KICK

I slam the door and stalk away from the gym. I only make it to the kitchen before I lose my shit entirely.

“FUCK!” I roar and swipe the empty pizza boxes off the counter. I’m full to fucking bursting with violence. I need to punch, and hit, and feel bone crunch under my fists. I need to choke the life out of something. I need to fuck, to smash into a woman’s body over and over again. I need … I need her.

I didn’t wanna fucking need her. I don’t wanna need her. I never wanted to feel this shit, this helplessness again. I already gave one bitch the power to break my heart and she tore it all to fuckin’ bits when she died, and now Indie’s in there, trying to tape that shit together, trying to see something more inside me than I deserve. And I can’t fuckin’ do it. I won’t.

I stomp toward the front door and gather up my keys from the bowl in the foyer. I need to get the fuck outta here. I need a real motherfucking drink, and I need a bitch that hasn’t been all jacked up by some psychotic priest to ride my cock.

Jesus Christ. I wasn’t fucking lying when I said I was attracted to the fucked-up ones. I’d thought Ivy was bad, but there ain’t no hope for that bitch in the house.

Country’s sitting on the front step when I walk outside, shotgun in his lap and whistling some fuckin’ old-timey tune, no doubt. I ignore him as I walk over to my bike.

“Where are you going?”

“Out,” I say, sliding my helmet from the handlebars and putting it on.

“There’s blood on the moon, boy.”

“Gonna be blood fuckin’ everywhere if I don’t get up inside a motherfuckin’ pussy soon.” I shake my head at the fucking crazy old coot and mount my bike, flipping the ignition switch and twisting the throttle until she roars to life. The V-Twin Revolution engine purrs and my balls pull up against my already hard cock. I walk her back a few paces, away from the other bikes, and then I give her some kick and ride off. I can’t open her up the way I want to on the unsealed road, so I head out to the highway and just ride.

After a while, I grow tired of thinking, and I head back towards the quiet little town of Leura. I pull up outside the pub and park my baby, stroking her dark orange racing stripes. I miss the ride; lately, I’ve been nothing but a glorified babysitter. I hang my helmet over the handlebars and walk inside, ignoring the faces who stare me down when I take a seat at the bar and order a JD with no ice. The bartender is a weary lookin’ dude, rail thin, save for the beer gut, with greying hair almost as bushy as his eyebrows. He grunts and takes my money, and then disappears once he’s handed me my drink.

I glance around the bar. There’s a hen’s party at a booth in the corner. The bride-to-be is decked out in a pink feather boa and a crown with pink plastic penises attached to it. They’re all drunk as fuckin’ skunks. Sadly, Princess Penis is the only one hot enough to put a ring on, but then I’m not looking to be tied down. I’m just lookin’ for a quick, hard fuck.

I pick up my drink and sit in the booth in front of them, and then I wait.

It takes about five minutes of girlish squeals and murmuring before a plucky blonde comes and falls into the seat across from me. I’m pretty sure she meant to sit down, but I guess she doesn’t realise how drunk she is.

“You’re hot,” she slurs, with a flirty smile.

Jesus fuckin’ Christ.

“You’re drunk.” I smirk and bringing the glass to my lips I check out her cleavage over the rim. I chuckle when she feigns innocence. We both know why she sat down at my table, and it wasn’t to tell me that she thought I was hot.

I don’t understand regular people. In fact, this bitch is why I hate people that aren’t attached to the life. At the clubhouse, if you want your cock sucked, there are always willing mouths available. There are twenty fuckin’ club whores to the ten of us. There’s no pretention, no lead-up, just pure, fuckin’ unadulterated pleasure.

I down the rest of my drink and stand up, offering my hand to the ditzy blonde who I’m hoping has a mouth like a fuckin’ Hoover and a snatch tighter than a vice. “Come on, darlin’.”

“Are we going for a ride?”

“You’re gonna be riding somethin’, but it ain’t gonna be my bike.”

Her painted red mouth turns up in the corners, and she puts her tiny hand in mine. I think of Indie when she does that, of me doing this same very thing, and daring her to take it. Daring her to trust me.

Pissed off that she’s invading my fucking thoughts again, I yank on the blonde’s arm and lead her past the whoops and exclamations of ‘go get him tiger’ from her friends, out into the crisp mountain air. I try leading her around the corner, but the second she sees my bike she heads for it. “Can I sit on it?”

“No,” I say, too sharply. She frowns and glares at me. “You don’t just sit on the back of a biker’s ride. You have to be invited.”

“Don’t you wanna invite me?” she says, stumbling a little on her ridiculous heels.

“Bitch, the only thing I want you ridin’ is my cock.”

“You bikers are so aggressive. I love that.” She glides over to me, dancing to music only she can hear. I snatch up her hand and drag her around to the side of the building. It’s an alleyway, it’s dank and cold as fuck, but it’ll do. She moves closer to me, her eyes on my mouth, but I have no desire to taste her lips, so I grab her chin with my hand and turn her head to the side, kissing her neck. She tastes like perfume, and after a couple of seconds, I’m gagging from it. Her hands are busy with my jeans. She unzips my fly and takes my cock in her hand, pausing when she feels the piercing.

“Are you—?”

“Why don’t you take a closer look?” I push on her shoulders, so she’ll get the fucking hint. I almost praise fucking Jesus when she goes down on her knees before me. The bimbo takes me in her mouth, and I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the brick wall. My fingers rake her hair into something I can hold onto. I pump my hips forward, shoving my cock to the back of her throat until she gags. 

The blonde leans back, taking only the head of my dick in her mouth now. Probably smart, ’cause I’m kind of an arsehole, and I’d likely only try choking her with it again. She quickens her pace, and though I know how good it’s supposed to be, I feel nothing. Nothing like the need I felt when I had Indie in my arms. I’m numb. I’m furious, and I’m fuckin’ lagging.

I shove the girl off of my limp dick, she falls in her stupid fuckin’ heels and lands on the seat of her arse on the hard concrete. I tuck my cock back inside my jeans.

“Hey,” she protests.

As I make my way over to my bike, all I can think about is the way Indie looked spread out before me, asking to be accepted, to be wanted. And I wanted to. God damn, did I want to take her, and shove inside her, and show her that even with her scars she was fucking perfect—or that maybe, she’s perfect because of her scars. Maybe that’s the reason I want her so fuckin’ much. Because she’s been through hell and she looks like a fuckin’ warrior. But if she’s a warrior, then what does that make me?

Warriors don’t need saviours.

Warriors save themselves.