Page 31 of Kick

Her hatred is a fuckin’ beam that sears me right down to the core. She stands before me, not saying anything, but conveying everything with the tension in her gaze.

“Princess,” I hiss through my teeth.

“He the one that did that to your face?” one of the officers asks. She just stares at him, and he turns his stupid fuckin’ questioning gaze on me. He looks like a fuckin’ dickhead. “You like to beat on your old lady?”

“I didn’t do that, but right now I’m beginning to wish I had,” I warn.

Her eyes dart between me and the cop again, and she says, “My name is Lauren Costello. My father is Slayer—” She shakes her head. “My father is Vincent Costello. He’s the president of the Severed Sons’ Motorcycle club. These people kidnapped me, they’ve held me hostage. Their president … he raped me … he beat me.”

“Stupid fucking bitch,” I hiss, shaking my head.

So Princess has a name, huh? I could have done without knowing what that was, because now the name Lauren will forever be tainted by the fact that I watched her get tortured. That I watched her die right in front of me and that I could do nothing to stop it. And she will die. Prez will see to that. He won’t tolerate that shit. Just because a man wears a uniform doesn’t mean he isn’t just as criminal as the fuckin’ rest of us. And even if she gets lucky and the cops do send her home, we’ll still find her, and we’ll gun her down and string up her insides like Christmas tree tinsel, because that’s what we do to rats. You rat, you die.

“Ah, shit,” the fatter of the two officers says. His porky belly protrudes over his belt, and he jams a finger through the belt loop and tugs it upward. “And this guy? He rape you too?”

She glances at me, and it’s the fuckin’ damnedest thing, but I think I see guilt behind her eyes. “No. He was trying to help. He promised to get me out of here.”

“Stop fuckin’ talkin’, bitch,” I shout. Every word that comes out of her whoring trap sinks me further in the shitter, and she doesn’t even know it.

“Did he now?” the cop asks. Princess nods her head vigorously.

Tilting his head towards his partner, the cop yanks me out of the way while the other grabs Lauren’s wrists and hauls her through my bedroom and out into the hall.

“Wait,” she protests. The wall blocks my view of her but I can hear the panic rising in her voice. “Can I at least get my clothes?”

“Nope. We need them for evidence,” the cop replies.

“Ow, you’re hurting me.”

I don’t need to be told to move forward, cuffs or not. I all but sprint after them, only I’m yanked back by the officer. “There’s been a slight change of plans.”

“Get your filthy fuckin’ piggy hands off me, motherfucker.” I try twisting from his grip, but he yanks my arms up behind me, causing my elbows and shoulder blades to groan and protest the pain.

“Walk,” he commands, holding my arms at bay by the chain connecting my cuffs. I stagger out into the hall as he urges me forward. The gun trained at my head is the only thing keeping me from head-butting this motherfucker and making a break for it. Well, that and the cuffs, pinning my hands behind my back.

As I clear the hall, I’m not met with my brothers kneeling on the floor, all lined up in a degenerate little line of criminals, the way we’d usually be in a raid. Instead, my prez is relaxing back on a fuckin’ La-Z-Boy, sharing a bottle of top-shelf scotch with some douchie lookin’ rail-thin officer of the law, and my brothers are spread throughout the front room, arms folded, guns in holsters, and fuckin’ unhappy expressions on their faces. Though for some of them that’s a regular expression. My father included, who leans against the wall and doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s probably fuckin’ pissy that he didn’t get an invite to Prez’s “Let’s Kidnap A Rival MC’s Daughter And Rape And Torture Her For Fuckin’ Kicks” party.Cunt rag.

The only people that look as if they’re havin’ a good time here are Prez and the fucking arsehole in blue who’s holdin’ Princess close to him and feelin’ up every inch of her body as she struggles.

Prez watches me closely as I’m pushed towards the centre of the room. I might have my eyes glued to the fucker whose paws are all over Princess, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel Prez eyeballing me harder than a whore he wants inside of. “And speaking of fuckin’ pathetic,” Prez says as I’m forced down on my knees before him. “I had such high hopes for you, Kick. We raised you from a fuckin’ babe, we made you into a man, and then you go and turn into a snivellin’ fuckin’ pussy, over some fuckin’ pussy.”

Sniggers come from all around the room. “Have you been inside her tight little cunt yet?”

“Fuck you.”

He leans forward and strikes me across the face. I rock back on my knees with the force of the blow, and then I’m shoved flat on the floor, his boot pressing against the back of my neck, crushing my upper spine.

“Get comfortable, kid,” he says. “I’m gonna teach you the difference between takin’ pussy and fuckin’ being one.”

I growl into the filthy carpet. My eyes dart wildly around the room and land on my father. He looks bored. The arsehole looks as if he’d rather be scratching his arse than standing here, watching his son debased in front of the club.

My eyes dart to Tank but he glares back at me, stoic as ever, and then he turns and leaves the room. Prez doesn’t try to stop him. No, Prez doesn’t care about anything but teaching Princess and I a lesson.

Her screams make me struggle. Prez lifts his foot and for a second I can breathe easier, and then he calls Frogger to his side and the fucker straddles my back, pulling my head up by the hair, my neck yanked up at a painful angle.

He leans down and whispers, “I’m gonna savour this moment forever, you little shit.” He jerks on my head again and I’m forced to see it: her, them, touching her, tasting her, hurting flesh that should be mine to hurt. Punishing her cunt with their cocks as she screams and struggles and bleeds. I try to close my eyes but Frogger punches my kidneys to make me watch. Prez and the police officers take it in turns, and then Juke steps forward. His mouth turns up in a sideways grin that even the devil wouldn’t touch. He lifts her up. She’s bruised and beaten, covered in cum and blood and spit. She’s not even crying anymore—she doesn’t fight, just allows herself to be positioned wherever they want, however they want.

“Wait,” I growl out. I’m surprised anyone but Frogger hears me with the ruckus of the room.

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