Page 26 of Kick

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 metalpingand 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.

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