KICK

Two years ago

I enter the room and slam my fist against the door the second I see her huddling into the wall. She’s as naked as she was in the club lounge, only now—two days later—she’s covered head to toe in bruises. I take several hulking steps forward and grab her shoulders, lifting her up and shaking her.

“You stupid bitch,” I hiss. “I told you to play fuckin’ nice, didn’t I? I told you I would get you out of this.”

Tank’s arm shoots out, squeezing my shoulder until I release her. “Easy, brother, keep your shit together, or I’m gonna throw you outta here myself.”

“I saw a chance; I took it,” she mutters. “It didn’t pay off the way I thought it would.”

“No, it fuckin’ didn’t, did it?”

Tears pool in her eyes. “Why would you try to help me?”

“’Cause you can’t seem to fuckin’ help yourself,” I snap back, and then let out a deep exhalation. “We need to get you out of here.”

“You can’t take her out now, brother. Prez will be back soon, and if we leave the damn compound with her in tow, they’re gonna know about it.”

“I gotta get her outta here.”

“That’s not why I brought you down here, man.”

“This is the only time to do it. If Slayer doesn’t come through, she’s as good as dead. You’ve seen what they did to her.”

“Yeah, and you know what they’re gonna do to us if they find out we let her go.”

“I just need you to help me get to the gate. I need you to buy me some time. I’ll get her back to her dad and be back here before Prez knows about any of it.”

“And who the fuck do you think Prez is gonna come looking for once he discovers the bitch is gone? Slipping a roofie in Tag’s coffee was one thing, but getting past four brothers is another thing entirely.”

“What if she held you at gunpoint?”

He looks at me as if I’ve just grown another fuckin’ head, and this one is sprouting bullshit for sonnets.

“I’m serious. You coulda tried to rape her, she grabbed your gun and led you outside.”

“No one in their right mind is gonna buy that bullshit. Assuming we can get her past the other four idiots in the lounge, that is. Red’s working the gate, too; he’ll have eyes everywhere.” The booth at the gate was mostly there so we’d have a little warning when a raid was upon us. The cameras only monitored the lot, but if we were walking around with a prisoner in tow, Red was gonna know about it.

“Then we just have to hope he’s gone to take a piss,” I say.

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’ve never asked you for anything, brother, but I know you know this is the right thing to do.”

“Fuck the right fuckin’ thing to do,” he mutters under his breath. “Whatever happened to the club before hoes?”

“Take your shirt off,” I say.

He glares at me.

“She’s gonna need clothes to leave the compound, or we’re both gonna get arrested. We haven’t got time to run back upstairs,” I explain.

“Fuck me. Last time I ever do you a favour.”

“It’ll be the only time I ask you for a favour.”

Tank removes his shirt and holds it out to Lauren. She doesn’t take it. Instead, she stares him down, and he drops it on the concrete floor. She turns away from us as she picks it up and puts it on. It’s huge, swamping her frail frame, and lookin’ more like a dress than a T-shirt.

Tank opens the door and pokes his head out; then he motions us forward. We walk up the short hall to the door that leads outside. Tag is out cold, sitting on the sofa in the entrance, head lulled to the side and his tongue hanging outta his mouth. There’s a line of drool running over his chin to his shoulder. “He gonna remember you druggin’ him?”

“Doubt it,” Tank says with a shrug. “I left before he fell asleep. When he wakes he’s probably just gonna think he really needed a nap.”

It’s late afternoon, just on dusk, and the chill in the air has princess’s teeth chattering together, or maybe that’s the fear of being caught. It’s certainly no picnic for Tank and me, either. If we get caught smuggling her out of here, we’ll be put to ground quicker than either of us could blink.

So we walk with purpose—’cause nothing says you’re doing bad shit like skulking around corners in a compound—and we make it as far as the garage without being seen. Riding outta here with no one being any the wiser is gonna be a challenge, though. I’m pushing my bike from the undercover garage when Red rounds the corner. Fuck, he must’ve been taking a piss after all, because he’s just come from the direction of the clubhouse.

He’s as surprised to see us as we are having to stare back at his ugly mug, but then his eyes shoot to Lauren and his face creases with confusion.

“Hey, what’s with the bitch?” Red asks.

“Prez said to bring her out to the lot. Somethin’ about handing her over to Slayer.”

“Handin’ her over to Slayer? What the fuck for? He hasn’t come at a deal yet. We got the cops in our pocket, but he’s draggin’ his heels on the negotiations with the girl. Seems he’s not willing to hand over drugs and guns for his little princess, here.”

“Well, maybe he and Prez finally came to an agreement.” Tank shrugs, running a hand through his hair. “All I know was that he said to bring her out to the lot.”

“And what the hell’s he doin’ here?” Red says, tilting his chin in my direction.

“Sayin’ goodbye.” I pull my gun from the back of my jeans and point it at Red, and then I slide the barrel back and forth between the two men, shoving Lauren behind me.

“Think about what you’re doin’ here, brother,” Tank says, putting his hands up in surrender. Red reaches for his piece. I turn the gun on him and shoot him once, right between the eyes. Fucker falls to the ground like a sack of shit. Lauren sucks in a sharp breath. Tank checks for a pulse. I assume there isn’t one—he’d have to be pretty fuckin’ lucky to survive a bullet to the brain. Tank fishes Red’s gun from the holster in his pants and hands it to me. “You gotta shoot me, and then you gotta move.”

“Yeah.” He’s right. It sucks, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. Tank’s unarmed. Hand to hand he’d take me down in seconds flat, but no man ever argued with a bullet and expected to come out standing. “Where do you want it?”

Tank shakes his head. “It’s gotta be an arm shot. That way it looks like you were aiming for my chest, but missed ’cause you’re a fuckin’ lousy shooter.”

“Screw you, arsehole.”

“Hurry the fuck up. If you take any longer, they’re gonna be out here, and we’re both gonna be runnin’.” He squeezes his eyes closed and waits for the bullet to hit him. It’s only a graze, not enough for anyone to believe that he still couldn’t take down his shooter, especially if she were a girl. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose.

“Fuck. Sorry,” I say, and fire off three shots. One hits him in the bicep. The others burrow into the wall behind him.

“Ah, fuck!” he shouts, clutching his hand to his arm to stem the flow of blood. His eyes are narrowed into slits, and he looks like a bull, ready to charge. “You owe me, motherfucker.”

“I know,” I say.

“Well, get the fuck outta here, or I’m gonna shoot you myself.”

He’s right, I don’t have time to worry about Tank because I’m guessing I have all of about five seconds before my brothers come streaming out of the clubhouse, wonderin’ what the fuck is goin’ on. I jump on the bike and rev the throttle. Lauren climbs on behind me, and we tear away from the garage, toward the front gate.

Jumping off at the booth to open the gate, I hold the handlebars steady while princess slides into place. She could always just take off—she’s spent a lifetime around the club, and I don’t doubt that Slayer would have taught her how to ride, but something tells me she won’t.

While she’s keeping the engine running and the revs up, I hit the button for the gate, and I yank out the video feed. I have to trust that Tank will remember to erase the tapes before they cart his pansy arse off to the hospital, or we’re both dead. I climb back onto my bike, and we fly down the street, taking practically every back alley we can to avoid being seen. I don’t think we’ve been followed, and all that shit with Tank was probably a wasted effort because as we tore away from the clubhouse, I didn’t see a single brother comin’ outside to see what all the fuckin’ noise was.

It’s full dark when I pull up to her father’s clubhouse. I flip the kickstand down and climb off the bike. Princess stumbles off, but her whole body’s quaking so much that she falls to the ground. I scoop her up, cringing when I feel how cold she is. She tucks her head in against my chest. She’s listless, probably from the ebb of adrenaline through her system. I’m surprised she didn’t fall off the damn bike. She’s been in that dungeon for only a few short days, but they must’ve felt like an eternity to her.

The Severed Sons don’t have a booth like we do—they’re a relatively small clubhouse, even though Slayer is notorious for being one of the scariest motherfuckers out there—but I know without a doubt they’ve got cameras, and possibly a gun trained on my head as I push the buzzer.

“Yeah?” a bored sounding voice says through a crackling speaker.

“Tell Slayer I have something he wants.”

“Who is this? And what the fuck could you have that Slayer wants?” So maybe they don’t have cameras on me. I glance up at the decrepit-looking camera above my head and notice the red light isn’t flashing.

“Turn on the fuckin’ video feed.”

The little red light begins blinking, and there’s a muffled crash, like smashing glass and an, “Oh fuck.”

I walk over to the gate as it’s opening and wait.

One.
Two.
Three.

Ten angry motherfuckin’ Sons storm me from the clubhouse. All have guns trained on my head, though if they shoot me they risk hurting Lauren, and if what Red said was true, that Slayer wasn’t bargaining whatever the fuck he could to get his daughter safely back, maybe he doesn’t care that the fall could crack her head open. Or that she could get hit with one of the shots intended for me. Maybe he just doesn’t give a shit about what happens to her.

“You alright, baby?” Slayer says, making out like she’s his number fuckin’ one priority. If he really gave a shit, he woulda traded whatever the fuck he could to get her back. The longer I think about this, the more I wanna wedge a bullet into the space between his eyes. I wanna shoot that dumb fucker in the face for letting a man she barely knows be the one to risk his life for hers, when her own father wouldn’t.

Lauren nods but tucks her head against me.

Slayer takes a step forward and then his gun is at my head, even though I’m the only thing keeping his daughter from cracking hers against the concrete. “What the fuck did you do to her?” he curses, getting a good look at her face.

“I didn’t do anything to her,” I say, though I know he doesn’t believe that, and it’s not exactly true. There’s no telling what I would have done if that raid hadn’t been so damned well-timed.

“Your Prez mustn’t value your life any. He’s gotta know the only way you’re leaving here is in a body bag?”

“He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“What the fuck you sayin’, boy?”

“I’m saying that I risked my life, that I’m risking it right now to get princess away from there, which is fuckin’ more than you did.”

“Princess?” The big Italian dude from the rally is on my left side, also holding a gun to my head.

“Careful, kid. I got an itchy trigger finger. It goes off when people start saying stupid shit in front of me.”

“She needs a doctor, probably a morning-after pill too, and screen her for fuckin’ STIs.”

“You saying your fuckin’ Angel-scum cock has been near my little girl’s pussy?”

“No, I’m sayin’ every other Angel had his hands on her but the one who really wanted her, but then they made me watch that shit, over and over again. I’m sayin’ she’s been through fuckin’ hell and back, and she needs away from everything that even remotely resembles bikers.”

The Italian stows his gun and moves to take her from me, but she screams and curls closer. “You gotta let go now, princess. I gotta hand you over.”

Her panicked gaze meets mine. “He’ll shoot you.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Yes, he will.”

I smile down at her. “What are we just gonna stand here forever, you in my arms, your dad holding a gun to my head? If he shoots me, he shoots me. Ain’t nothing I can do about that, princess. At least I’ll know I did one thing right.”

She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

I nod because it’s true. If Slayer hadn’t come at a deal, Prez would’ve eventually killed her, and he’d have tortured her some more first. “Promise me somethin’?”

“What?”

“Get on your feet and then get the hell outta here. Prez will come looking for you again. He’s not a guy who likes to lose. Take as much money as you can, and get the fuck away from this life. Otherwise you’re gonna wind up filling a body bag way too young.”

Lauren is wrenched away from me then. She screams as the Italian carts her off toward the clubhouse, flailing and slapping at him despite her injuries.

“Daniel!” she screams, reaching out toward me as he struggles to get her inside. Without thinking I take a step forward, but I’m attacked from behind. My knees go out from under me, and I’m shoved face-first into the ground. Some heavy motherfucker sits down on my back. I buck, trying to unseat him, but I’m whacked in the back of the head until I stop.

“Well, isn’t that fuckin’ touching? The Angel scum, in love with my daughter? Didn’t I warn you away from her once before?” Slayer asks, circling me like a predator circles prey. The biker using me for a chair shoves his gun against the back of my skull.

“Yeah, I did,” Slayer continues, and he motions for the guy on top of me to force me to stand. I’m dragged up by the hair and presented to Slayer. “At the rally, where she fuckin’ went missin’!” His red, blotchy face almost touches mine. He’s so close I can see the blood vessels snaking out from the corners of his eyes. He’s fucking high. His daughter’s been locked up, raped, beaten, treated like a fuckin’ animal over some shit that she shouldn’t even have to know about, and the arsehole’s gettin’ high as a fuckin’ kite instead of findin’ her? He makes me sick. He’s everything I hate about the life. And he’s more than likely exactly where I’ll end up because this is what we are—this is what livin’ in the club gets you: bitterness, enemies, and a shit-tonne of bad blood.

Slayer punches me in the gut. I double over, winded from the impact.

“Get up,” he says, holstering his gun and shoving me until I stand upright. “So your prez doesn’t know you’re here, and I’m thinkin’ once he learns of your betrayal the fucker’s gonna put you to ground quicker than you can blink. He’ll tear you up first, of course. He’ll make you bend the knee and beg for your life, and then he’ll gut you like a fuckin’ fish. So, you know what I’m gonna do?”

“Send me home,” I say because I know how arseholes like him think.

He claps. “How ’bout that, boys? Kid’s a thinker.”

Stifled laughter sounds through the group of men. I stare them down, and the only thing I see is dirty, worthless, piece-of-shit hard-faced criminals, just like there are in my own club. Just like me.

“I’m not fond of thinkers, see? They’re the ones that start stirring up shit, givin’ people hope. Makin’ ’em think there’s something better out there in the future, if only they could follow that fuckin’ rainbow. I don’t make a habit of keepin’ thinkers around, and I certainly don’t need no smart-arsed Angel scum fillin’ my girl’s head with stupid shit that’ll only get her killed.” Slayer sucker punches me. Right in the fuckin’ nut sack, and I go down like the piece of shit that I am. “Have at him, boys. Just make sure he’s got all his limbs to drive back to the clubhouse with.”

I’m already on the ground when the first boot connects with my ribs. I try standing, but some arsehole shoves me back down with a kick to the face. My shoulders and legs are pinned. I buck and try to wrench my arms and legs free, but with eight men beating on me, freeing my limbs makes very little fuckin’ difference. I’m not going anywhere until they let me. I’m pissed on, spat on, and swelling up like I’m in fuckin’ anaphylactic shock. There’s one punch after the other, the slash of knives in my flesh, and steel-capped boots kicking my face, groin, and ribcage. It feels like hours but is more than likely only minutes, and it’s a small price to pay if it means I never have to watch her be beaten and raped again.

After a while, the Italian comes out of the clubhouse and orders the other men away from me. I drag in a jagged, tender breath, grateful for the reprieve. He rolls me over so I’m staring up at his face, and the stars in the night sky beyond him. He lifts me by the lapels of my cut and slams me down on the concrete. I feel my skin split, and warm blood pours out. And then I’m dragged out of the gate, across the rough concrete and thrown to the curb like trash. I close my eyes, and for the first time, I don’t see the terrible things I’ve done in my very short life as I drift into unconsciousness.

I see nothing.

I am nothing.