KICK

“Killer’s bike’s here, but it don’t look like no one else is back yet,” Tank says as he punches the code into the gate. The loud metallic grinding against concrete alerts me to them swinging open, and oddly—even though I’m likely to get my balls handed to me in a brown paper bag for going against the Prez’s wishes—I feel a sense of relief.

Fat Boy, a huge black pit bull dumber than the shit that comes out its arse, barks as Tank eases the van into the compound.

“Where’s the fucking dirty bastard that touched my woman?” Raphe’s booming voice filters through the closed van doors. Fuck. They let him out of lock-up sooner than I’d thought they would. My relief is short-lived. “I’m gonna skin his dick and roast it on an open fire, and then feed it to him.”

Tank shoots out of the front seat and intercepts him before he can open the door and find his dentist dead as a doornail. “There was a complication, Brother.”

“What fucking complication?” The doors are yanked open and sunlight floods the van, blinding me momentarily. All I see are two massive black shadows looming over us.

“Who’s in the tarp?”

“That would be our friendly neighbourhood dentist,” Tank says.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Raphe shouts. “You boys had one fucking task—deliver that little cock-fuck to me, and I’d rip his head off. What the fuck happened?”

“Kick happened.” Tank mutters, folding his huge arms across his broad chest. “Went in there guns blazin’, just like Trigger, and punched a whole in the motherfucker’s head.”

“I oughtta punch a fuckin’ hole in his head.” Raphe pounds his fist against the roof of the van. It causes the girl in my arms to stir, and I really want to get her locked away in my room before Prez gets home and she starts skitzing out. “Who’s the bitch?”

“Kick’s new toy,” Tank supplies helpfully with a shit-eating grin. “Pretty, ain’t she?”

“She smells like shit.”

Tank threads an arm around Raphe and walks him away from the van. I deposit the girl beside the body of her attacker and ease out of the back. Then I shrug off my hoodie and dress her in it while she lays there unconscious. The hoodie swamps her, but it doesn’t completely cover the length of her body. I take an anxious look at her face, making sure she’s still asleep before I nudge her knees apart with my hands. There are no gashes or even blood, but beneath the filth coating her flesh she’s bruised, pretty badly. I want to know what he did to her. I want to know because a part of me wants to harm her, too. A part of me wants to bruise and mark her flesh, see her writhe and twist and scream beneath me.

I trace my fingertips over soft flesh, marvelling at how easily it bends to my will, at how goose bumps slowly creep over her exposed skin.

Standing behind me, Tank clears his throat. “You wanna move this to your bedroom, brother?”

That’s the thing about Tank; nothing ever fazes him. He gets in, gets the job done. He feels nothing. And he sure as hell doesn’t lose any sleep over it. Tank is an ex-Angels nomad. When that shit went down in Sugartown and our whole chapter was slaughtered in a farmhouse in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, he didn’t bat an eyelid.

I went to him because I knew he wouldn’t have any qualms about killing me. He knew the betrayal I had brought upon the club, he knew what they’d done to me months earlier, and he knew what they had done to her. He knew everything, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised when I showed up, bleeding all over his doorstep. He’d just laughed and handed me a beer while my guts were spilling out all over the place, and then he called in the good doctor to patch up the stitches I’d busted open while trying to flee the cops at the hospital and hitch a ride back to Sydney.

And then he brought me to the Saints. He convinced Prez to take me on as prospect and burned the Angels insignia from my arm with a fucking cattle brand before the Saints could see it. He knows about my fucked-up arrangement with Ivy, knows that after Lauren, I can’t get off any other way than by hurting, bruising, or punishing when I fuck. He knows and couldn’t give a shit. He doesn’t feel anger or remorse, fear, pain or torment. He feels nothing. And that’s what makes him truly terrifying. When you have nothing you care about, nothing to lose, you’re indestructible.

I remove my hand from the woman’s thigh and scoop her up in my arms. She’s still unconscious, but it feels as if she’s snuggling into my chest. Or maybe that’s just too many drugs thinking.

Fat Boy jumps up all around us, licking at the girl’s legs and nipping at mine as we walk around to the front entrance. The clubhouse is quiet with most of the brothers gone. Though maybe quiet is the wrong word, considering the banshee screams of pleasure coming from the whore that Killer has bent over the couch. He shoots me a curious look as we pass, but I quickly avert my eyes and continue on to the hallway. Tank follows. His room sits right beside mine, though it only ever gets used when he can’t be bothered riding back to the mountains. I fish out my keys with one hand, and Tank opens the door for me because I have mine full of crazy.

Ivy is spread out on the bed. A mirrored plate with three neat little white lines, all running parallel to each other, sits nestled in sheets that I’ve needed to change for far too long. Ivy blinks up at us and runs a finger over her gums. Cocaine dusts her chin and chest.

“From one fucked up bitch to another.” Tank chuckles and turns to me with a look of disbelief. “What are you, collecting them?”

“Jesus Christ, Ivy. How many lines have you done today?”

 “Who’s the girl?” she slurs accusingly. She looks like fucking shit, all strung out and shaking with bloodshot eyes and a bad case of bedhead. Ivy knows how it is between us; she knows she ain’t ever gonna be riding on the back of my bike, but she still makes out like it might one day be a possibility.

“No one.”

“Why is she in your arms if she’s no one?” Her eyes close and she sighs as she chases her high. A smile only meant for the things inside her head plays on her lips. She comes up on her knees and tugs at my belt. Her hands are weak and fumble twice before she can get it undone. I roll my eyes and edge away from her. “I need to be fucked, Kick.”

“No, sweetheart, you need a stint in rehab.”

“I got your rehab right here, baby,” Tank says, clutching the bulge in his jeans. Ivy licks her lips and smiles like the cat that got the fucking cream. Tank throws her over his shoulder, smacking her arse as he carries a shrieking Ivy from the room.

I lay the woman down on my bed, quickly moving Ivy’s little party treats and setting them on the dresser before covering her with a sheet. I go to my cupboard, where Ivy stores all her shit. Unlike the other brothers, this is my home. I don’t have some fancy fuck-off house in the mountains like Tank or Prez, or even a shitty rundown apartment in the city like Grim. This room contains everything I own. This room contains everything Ivy owns, too. I never thought about that before, but as I rummage through her bags and pull out an unused needle, it hits me. I’ve let her become too familiar with me. Ivy’s gorgeous; not just because of the way she looks outwardly but she’s so beautifully broken that I just gravitate towards her.

I love the broken ones because for a brief second, in the heat of the moment, I can forget how fucked up I truly am inside. I can forget about the darkness that I crave. I can forget who I am and focus on someone else’s pain, because that has to be infinitely better than wallowing in my own.

And I have so much of it, seeping from every pore in my body. So much pain, and betrayal, and fucked-up-ness. All of it.

I am the king of shit, and my throne is built upon the bodies of all I have betrayed; my crown is made of her teeth and tears.

I wasn’t always this way, though. Once upon a time I was happy, content with my swift slide into a life of criminal activity and debauchery. And now? Now I’m just bitter and hollow. Soulless. Fucked up.

I walk over to the bed, pulling the cap off the needle with my teeth. I wrap my belt around the woman’s arm and cinch it in tight. Grabbing a spoon from the kitchenette that I built into my room, I sprinkle a little of the coke onto it, and then flick my lighter beneath it, waiting until it bubbles and becomes liquid. I pull back the plunger and draw it up through the needle, and then I release the air. The woman’s eyes open drowsily. She glances at the needle in my hand and shrieks, kicking like a wild animal, despite her injuries. She struggles against my hold, screaming. I cop an elbow to the face. Her nails rake the skin over my bare chest, but I lunge onto her and lean my weight against her body. I can’t reach her arm without copping a kick to the face, so I plunge the needle into her neck, instead.

She sobs as her weak hands pound against my back. I ease off of her and watch her wide, panicked eyes lose the fight against the drug coursing through her veins.

“I hate you,” she spits, barely able to keep her eyelids open.

“I saved your life.”

“You should have killed me.” She laughs. It’s a weak and worthless sound. “The first chance I get, I’m going to put a knife in your heart.”

“Shh,” I whisper, stroking her disgusting, matted hair as I lie down on the bed beside her. She flinches and tries to pull away, but the coke makes it a lost cause. She’s weak from malnutrition, coke, and whatever drugs he’s been cycling through her system for who knows how long. When she slips under, her breathing is light but fractured, as if she’s nursing a broken rib.

I study her face. I wish I could sink my fingers into her skull and pull out all the memories she’ll spend her life trying to repress. I wish I could run a feed from her mind to mine and see exactly what the dentist did to her.

I follow the curve of her lips with my fingertip, trace her thick, black lashes. She has a sweet, slightly upturned nose, and I know now why he took her. She may be skinny, but the bitch is fucking gorgeous. Even beneath the dirt and the freshly beaded sweat on her skin, the swollen cheeks, the tangled hair, she’s beautiful. Maybe she’s beautiful because she looks like she went ten fuckin’ rounds in the ring with Tyson and she’s still comin’ out swinging. The longer I stare at her, the more I come to understand this. I begin to see why I saved her, because on some level I saw in her what I’ve only ever seen in one other person: fight. Not self-preservation or the need to beat the shit outta someone like my brothers do on a daily basis, but fight, as if every cell in her body was made up of it, and it’s fucking glorious. Even bruised and filthy, and as physically defeated as she is, this crazy bitch is beautiful. Even in sleep, her fight is undeniable. And I am harder than I can ever remember being. I strip off my jeans and slip beneath the covers, then I wrap my arm around her, pull her close, and close my eyes.