks away. The hallway smelled like smoke and beer. When I walked in, the lights were on, and my dad was sitting at the kitchen table, pale and sweating like he’d seen a ghost. “Dad?” I said, dropping my bag. “What happened?” He didn’t look up. Just stared at the floor. “Layla… I messed up bad this time.” That wasn’t new. He always messed up. Lost jobs. Lost rent money. Lost hope. But something about the way his voice cracked made me stop breathing for a second. “Who’d you owe this time?” I asked, trying to stay calm. He finally looked at me. His eyes were bloodshot, hands shaking. “They ain’t people you can just walk away from. I borrowed from the wrong crowd. I thought I could flip it back, but—” “But you didn’t.” He nodded slowly, eyes filling with tears. “They said if I don’t pay by tonight… they’ll take something else instead.” My heart dropped. “What do you mean something else?” He didn’t answer. Just kept whispering, “I’m sorry.” The knock came fast and hard. Three times. My stomach twisted. Two men stepped in when he opened the door — black suits, no smiles. The kind of men who didn’t knock twice. “Mr. Evans,” one of them said. “Time’s up.” I tried to move in front of my dad, but one man grabbed me by the arm. His grip was like iron. “Hey! Let me go!” I shouted, but nobody listened. “Debt’s been transferred,” the taller one said coldly. “She comes with us.” My dad cried. Actual tears. “Please, just—just don’t hurt her. They said it’ll wipe everything clean.” That’s when it hit me. He’d traded me. I screamed, kicked, fought, but it didn’t matter. They dragged me out, shoved me in the back of a black van, and drove off into the dark. The van smelled like oil and fear. I tried to count the turns, but my hands were tied. My heart beat so loud it hurt. When the van stopped, they yanked me out and walked me through a metal door into a huge underground room. Bright lights. Loud voices. Dozens of people sitting in rows, dressed fancy. On a stage, a woman was crying while someone shouted out numbers. An auction. I froze. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Couldn’t breathe. One of the men pushed me forward. “You’re next,” he said. I wanted to die right there. They put me under the lights, told me to stand still. The crowd went quiet for a moment, then someone yelled out a number. “Ten grand.” “Twenty.” “Thirty.” Their voices made my skin crawl. My eyes stung from the light. I tried to block everything out — the faces, the noise, the fear. Then I heard a deep voice from the back of the room. Calm, low, deadly. “Fifty.” Everyone went silent. The man in the shadows didn’t move. I couldn’t see his face, just the glint of metal rings on his hands. The auctioneer smiled wide. “Sold.” The lights turned toward him. That’s when I saw him clearly. The tattoos. The cold blue eyes. The sharp jaw I’d kissed a hundred times back when I was sixteen. Jax Slater. For a second, I forgot how to breathe. He stood up, walked forward like he owned the world. The crowd parted for him. He handed the man a wad of cash, grabbed my arm, and said one thing: “You’re coming with me.” I wanted to scream, cry, ask him why — but my throat was dry. The moment Jax’s hand closed around my arm, the world tilted. It wasn’t rough — not like the men before — but it was strong. Final. Like I’d just been claimed. The crowd went back to drinking and laughing, as if I wasn’t even human. Just another prize. The air smelled like sweat, money, and cheap perfume. I wanted to throw up. Jax didn’t say another word. He pulled me through the hallway, past men in suits and women in tight dresses pretending not to see. My shoes slipped on the concrete, my heart pounding so hard I could barely stand. “Let me go,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Jax… please.” He didn’t look at me. Didn’t blink. Just kept walking. Outside, the night hit cold and sharp. A line of motorcycles glimmered under the streetlights, chrome shining like teeth. His bike sat at the front — black and mean, just like him. He handed me a helmet. “Put it on.” “No.” I crossed my arms, trying to sound brave even though my knees were jelly. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” He finally looked at me then. Those eyes — the same icy blue I’d loved once — locked on mine. “You want to stay here?” he asked quietly. “With the people who just sold you?” That shut me up. My throat burned. He pushed the helmet into my hands. “Then get on.” I stared at him for a second longer, trying to find the boy I used to know — the one who used to make me laugh, who kissed me under the stars behind the old church. But he was gone. All that was left was this man with cold eyes and tattoos down his arms. Still, I put on the helmet. The engine roared to life, loud enough to shake my bones. When he took off, the wind hit so hard I could barely breathe. I clung to his leather jacket even though I hated myself for it. His scent — smoke, oil, and something dark I couldn’t name — hit me all at once, and memories crashed in like waves. I used to dream about riding behind him again, back when we were just kids, free and stupid and full of hope. But now, the road stretched out black and endless, and I didn’t feel free. I felt trapped. We rode for miles. The city lights faded to open desert. I tried to count turns, signs, anything, but the wind swallowed it all. After a while, we stopped in front of tall metal gates guarded by men with guns. Where the hell was he taking me? He motioned for the guard to open the gate. The men looked at him — then at me — and stepped aside without saying a word. They looked scared. Everyone always looked scared of Jax Slater. Inside, the place looked like a fortress — high walls, bright lights, rows of bikes lined up like soldiers. The noise of engines and laughter filled the air, but when they saw Jax, everyone quieted down. He was the king here. I climbed off the bike, legs shaking. “What is this place?” He turned to me. “Home.” “Not mine,” I said. He smirked, just barely. “That depends.” “On what?” I asked, crossing my arms. “On whether you keep trying to run.” His voice was calm, but there was a warning under it. I wanted to slap him.