Knocked Up and Tied Down

by Melinda Minx

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess it makes me stick out like a sore thumb in the big city.”

  “Where you from?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Ohio?”

  “West Virginia,” I say. “So I’m a real hillbilly.”

  “You, uh,” he stammers, looking down at me. “Hillbillies dress like this? Maybe I should have gone to West Virginia a long time ago.”

  I laugh nervously, giggling louder than really makes sense for his joke. He gets a big dumb grin on his face at that, and I actually start to feel bad for leading him on.

  The bartender slides us shots of vodka.

  “Ah,” he says. “Here we go!”

  I ask push my shot back toward Chez. “This isn’t virgin.” I look up at the bartender, and he pours me a glass of ginger ale, then mixes with with some juice.

  We clink our glasses together and drain the drinks.

  Chez looks pissed off that I’m not drinking vodka, but he tries to keep his emotions from getting to his face.

  Chez gestures toward the bartender for more drinks, and I watch intently as he pours.

  “I ain’t gonna slip you anything,” Chez says.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “I see you watching the bartender pouring, like you’re worried I’m gonna slip some rope in your drink.”

  How bad a sign is it that he calls rohypnol “rope?” It implies to me that he says the word often enough to need a convenient abbreviation for it.

  “Rope?” I ask

  “Uh,” he says, “like, drugs guys slip into girls’ drinks so they can…” he looks down at my tits. “You know.”

  “Oh, my!” I say. “People do that?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Not me, though. To me, rope is all like going fishing with a bazooka. Where’s the fun in it? And not to brag or nothing,” he says, looking down at his jeans. “But my fishing rod is more than enough to catch even a pretty fish like you.”

  Okay. I don’t feel bad anymore about Dr. Leeds humiliating this guy. I get the feeling he’s definitely used “rope” before to go “fishing,” meaning humiliation isn’t even a bad enough punishment for him.

  He takes two more shots as I sip at my drink. I start to complain about wanting to try one of those fancy drinks “like from Sex and the City, but with no alcohol in it.”

  Chez looks a bit annoyed at that, mostly because those drinks are a lot more expensive, and with no alcohol, won’t even get my drunk.. Even if he’s not going to slip me a date rape drug, he probably figures his modest “fishing rod” plus as much vodka as he can get me to chug down will do just about as well as a specialized drug. Since I’m refusing to drink a drop of alcohol, he’s just got his limp rod and no bait.

  “I gotta hit the ladies room,” I say, and as I get up to walk. I sigh relief that I didn’t drink, not just because of the baby, but because drinking around a guy like Chez feels incredibly dangerous. Even a few drinks could give him too much control over me.

  I pee and wash my hands, then I check myself out in the mirror. The mirror is filthy, and it’s hard to see myself clearly, but I really do look like someone else entirely. Dr. Leeds might not even notice it’s me on his first scan of the room. I check my phone and see it’s been about twenty minutes since I texted him. I actually need him to arrive soon, because Chez isn’t going to be happy if I keep stringing him along, and it’s only a matter of time before he makes some gross move on me.

  I step out of the bathroom just as another woman comes in, and I walk back toward my barstool next to Chez.

  Before I can even sit down, Chez holds up a big glass to me. It’s a Manhattan with a cherry in it. “You said you wanted a fancy drink. No alcohol either.”

  He flashes a shit-eating grin, and I see a nervous anxiousness in his eyes.

  “Umm,” I mutter, resisting the urge to look around the club for Dr. Leeds. I didn’t see the bartender pour this drink. There’s no way I can drink it. “I actually don’t want to have to keep peeing…maybe I’ll drink it later? Let’s dance!”

  “You wanna dance?” Chez asks.

  I point to the dance floor, and I nod my head along to the beat of the music.

  “Maybe if you grind that nice ass up against me,” he says. “Otherwise, I’d say we just get a hotel. Dance there, if you know what I mean.”

  I try not to glare at him, but it takes real effort.

  “Just drink this,” he says, holding it out. “I paid twelve bucks for it.”

  “You can have it,” I say, sounding as sickly sweet as possible.

  “Fuck that,” he says. “It’s a bitch drink. I ain’t a bitch.”

  I can almost hear his implied “but you are a bitch, for not bending over and letting me fuck you right here.”

  “Well,” I say, “I’m going to dance.”

  I start to stand up, and I watch as he looks down nervously at the Manhattan, which I’m now all but certain is drugged.

  “At least take a sip,” he says. “See how it tastes.”

  “Hey,” a deep voice booms from behind my shoulder. Chez’s face scrunches up, and for a moment, he looks like a scared little child.

  I turn around to see a big, wide-shouldered man in a leather jacket. He’s wearing tight jeans that hug his powerful thighs, and even the bulge of his cock is plainly visible. He’s wearing a tight black V-neck beneath his leather jacket, and his hair is slicked back. His sharp cheekbones are prominent as he smiles down at me.

  It’s Dr. Leeds, of course, but at the same time... it’s not. He’s a big bad biker, and he’s here to save me from Chez.

  “I came in here,” Dr. Leeds booms, his British accent completely gone now. “Saw the most beautiful woman in the room sitting with some slime-ball creep, and I told myself I’d go and fix that.”

  “Hey, man,” Chez says, jumping off his stool. “What did you just call me?”

  He thought getting up would help him stand his ground, but the fact that he’s a full foot shorter than Dr. Leeds—and with way less muscle—only makes things worse.

  Dr. Leeds scoffs at Chez, then looks me right in the eyes. “I’m Rock, this guy bothering you?”

  My heart is pounding. Rock. He’s not phoning this in at all. I one hundred percent believe that my old German Lit professor from England is actually a badass American biker.

  I look nervously back and forth. “He’s...he really wanted me to drink that.” I point to the drink. “And when I didn’t want to, he kept pushing.”

  Chez throws his hands up. “Hey, hey, I wasn’t gonna—”

  He looks so guilty already, and Dr. Leeds sees it, too. He grabs Chez by the collar and pulls him right into his face. “Tell me a lie. I dare you to.”

  Chez starts stuttering. “I—uh—uh—but—hey-I-w-w-w-asn’t. I didn’t—didn’t do nothing!”

  He shakes his hands wildly, as if that will strengthen his pathetic denial.

  “So there’s nothing in this drink?” Dr. Leeds asks. “Nothing but whatever the fuck goes into one of these fancy drinks? I’m a straight whiskey kind of guy myself.”

  “I swear to God!” Chez says. “Please, let go of my shirt, you’re stretching it out!”

  Dr. Leeds lets go, then slides the drink toward Chez. “If there’s nothing in here, then you drink it.”

  “I need to drive home tonight,” Chez says meekly. “I already hit my two-drink limit.”

  “I think we had five or six together already,” I add in loudly enough for Dr. Leeds to hear.

  “I think you’re full of shit,” Dr. Leeds says. “Drink it, and have it knock you out, or I’ll knock you out myself.” He balls his hand up into a fist and glares at Chez.

  “Alright!” Chez says, and takes a sip.

  “Finish it,” Dr. Leeds orders.

  Chez looks down nervously at the drink as if he was drinking snake venom. He starts taking bigger sips of it, and each time he looks up at Dr. Leeds hoping he’ll say he’s done, but Dr. Leeds only furrows his brows. Chez drinks down the whole thi
ng.

  “You stay right here,” Dr. Leeds says. “You don’t get to leave.”

  “But…” Chez mutters.

  “Stay! If I see you trying to slither out of here and get a cab, I’ll make sure you can’t even walk.”

  Chez pushes his elbows into the bar and sulks. “Fine, not like anything will happen if I stay here. I was planning to stay here, I mean.”

  Dr. Leeds grabs me by the forearm and pulls me away from Chez. “You all right?”

  “I am now,” I say, my voice catching.

  I worry for a moment that he’s about to break character, to laugh and say something to me in his real accent.

  Instead, he asks, “What’s your name?”

  “Betsy...Betsy-Sue,” I laugh nervously. “Gosh, the way I said it just now, you’d think I’m James Bond. I mean, if any of us is James Bond, it’s you, saying you only drink straight whiskey and keeping all cool and—”

  “I can tell you’re not from here,” Dr. Leeds says. He narrows his eyes. “You’re not used to dealing with guys like that.”

  I blush. “I...don’t judge me because of that. My parents never let me get out, not until I ran away, and now I don’t have anyone to protect me.”

  “You’ve got me,” Dr. Leeds says. “Though if you take my protection, there’s one problem.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Ain’t no one strong enough to protect you from me.”

  He pulls me into him by my waist, and suddenly my body is pressed against his abs and chest. He looks down at me, and I force myself to look away.

  “Tell me you don’t want me to kiss you, Betsy-Sue,” he says. “Just say you don’t want it.”

  I look up at him and feel my cheeks burn. “It’s too soon,” I whisper. “I don’t know you.”

  “That ain’t a ‘no,’” he says, and he dips me back and kisses me. His lips press against mine, and I realize it’s been so long since we’ve kissed or been together. Then I feel him kissing me differently than before. He’s less nuanced and sensitive—more forceful. His tongue presses into mine, and he sucks on me as if he’s just rode his bike through hundreds of miles of desert. Like he’s thirsty, and it’s all I can do but lean back and moan as his hands run across my back, his calloused skin touching my back as his hands run across all the little windows lining the back of my dress.

  His hand slides down and squeezes my ass, which reminds me of the first time he squeezed me like that. I feel myself becoming soaking wet, and when he pulls away and looks down at me, I have to force myself to remember that I’m Betsy-Sue, not his “Ms. Faria.”

  “I…” I stammer. “I can’t believe I did that. I barely know you.”

  “The less you know,” Dr. Leeds says, “the better.”

  “I should really go,” I say. “That was enough excitement for one night. Or for the rest of the year, even.”

  “Go where?” he asks. “You going to walk out alone in that little dress?”

  I look at him with wide eyes.

  “I can give you a ride,” he says, grinning.

  “Even I know what that means,” I whisper. “How about you stay here with me until I feel less tipsy?”

  Dr. Leeds gives a gruff grunt and nods. “Fine, but you don’t mind if I drink, too, do you?”

  “Drinking while I sober up?” I say, putting a hand on my chest and pretending I’m horribly offended. “That’s not very gentlemanly.”

  “I never said I was a gentleman, sweetie,” he says, slapping my ass.

  I swat his hand away. “You can’t do that.”

  “I just did,” he says, licking his lips.

  “Well,” I say, furrowing my brow. “Don’t do it again, then. I need to find a nice wholesome guy, one who doesn’t say stuff like, ‘the less I know about him, the better.’”

  “Sweetheart,” Dr. Leeds says, laying the American accent on thick. “You don’t find wholesome guys wearing a dress like that.”

  I frown. “I usually dress so darn frumpy and boring. I wanted to force myself out of my comfort zone, but I think, just maybe, I went too far.”

  Dr. Leeds’ eyes run across my body, lingering on my breasts. “I’d say you didn’t go far enough.”

  “How about,” I say, “you dance with me, as much like a gentleman as you can? Or is that asking too much, Mr. Rock?”

  “I can’t promise my hands won’t stray,” he says, grinning, “but I’ll dance with you, sure.”

  He pulls me onto the dance floor, and just as we move toward a more open spot, a slower R&B song comes on.

  “Not my music,” he says, “but it’ll do.”

  He pulls me forcefully into him, until my cheek is pressed against his broad chest. His hand finds its way to my lower back—way down there—and he begins to sway back and forth to the music.

  He holds me protectively in his arms, and I lose myself in his warm embrace. The music flows through, and I wrap my hands around his strong back. I can’t really feel him through the thick leather, but I can still feel how big and solid he is.

  We dance through the song, and near the end, I feel Dr. Leeds tense up.

  I look up and see him staring toward the bar, so I turn around and look without letting go of him.

  There’s a crowd gathering around pointing, and between two people I can see Chez laid out flat on the ground.

  Dr. Leeds pats me on the back, and we move toward the commotion.

  “Should we call an ambulance?” someone asks.

  “Nah, he’s just drunk,” someone says.

  Dr. Leeds shoves past the crowd, takes a knee next to Chez, and reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a bag of pills. “Looks like he took some of his own medicine, fucking dumbass.”

  Everyone looks at each other, wondering what to do.

  “I’m a biker,” Dr. Leeds says. “So I wouldn’t tell you to call the cops under any circumstances, but if I wasn’t busy with something else, I’d kick this guy’s ass as soon as he was awake enough to take the beating.”

  He tosses the pills down onto Chez’s face, and Chez’s face scrunches up, but he doesn’t move or open his eyes.

  “Come on, babe,” Dr. Leeds says, grabbing me by the hand.

  He starts to tug me, and I let him, walking behind him. When I realize he’s taking me out of the bar, I pull back. “Where are we going?”

  “For a ride,” he says.

  “I’m not comfortable with that,” I say.

  “You don’t know what you want,” he says. “But I do. Come on.”

  He pulls more forcefully, and I bite my lip to suppress my smile. Both of us are acting so well, I find myself forgetting we’re acting at all. I really believe he is “Rock,” and I actually believe myself when I protest. Neither of us have even had a “wink wink” moment where we acknowledged that we know each other.

  I’m sure the illusion will fall away a little bit when I get outside and “Rock” doesn’t even have a motorcycle. Are we going to take the bus together, or maybe he will have his car and tell me that his “bike is in the shop.”

  He pulls me out of the bar, and I decide to fight him again now.

  “Rock,” I say, pulling back. “I don’t want to get tied up in some dangerous thing.”

  He turns around to face me. “Just one night, sweetie, the danger around me won’t catch you in just one night. I can’t promise you won’t get tied up, though.”

  As he pulls me further, I see two police cars with their sirens on pulling up to the bar. It looks like Chez is going to be taken in.

  “Here’s my bike,” Dr. Leeds says, and I do a double-take when he points to an actual Harley.

  “Umm,” I stammer. “You have a bike?”

  “Of course,” he says. “You couldn’t tell I was a biker?”

  He’s still got the thick American accent going, and I realize I should play fully along instead of doubting his character. He must have rented the thing, or borrowed it from a friend? Can he even drive it?

&
nbsp; “I, uh,” I say, “I’ve never been on a bike.”

  It’s true. Nicole Weissman has never been on a bike, nor has Betsie-Sue.

  “It’s easy,” he says. “I help you on, and you just hold on tight to me.”

  Does he even know how to ride a motorcycle? He must have got it here somehow, but how far is he going to take this acting thing? Did he join an actual biker gang this afternoon to help get into character?

  I reach up, submitting to him, and he takes my hand. He goes in and lifts me up. He holds me up by the waist, and he plops me right down onto the seat.

  “You want in front or on back?” he asks with an evil glint in his eye.

  “Uh,” I stammer, “which is safer?”

  “Probably with you in back,” he says, and he slings his leg up onto the bike, getting on behind me.

  “Mr. Rock—”

  “Rock,” he grunts.

  “Didn’t you just say the back was safer?” I ask, feeling the back of my head fall back against his broad chest.”

  “I always choose the more dangerous path,” he says. “Hold onto the bars.”

  I reach up and clasp the bars, and then Dr. Leeds—who I’m almost convinced now has been entirely replaced by Rock—cranks his wrist and moves his leg, and the bike roars to life.

  “I’ll take you to a hotel,” he shouts over the engine. “Might be some beef brewing around my place. I wouldn’t want us to get interrupted.”

  Before I can protest, he hits the gas, and I clasp onto the handlebars, terrified I’ll fall off. His strong, muscular legs are pressed against my outer thighs, and I realize that even if I did let go with my hands, he’d have me held in place with his legs. Not that I’d actually let go under any circumstance.

  He roars down the road, the skyline growing as we drive deeper into the city. The wind really starts to hit me, whipping my hair up and totally messing it up all at the same time.

  When I feel tears starting to sting my eyes, I worry it’s smearing my makeup, but Rock isn’t the kind of man who would care if he messes up a girl’s makeup.

  We hit a red light, and he slams on the brakes.