Page 22 of Kick

“What the fuck happened here?” Prez demands, appearing in the doorway. I glance at him, briefly, and then wonder why Tank is studying my face and not calling a fucking ambulance.

“Call a goddamn ambulance,” I roar, but he just continues to stare at me.

“No ambulance. Someone better fuckin’ start talking.”

“She’s gonna die if we don’t get her help.”

“Tank, call the Butcher,” Prez demands. “I need inside her head. I need this bitch alive long enough to tell us what she knows, but no fuckin’ hospitals. We clear?”

I shake my head in disgust but continue to pump away at her chest, continue to push air into her lungs, breathing for her. It feels like an infinity, but when she finally regains consciousness, coughing and spluttering, I shift behind her and support her head on my bent knees. She vomits. I turn her head to the side and let the green bile land all over the rug. I’m covered in it. She’s covered in it. My rug is covered in it.

“Jesus Christ,” Prez mutters.

Tank pockets his phone. “Butcher will be here in ten minutes.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and glance at Indie. She’s alive; trembling, but listless, and she’s already falling asleep again. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with her, but I know the Butcher is going to charge me through the nose because she’s wearing the contents of her stomach like a fucking wedding gown. In the hall, Ivy is still shrieking. Tank shoots me a glare. It’s full of the promise to inflict a lot of pain on me later, and then in three angry strides he’s gone from the room.

I don’t know what the fuck his deal is; perhaps the geriatric giant has a fuckin’ heart after all. Either way, I can’t be Ivy’s keeper anymore. It’s not doing either one of us any bit of good. Ivy never belonged to me; maybe she did in her mind, but it wasn’t like that for me. And the more I try to show her that, that I’m sick, that I’m fucked in the head and full of this dark desire to hurt people, the deeper she falls. It’s time that changed.

I stare down at the girl in my arms and wonder whether history isn’t just on fuckin’ repeat. Not just with Ivy, but Indie, too. Losing Lauren destroyed me, and yet here I am in the same goddamned situation: protecting another stupid bitch from my club and myself.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Ivy screams between sobs. “Don’t touch me.”

The sounds of her losing her shit and lashing out at Tank filters in through the open door. He grunts, no doubt warding off each of her blows about as patiently as a bear with a thorn in its foot, and then lets out an almighty roar, “Stop. Fuckin’. Struggling. Bitch!”

The shrieking goes silent, the door beside mine opens, then slams, and the room and the hallway are swallowed by silence. I glance at Prez, who’d been close enough to the door to watch the entire scene. He shakes his head and turns his attention back to me.

“You wanna get her in the shower? I can get one of the girls to clean this shit up.”

“I don’t wanna move her until the Butcher gets here.”

“What the fuck happened, kid?”

“It’s my fault. I drugged her before I left; I thought she’d be out to it for hours. I didn’t put the pills away.”

“You know for someone who’s as determined to die as she is, you’re awfully fixated on keepin’ her breathin’.”

I smile, but it’s full of remorse. Prez steps further into the room and closes the door behind him, taking a seat in the armchair opposite the bed.

“You and I have never really talked about the past.”

“No, we haven’t.”

“You came to the club, and Tank stood for you. He said if it didn’t work out he’d hand over his patch and yours, and we’d never see either of you again.”

“Is this the part where you take my cut and kick me out?”

“No, this is the part where you tell me what you’ve been hiding all this time, and why the hell some bitch you found in a warehouse is suddenly your top priority.” Prez gives an amused laugh. “And then I decide whether or not to take your cut and boot you and this hot mess out on your arses.”

“Let’s just say there was a girl—”

“Isn’t there always?”

“Yeah. Guess so.” I shake my head and lean back against the side of the bed, careful not to disturb Indie, who’s still sleeping peacefully on the rug, surrounded by her vomit. I place my fingers over the pulse in her neck and leave it there, focusing on the slow but steady beat. “It ended badly.”

“Let me guess—with a bullet between her eyes?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

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