“Talk, Indie. Tell me what you know and I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”
“That’s not my name,” I snap. I hate that he called me that. I’m not Indie. Indie is a girl born to hippie parents, a girl that leaves home with a couple of hundred bucks and a plane ticket to India, a girl who lives in the fucking Himalayas for a year with no technology. I’m Kayla Kennedy, born to conservative parents, the girl who aced every test she ever took, the girl who was smart enough to run from danger while all the other bimbos flirted with it. The girl who was kidnapped two blocks from her house, the girl who was raped and tortured for weeks. The girl who was taken by bikers and saved by one who was potentially just as fucked up as the monsters he took her from.
The biker lifts his brow, waiting me out, it seems; though I have no idea what it is he’s waiting for. I scrub a bruised hand impatiently over my face. The Morphine has made me itchy. He bites into the cookie, one of those delicious triple chocolate ones that taste exactly the same no matter which Subway store you get them from, and I won’t lie, I know they kill baby orangutans to harvest the palm oil for those cookies, but they’re freaking delicious.
“I’m not going to break just because you dangle a cookie in front of my face,” I spit.
The biker sets the cookie down on the paper bag and stands. He wipes the grease from his hands on the back of his worn jeans as he walks to the dresser and rummages through the open top drawer. Every muscle in my body tenses as I wait to see what his next move will be. I don’t bother to try and run. What would be the point? He can’t do anything to me that hasn’t been done before.
The biker moves towards me and despite my prior thoughts of self-fortification, I shrink back into the pillows when he circles the bed and parks himself down on the mattress. He lunges. I shrink away, but he grabs my wrist and forces it above my head. The white-hot bolt of pain shooting down my side causes me to still, which makes it easier for him to slap one loop of a pair of cuffs around my wrist and the other to the wrought-iron bed rail.
I stare at the shiny silver restraints for a beat, and then fear seizes my chest, my heart. I thrash wildly, despite the pain in my ribs. I scream and kick, but my legs are tangled in the covers. I can’t do this again. I can’t. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Relax, Little Spitfire,” he says, rising from the mattress. My gaze follows him as he stalks around the bed and slips his leather cut on over a black hoodie. There’s a winged skull insignia stitched onto the back of the vest and patches above and below that read Savage Saints and Sydney. When he turns around to face me I notice the small patch over his heart: KICK. I store all this information away for later and focus on his face as he says, “I’m not going to rape you. When you submit to me, it will be because you need to.”
“That won’t ever happen,” I say through clenched teeth.
His eyes blaze with smug certainty and his mouth tips up in the corners. “Yes, it will. I can help you, Indie.”
His statement makes me want to laugh, but tears well in my eyes again. A knot forms in my throat as I try to hold them at bay.
He can help? How can he possibly help me? How can he possibly fix this?
“You keep saying that and yet I’m still here, handcuffed to a fucking bed, held captive by another sick, twisted scumbag.”
He smirks. Fucking smug bastard. One day he will let his guard down and I’ll take his gun and shoot him in the head, and then I’ll walk out of here, and disappear for good. I may not be able to go home to my family, but I will be free.
“The club wants your captors dead just as much as you do. Seems they have a little something that could incriminate Tank and me in your disappearance, and the Dentist’s death.”
I frown, not understanding what he means by that. The MC didn’t have anything to do with my abduction, so how ... “The tape. The Dentist was recording when you shot him. You left the tape behind?” I ask incredulously, because that is possibly the dumbest thing any criminal has ever done.
He sets his jaw and glowers at me. “Yes, I left the fucking tape behind. I might not have done that if you hadn’t resisted my help.”
“You kidnapped me,” I shout. “Excuse the fuck out of me for not helping you execute your plan to abduct me.”
“I didn’t have to fucking save you, I did it because—”
“Let me guess, you did it out of the goodness of your heart?” I scoff. “You should have let the big guy shoot me if you were too gutless to do it yourself.”
“Bitch, you need to fuckin’ stop talking,” he snaps, stalking over to the door, his shoulders tight with anger and his face twisted into a sneer.
“Where are you going?”
“Out. I got business.”
“You can’t leave me here like this. What if I choke? Or I need to pee?”
“You’ll hold it ’til I get back. And if you choke, then I guess you’re checking into the Pearly Gates early.” He pulls a cigarette from the packet and lights up. Thumbing his keys from the table, he shoves them and his wallet in the front pocket of his jeans. I don’t realise his gun is sitting on the coffee table until he picks it up and holsters it in the back of his jeans. “You should think about what I said, Indie. I can’t erase what they did to you, but with a little cooperation on your part, I sure as shit can take down those motherfuckers.”
“And then what? You’re just going to let me go? Your club is going to let me walk out of here knowing what I know?”
“Pretty much,” he agrees as he ashes his cigarette on the carpet. I glance briefly around the room. It’s disgusting. The biker’s a genuine slob. There’s left over food wrappers and empty bottles of beer strewn everywhere. The room reeks of smoke and mildew. I remember coming to, covered in vomit, the biker hovering over me, and I’m both relieved and mortified that someone had cleaned me up while I was comatose—obviously it wasn’t this guy, because he is a complete pig.
“You keep your mouth shut and we don’t have a problem. We can put the bad guys to ground and you can live out your life however the fuck you want to, and you never see any of us again.”
“And if I talk?”
He smiles. “If you talk, you see me again. And I promise you, my face will be the last thing you see.” Biker winks and slips from the room. The key turns in the lock. He deadbolts the door from the outside.
I roar in frustration, yanking on the hand that’s cuffed to the bed, though I know it won’t do me any good. My left arm is pinned in position with the IV bag. I feel the needle beneath my skin and I long to rip it out, but for some reason I trusted him when he said it was just fluids. I don’t know why, and it’s a feeling that puts me completely at odds with the chills he gives me the other ninety-nine-point-nine per cent of the time. I know I can’t let my guard down with him, but do I trust him enough to let him help me when it comes to finding and destroying the Priest and the Cop as badly as they destroyed me?
I don’t know.
There’s only one thing I’m sure about now: they have to pay. With or without the biker’s help, I will hunt down both men, and I will grin like the devil as the light leaves their eyes.
If I have to sit through one more fuckin’ conversation with Crazy about the brain-dead little Asian pop tart he’s bangin’, I’m gonna pull my gun and unload an entire bloody clip into his face.
We’re sitting in the clubhouse lounge on a black leather sofa that’s seen so many fucking cum-stains you’d need a Hazmat suit in order to remain unscathed. Truth be told, I’m pretty sure the seat of my jeans are wet because Killer just got done banging the shit outta Brooke on this very cushion five minutes before I sat down.
Crazy pulls the lighter from his pocket, flips the lid, rolls his thumb over the flint and watches the flame dance in front of his eyes. Jesus Christ, that’s the nineteenth fuckin’ time he’s done that in the span of twenty minutes. He flips the lid closed and slides it back in his cut. I drink down the rest of my schooner and wish I could just lie the fuck
down without some arsehole wantin’ to strike up a fuckin’ conversation. I haven’t slept properly in days. I’ve gone from the floor to the armchair and back again, ’cause some bitch has been in my bed and it just isn’t right.
Crazy produces the lighter again and flips back the lid; the metal ping and then the spark as his thumb strokes the wheel is the sound of me losing it. I completely fucking snap, snatching the lighter off of him and dumping it into the jug of beer in front of us. Then I close my eyes and sink further down into the soft leather, resting my head against the headrest.
“Dude, what the fuck?” Crazy flies into a flurry, his knickers in a fucking twist as he plunges his hand into the jug to retrieve his Zippo. Beer sloshes out the side and over the jacked-up coffee table, which has probably seen more cumshots than the couch. He pulls out the lighter and wipes it off on his shirt, flipping back the lid and rolling his thumb over the roller. It throws off a few tiny sparks and he stares at it, looking forlorn, as if he’s trying to will the fuckin’ thing to life. He runs the roller across the pant leg of his jeans and attempts to light it again. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” he mutters. “You killed it, arsehole.”
“It’s a Zippo, you crazy fuck. It’s not like you don’t have a drawer full of them anyway.”
“I won’t forget this, Kick,” he says resolutely and I chuckle, because the expression on his face is the funniest fuckin’ shit I’ve seen all week.
“Great, I look forward to you kicking my head in later. Now fuck off, I’m trying to get some sleep.”
Crazy stalks away, muttering under his breath. I swear to God, the longer I spend with my club brothers the more I wonder how Prez expects to be at the forefront of the one per-centers, leading the way in organised crime. With arseholes like Crazy and Country among our ranks the Savage Saints is closer to a fucking geriatric ward at a mental asylum than an MC.
Raine bends over in front of me to wipe up the spilled beer. I have a front row seat to the best fuckin’ natural cleavage in the house. My dick stirs, but I’m bone fuckin’ tired. Raine looks tired, too. She has on too much eye make-up, and her skirt’s a lot shorter than anything I’ve seen her wear so far. She’s sexy as fuck, but she doesn’t need all that shit. In fact, it kinda looks like she’s playing dress-up in her junkie mother’s clothes.
“You need another refill, Kick?” she asks, scooping up the half-empty jug and straightening. She catches me staring at her tits and blushes. It’s endearing as fuck, and on any other given day I’d bend her over the sofa and fuck her in the middle of the room where everyone and anyone could see her ’til she’d forgotten the meaning of the word embarrassment.
“Nah, I’m good,” I say, kicking my feet up on the coffee table she just cleaned. She shoos me off and I see one of those rare smiles from her.
“You get your muddy boots off my table, Mister. I don’t want to give Jett a reason to fire me.”
“Prez isn’t gonna fire you, darlin’.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t afford to take that chance. I can’t shoot a gun and I don’t ride a motorcycle, so unless I’m doing my job properly, I’m not much use to him.”
I laugh, wondering how she’s so completely oblivious. “I’m sure he’d find other uses for you, Raine.”
She shakes her head and carries the jug and our empty glasses to the bar, dumping them in the sink. As she clears the bar she snags the bottle of black Sambuca and then leans over to grab a clean shot glass. Her already short skirt rides up and I catch a glimpse of a white lacy G-string. I tilt my head for a better look and say roughly, “I’m sure we could all find plenty of other uses for you, darlin’.”
“Stop,” she warns, walking towards me on her spiky heels. There’s a rejuvenated skip to her step, though. Raine sits down on the couch beside me, placing the shot glass on the coffee table. She fills it and hands it to me. I down the shot and then place it back on the table, signalling for her to pour another. When she’s done, I lift the glass and offer it to her. She smiles and shakes her head. “I don’t drink while I’m working.”
“Drink the motherfuckin’ shot, darlin’.” I hold it to her lips and she tries turning her head away but I grasp the nape of her neck in my hands, tipping her head back along with the shot so that she has no choice but to open, unless she wants it spilled down the front of her top. “Thatta girl, open up and say ah.”
She glares at me when I pull the shot glass away, but I’m distracted by the drop of Sambuca that’s escaped the corner of her mouth and is running down her face. I pull her towards me and run my tongue along her throat, collecting the droplet off her chin. I smash my lips into hers, forcing my tongue into her sweet little mouth, tasting the liquor on her breath. She makes a sound of protest and tries to ease away, but I hold her to me until I’m done trying to wrench an emotion other than frustration from my consciousness. I draw a big fucking blank. Surprise, sur-fuckin’-prise.
I release her and flop back into the couch, defeated, horny, and feeling like I have a fuckin’ conscience. I don’t fuckin’ like it.
“Kick …” Raine begins
“Nah, it’s alright, darlin’.” I lean forward and grab the bottle from the table, taking a hefty swig of the stuff that tastes like shit, but it keeps me from thinking about the rock-hard cock tucked away in my jeans that I’m ignoring. I pat her knee with my free hand. “I got enough bitches to contend with as it is. Besides, Prez would probably kick my arse anyway.”
“Why would he kick your arse? Because I’m the hired help?”
I laugh. “Oh sweetheart, tell me you’re not that fucking clueless?”
“Screw you,” she says and stands, getting ready to huff off in a fucking pansy-arsed little bitch fit.
I grab her arm and yank her back down onto the couch. “The man wants in your sweet little lacy knickers, Raine.”
“But he’s married?”
“Yes, he is.” I take another swig from the bottle.
She frowns, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Did he … did he say something to you?”
“Didn’t have to. It’s written all over that dumb fucker’s face.”
She straightens her top, yanking hard on the hem, and then balking when she sees she just exposed more of her precious lacy underwear than she intended too. Her face is beet fuckin’ red.
“You’re a perfect fuckin’ ten, darlin’, just the way you are. Some of these bitches need all that shit: hooker heels, short skirts, the make-up … you don’t. You’re not gonna lose your job because you’re not dressing like a slut. In fact, Prez might fire you because you’re trying to look like a slut. Fucker is crazy jealous.”
She smiles. I’m sure deep down somewhere in that girly head of hers she’s twisting my words the way women do. She’s probably telling herself right now that I’m only humouring her. I’m not. I don’t bullshit people unless I think I can gain something from it. Raine’s legs are firmly closed to me and despite the fact that my cock is gonna be starved for pussy for fuck knows how long, I’m okay with that. I wasn’t lying when I said Prez would likely beat my head in if he walked into the club and caught me fucking Raine; he really would beat the shit outta me. Her first shift he called a club meeting to tell us what was going down with her, and to let us know that if he caught any of us going down on her, he’d beat the holy living fuck out of us. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that he was factoring his own needs into that equation.
“Perfect ten, huh?” Raine asks, jolting me back into the room.
I nod. What, does she want it in fucking writing?
“And what’s Ivy?” She’s not asking ’cause she’s jealous; I don’t think Raine has a malicious bone in her body, but she’s gently poking buttons that she has no right to be pushing at.
A humourless laugh escapes me. “Ivy is a red-hot fuckin’ mess.”
“She was when you left her in the hall the other day.” She quietly adds, “I’ve never seen her look so broken, Kick.”
Ah, hell. Th
is is why I’ve stayed in my room for three fuckin’ days. Knowing that shit is one thing, but having to deal with the fallout? I’d rather take it up the arse with a sword than deal with that clusterfuck. “Yeah, had to be done though.”
She nods. “That doesn’t mean it was easy for you.”
“You got a point, Raine? Or are you just gonna poke at the past and make me feel even more like shit?”
“Did it hurt?”
“Little bit, yeah.”
“How’s the new girl coping?”
“Indie?” I ask, rolling my head on the sofa back to look at her. “She’s not. Tried to off herself in my room.”
“I heard.” She offers a sad smile, and fuck me, it’s one of the sweetest fucking things I’ve ever seen. “I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck is with you women? Why the hell are we talking about this shit?”
“Because I know what it’s like to be alone, Daniel. It’s a hard place to be.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head, but she’s right; alone is the hardest place to be. Alone fuckin’ sucks, but what can any of us do about it?
I let her words sink in for a beat, and then I let out an exasperated breath. “Can’t even take a fucking nap in peace,” I say, and push up off the couch.
Raine chuckles. “You’re welcome,” she shouts after me, and I give her the finger as I continue down the hall to my room. To Indie. I’ve left her to sit and stew long enough. Now I need answers; now I need her to trust me. Though that shit didn’t work out so fucking well for the last woman who put her faith in me.
I set my empty pack of smokes on the concrete floor beside me. My arse hurts. I don’t know how long we’ve been here but the girl has been dozing on and off for what feels like hours, sleeping fitfully. She wakes—expecting to be somewhere else, maybe—and startles when she sees me, and then after glowering at me for the longest time, she eventually slips back under.
The door opens and the girl jumps and then skitters back against the wall, instantly awake and huddling in the corner as Tank and Prez stalk into the room.
Kick Page 10
