“What are you gonna do, brother?”
“I’m leaving,” I say, surprising myself. Tank’s not surprised, though. It’s as though he knew it before I did.
“Your bike’s been fitted with a tracker. Frogger’s been watchin’ the feeds, though it seems your girl took care of that.” He looks her up and down with an appreciative smile. “She pull on you too?”
“Yeah,” I admit.
“Let me guess—you fucked her into submission?”
“Somethin’ like that.” I raise the gun to his head. I don’t wanna shoot him. He’s the only fuckin’ friend I have left in this entire world, but I will if I have to. Sometimes decisions have to be made to ensure your self-preservation, and while I don’t think Tank would kill me over this, if I had to choose between me and him, there’s no question of who comes out on top.
“You really wanna do this? Where the fuck you gonna go, Kick? Prez is already jacked up on the idea of you betrayin’ the club. He’s had a tail on you for a month that you don’t even fucking know about.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about? You didn’t wanna tell me this shit?”
He laughs. “If I’d told you, they’d be stringing my guts up like Christmas lights. I like them where they are. I knew–” He shakes his head. “I thought you’d be smart enough to stay away from the bitch.”
“I stayed the fuck away. She came lookin’ for me.”
“And you couldn’t do what you had to.”
“Could you?” I ask, but I know that’s a stupid question, ’cause Tank never cared for anyone but himself. Tank feels nothing, and right about now, I’m starting to think it’s a pretty good way to be. “Hand over your keys, and get on the ground,” I command.
“You really wanna fuckin’ do this?”
“Not really,” I admit. “But I don’t have another fuckin’ choice, so get the fuck on the ground before I shoot you in the head.”
He tosses his keys to me and puts his hands behind his head, as he slowly sinks to his knees. “They’ll find you. Can’t go to Slayer; he’ll take your girl and boot you out on your arse, and then he’ll be callin’ Prez to tell him exactly where to come pick you up from.”
“Lay down,” I snap, and walk over to Lauren. “Princess, if I give you the gun, are you gonna shoot him?”
“Yes,” she says without hesitation.
Ask a stupid question ...
I sigh. “Wrong answer, baby.”
I keep the gun firmly trained on Tank’s head as I circle his huge form. The fucker knows he can take me, he knows it as well as I do, and though I’m the one holding the gun, he’s the one with the power.
“Weapons, where?” I bark out, half expecting him to tell me to go fuck myself.
“Piece in my leathers, knife in my left boot.”
I squat down and retrieve the gun, shoving it in the front of my jeans. I reach into his boot to retrieve the knife, but I come up empty-handed. Tank rears his foot back, throwing me off balance. He reaches into his right boot and pulls a knife, flinging out his arm and stopping its path a quarter inch from my skin at the same time as I press the barrel of my gun to his head. Behind him in my periphery Lauren stands stock-still.
“Sorry, brother, but I had to make it look believable. They watch the tape back and see me lying low without a fight, I’m as dead as Frogger is, and Red before him.”
I yank the blade from his hand, push the gun harder against his skull, forcing him to lay back down on the pavement.
“Better hide well, brother. If you don’t, you’re a dead man.” He calls to me as I back away with the gun still trained on his head, and I grab Princess, pulling her over to the custom Harley Night Rod belonging to Tank. It’s a fuckin’ Cadillac when compared to my 1991 Fat Boy, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I throw my leg over, the gun still in my hand, as I flip the kickstand, and turn the key, revving the throttle with one hand once Princess slips on behind me.
I pull the helmet from the handlebars and hand it to her, shouting at her to put it on, over the roar of the engine. Then I pass her the gun with a warning as loaded as the chamber. “Shoot him, Princess, and I throw you off this bike. You got me?”
“Yeah,” she snaps. “I got you.”
She wraps one arm around my waist. The other is pointed right at Tank, but as we drive past the corner and by the back entrance to the clubhouse, Juke and Bear exit. It takes my dad all of two seconds to see the gun in Lauren’s hand and Tank on the ground. I don’t think he even registers who’s driving Tank’s bike, but that sure as hell doesn’t give him pause. He pulls his piece and aims at us. I twist the throttle and we lurch forward around the clubhouse and towards the main gate. Someone hit the emergency lockdown switch from the inside. I push the bike faster, and clear the gate before it closes, but the weight’s thrown off because I’m not used to driving such a massive bike, and we skid out when we hit the street. It takes me a second or two to right the bike, and it’s seconds we didn’t have to lose because dear old Dad and Bear made it through the gate after us. I begin weaving all across the road in an attempt to dodge the bullets they’re shooting at us.
“Princess, if you want your revenge on those fuckers, now is the time,” I shout over the roar of the bike. She doesn’t hesitate, just holds me tighter with one arm while flinging the other out behind her and firing off several bullets.
“Fuck. I’m down,” she yells, and then throws the piece. She reaches around to pull the gun from the front of my jeans. Her hand on my cock is distracting, but not as distracting as the almighty explosion I hear seconds after she starts firing shots again. I glance behind us. Juke is still riding our tail, but Bear and his bike are scattered all over the road. “Jesus Christ, Princess,” I shout, but inside I’m filled to bursting with fuckin’ pride and sexual fuckin’ frustration, because fuck me, chicks with guns are hot.
Lauren lets out a triumphant growl that has all the blood in my body racing to my dick. The shots behind us make that pride short lived, and I switch my focus back to the road stretching out in front of me. It’s early morning—three or four, maybe? Apart from the occasional car parked at the curb, the streets are completely deserted.
I weave all over the road, taking a turn at high speed that leads to the freeway. My dad follows. This is one road that’s not deserted. It’s not exactly peak-hour traffic, but there’s a steady flow of cars, trucks, and the occasional bus. I have no desire to stay on the highway. Too many cameras, too many cops, too much at fucking stake to be a sitting duck. We fly across multiple lanes, weaving in and out of oncoming traffic. Lauren’s not shooting anymore, but Juke sure as hell is. If there’s one thing I know about my father, it’s that he can’t stand to lose. Even if it means getting flattened by an SUV. And that’s the only way he’ll give up, is if he’s dead.
“Princess, when I say so, you’re gonna need to shoot the tyres on the tanker.” I shout, pushing the bike closer to the massive petrol tanker headed for us.
“What?”
“Shoot the fucking tanker.”
“I can’t!”
“Shoot the motherfucking truck, Princess!” I roar.
The shot rings out beside my head, my eardrums squeal their protest and I lose all equilibrium. I veer right, toward the shoulder and away from the tanker that’s sliding all across the road, collecting cars in front of it, when we’re sideswiped by a fuckin’ Hilux. I yank on the handlebars to correct our path, but the bike slides out from underneath us and we’re thrown across the asphalt. I land with a bone-jarring crack, my teeth slam together and my head whacks off of the road. My vision goes black.
I don’t know how long I’m out, but I wake with a start and a searing pain in my head. In the distance I can hear sirens, but it’s overshadowed by the hiss and pop of flaming kerosene. I go to speak, and black smoke fills my lungs. I splutter and roll to my side, gasping for breath, searching for Princess.
“Lauren,” I shout, but my throat isn’t working. Little bits
of tooth crunch in my mouth when I set my jaw. I spit them out, and roll over on my stomach because it’s all my stupid fuckin’ abused body will let me do. Somewhere in the back of my hazy head I realise the tanker is on fire. That wasn’t supposed to happen. This is real life, not fuckin’ Hollywood. Even if Lauren shot the tank, that wouldn’t happen unless there was a spark. Realisation slams into me the way my body slammed into the road. I glance over to the middle of the road and I spot her, illuminated by the flames. She’s lying on the asphalt, Juke standing over her, his boot at her throat, and a smile on his god-forsaken fuckin’ face as he tries to crush the life out of her. Princess squirms beneath him. Her small hands dig into the leg of his jeans, clawing at him. The fucker leers as he tries to snuff out her existence. I stagger to my feet. The world spins, my vision goes dark, and then there’s only rage, red and thick as the blood in my veins.
I don’t think. I just act.
I barrel into him, throwing him off balance and slamming him back into the asphalt. I hold my father around the throat, and slam his head into the road, repeatedly. His hands grapple for purchase as I straddle his waist and choke the life out of him.
His gurgled cries don’t stop my assault, but the wail of sirens do, and we can’t be caught here, or we’ll both wind up in the slammer. I draw back my fist and slam it into the side of his head, and then I rise as quickly as my body, and my likely concussed head will allow. I stumble over to Lauren.
“You okay?”
She nods, but her eyes are wide with terror. It’s a look I’d become too accustomed to in the time that I’ve known her, but it isn’t one I fuckin’ like.
“We gotta get outta here before the cops arrive and start asking questions.” I hold out my hand and she takes it, gingerly peeling herself off the road and standing on shaky legs. One of her boots is missing a heel. I motion for her to prop her foot up on my knee and it takes some work, but eventually I snap the spike off the other one. She might not be runnin’ anywhere anytime soon, but at least she won’t break her damn neck.
“That man,” she says, looking past me. “Is he dead?”
I glance back at the body of my father lying prone on the asphalt, and then turn back to her. I don’t tell her that I just beat the shit outta my dad to save us both. I don’t tell her he’s merely unconscious. What would it serve but to fill her with more hatred, and anger, and the desire for revenge?
“As a doornail, Princess,” I say, and take her hand. I edge us as far from the burning trailer as possible, and double back to the scene, leading her across the road to a car whose occupants had stopped to help victims of the pile up. Tank’s bike is a write off, and even if it weren’t, they’d be looking for it.
We climb inside a beaten-up old Charade and take off while the owners are preoccupied with watching the tanker burn. When I check the rear-view mirror, they aren’t any closer to realising their car is gone, and the further we get from the sirens, the more my heart rate returns to normal. The sirens get further away the longer we drive. I glance over at Lauren and notice her shaking—no, not shaking. Her whole body is vibrating. She’s in shock. I take her hand in mine and bring it to my lips, nipping and biting her clammy flesh. “Hey, you still with me?”
“Yeah,” she mutters, but it’s an automatic response. She’s not here in this car with me.
“We got this, Princess,” I say, and maybe I’m just lulling us both into a false sense of hope, because I have no idea where to go from here. We’re both beaten up pretty bad. Grazes cover her upper thigh and arms, and we’re both bleeding from the head, but our injuries are the last of our problems right now because everything Tank said is true. They will find us, and they’ll kill us, so I’d better seek out the best motherfuckin’ hiding spot, or it’s gonna be so much worse than the shit-storm we just rode through.
I jolt awake from another nightmare, my arms smacking against the floorboards. My head swims, my body aches all over, and with the way the moonlight streams in through the window, for a split second I think I’m back inside the warehouse. Crickets chirp outside, and a lonely owl calls into the night, and I know I’m not at that warehouse, because nothing had life there but my screams. I press my ear to the wall and listen for a beat. Biker’s not there, or if he is he’s not dreaming.
I stand, stretching out my protesting muscles. Everything hurts, but for once it’s a welcome pain, because it means I’ve accomplished something. It means I’m stronger than I was yesterday. I wrap one of the silk robes Mia left inside the box around me. It’s black and really the only thing comfortable enough to wear downstairs—not everyone can pull off designer fuchsia coloured playsuits. I’ve been sleeping in nothing because in that entire box of clothing there was one damn T-shirt, and I’ve already worn it every day this week without washing. I’m also out of clean underwear; I’ll have to locate the laundry room tomorrow, because god knows Biker’s clothes could do with a wash too.
I open the door and creep downstairs to the kitchen. I pull a glass from the cupboard and fill it with water. I have only a small sip when a noise from the west wing of the house draws my attention. I set the glass down on the bench and softly pad up the hall. The gymnasium light is on and the sound of flesh hitting the bag over and over again filters out through the partially open door. I push it wider.
Kick is facing away from me, tattoos on display, back slick with sweat. It drips from his hair onto the rubber mat flooring. His arms piston with his frenetic punching. One after the other, his bare fists slam the bag. He’s merciless, an animal in his rage. I move forward, my feet making no sound against the mats. I can’t see his face, but I feel the fury coming off of him.
What has happened to this man that he can be so full of violence and hate? Was it the same as me? Is that why he saved me? Did someone hurt him too? I’ve seen his scars, the perfect circular cigarette burns up his arms, the angry, jagged marks over his hard abdomen. They’re covered mostly by his tattoos, and maybe an ordinary person wouldn’t notice them—maybe the old me wouldn’t have noticed them either—but there’s a silent exchange between victims. I feel it every time we’re together. I felt it the first time I met Grim. I stared at his scars and wept, because though our situations were probably vastly different, I’d been where he had, at the mercy of a monster, and neither one of us had come out unscathed.
It’s different with Kick. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can still feel his hurt from a mile away.
His grunts of exertion pull me away from my thoughts. His hands are damaged, the skin busted, stretched raw and bloody over his knuckles.
“Stop!” I reach up and grab his shoulder. He whirls around. One fist guards his face, and the other is pulled and ready to strike.
I suck in a sharp breath, staring at his loaded fist, waiting for the blow to connect.
“What the fuck are you doin’?”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. “I don’t know.”
We’re both breathing heavily, him from exertion, and me from fear. He lowers his fist, but then he uses his other arm to pull me into his body. Sweat soaks the silk robe I’m wearing. My nipples harden against his warm chest. He smells incredible, of pheromones and rage. He works his free hand around my back, tugging me closer before threading his fingers in my hair and grasping the nape of my neck.
I inhale. He exhales.
His dark blue eyes bore into mine. They’re so full of violence that it should frighten me, but the longer I stare into them, the more I want every punishing touch he has to offer. He lowers his head, pushing the side of my robe apart to reveal my breasts. They’re small, and under his scrutinising gaze, for the first time in my life I find myself wishing I had more. Wishing I had the kind of figure he’s used to seeing around the clubhouse, the kind worthy of draping over a motorcycle. It’s not the first time he’s seen me naked, but it’s the first time that matters.
He lowers his head and nips at my clavicle, kissing and biting his way down to my breast, taking my nipple
in his mouth and sucking hard. My body goes electric, humming from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. I arch into his touch, into his mouth with its cool metal piercings. He releases me with a loud sucking sound. I moan, threading my hands through his sandy-coloured hair. My flesh is on fire, and he is the balm. He licks a path to my other breast, consuming me as he would his favourite meal. There’s violence and worship in his touch, and I’m drowning in both. Swallowed. Consumed. I savour it. Revel in being handled, being venerated, being something worthy of the kind of hunger reflected in his gaze.
Biker kisses my neck, across my jaw, but he doesn’t kiss my lips. He pauses instead, pressing his forehead to mine.
He breathes. I breathe.
I slide my hands from his hair, down his powerful shoulders and across his chest. I toy with the barbell through his nipple, and he makes a low growling sound in the back of his throat, as if he’s barely keeping himself contained. I wish he’d let go. I want his violence, his pleasure—I want whatever horror he is hiding inside of him. I want it unleashed, if only to be able to understand him better.
He grinds his erection against my thigh. I run my hand down his hard stomach, luxuriating in the feel of each rigid indentation, and then I seem to lose control of myself entirely and run my hand over his denim-covered cock.
I’m not the only one losing control. Biker’s lips smash down on mine, his tongue pushing inside, tangling with my own and drawing a desperate, needy cry from me.
Next thing I’m weightless. My knees go out from under me and I’m slammed back against the rubber mat in much the same way I was earlier today, only now he’s not holding back. Now we’re not fighting so much as ripping and tearing at one another, seeking refuge in our bodies. His hand slides between us and yanks hard on the sash holding my robe together. The black silk falls away and I’m completely exposed to him, my pale flesh, my bruises and my scars, all of it laid before him.
Kick Page 19
