Page 37 of Kick

Up ahead Prez and Killer fire off shots. Someone is shooting from behind me—Grim, more than likely. I don’t have time to check because Prez takes aim and fires, blowing out the front tyre on the left-hand side. The van swerves, but cuts back in close, too close. They almost take out my bike, and Indie screams as the side of the vehicle brushes our legs. I pull my gun from my holster and take aim. Indie tucks her head into my back. Trigger comes flyin’ up the inside, overtaking Prez and emptying his clip into the windshield of the van. His aim isn’t so fuckin’ great, and a stray bullet slices the air as it whips past our faces. I don’t have time to tell Indie to move, but seconds later I’m taking comfort in the fact that her trembling hands are still holding onto my waist with a grip tighter than death, it means she hasn’t been hit.

Crazy fuck. We make it outta this alive and I’m gonna beat that fucker’s head in.

I fire off an entire clip. One shot makes contact and the van swerves across the road, colliding with an oncoming SUV. It’s airborne, and then it comes crashing down in front of us. Prez swerves out into oncoming traffic. Grim hits the brakes, but not fast enough; he’s thrown from the bike and lands on the shoulder. Killer and I both manage to swerve around without incident, but I brake too hard and Indie’s helmeted head smacks into mine.

For a half second I’m blinded with pain. It hurts like a fuckin’ bitch, and I pray like hell that we’re not about to be rear-ended because I can’t fuckin’ see straight. I ease us off on to the shoulder of the road, but as I turn the bike around and see my brothers in various stages of devastation, I realise it could have been worse. Prez rides over to the upturned van followed by Trigger, who’s fuckin’ lucky he’s not getting his face pounded in. Prez puts the kickstand down and climbs off the bike, then he leans down to look in the window, fires off several shots and opens the door with a gloved hand. A body falls out, some fat-arsed white motherfucker with his face all pockmarked with bullets. I bring us to a stop near the van, flip the stand and climb off, grabbing Trigger by the cut and slamming him into the side of the vehicle. “What the fuck were you thinkin’?”

He lifts his hands in surrender, his eyes wide with shock and his body all jittery and hopped up on adrenaline. I’m shakin’ too, but I’m not fuckin’ dumb enough to pull half the shit he does when the rush is pumping through my veins. He smiles. “I was thinkin’ about takin’ those motherfuckers down, brother. Prez said to take care of her like she was our own.”

Jesus fucking Christ. He’s like an over-excited puppy.

“And you thought the best way to do that was, what? To cut us off and shoot your motherfuckin’ gun in her face?”

“I saw a chance, I took it,” he snaps back, and my whole body goes rigid. Taking chances is what will get you fuckin’ killed. I pull back my arm and punch him in the face. His head rocks back into the side of the van and I release him. Trigger doubles over, clutching a hand to his nose.

“You wanna risk your life? Fine. But don’t fuckin’ play with hers,” I say, pointing to Indie. I glance at her. She’s not freaking out, or at least she doesn’t appear to be, but her wide-eyed gaze is glued to me as she sits astride my bike. I can’t explain it, but I suddenly feel awkward under the weight of her stare.

“Alright you two, back to your fuckin’ corners,” Prez says. He points to Trigger. “You fuckin’ disrespect me by riding front again andI’mgonna break your fuckin’ nose. We clear?”

“Yeah Prez. We’re clear.” Trigger holds the bridge of his nose to stem the blood flow, and sits down on the asphalt.

“I’m gonna need you to take a look at these men, darlin’,” Prez says to Indie. “You need to tell us if they’re who we’re after.”

Indie climbs off the bike and takes a few tentative steps forward. I realise now that she wasn’t just kickin’ back on my bike a second ago; it was more than likely she was worried about standin’ up and seeing the faces of the men than just tried to blow our brains out.

She stumbles a little. I reach out my hand to her and she glares at my upturned palm.

“Sea legs, darlin’. First time on the back of a bike is like stepping off a boat onto land. It goes away, though,” I say, attempting to make her feel better. I glance at Prez, whose brows are raised skyward.

“Douche bag.” Killer coughs into his hand. I glare at him. He coughs again and thumps at his chest, clearing his throat as though something is lodged in it.

Indie places her hand in mine and I lead her towards the van. We both crouch down to take a better look at the dead guys inside. If Trigger’s bullets hadn’t killed the driver than the steering wheel impaling one side of his face certainly had.

She presses a hand to her mouth and shakes her head, standing to her full height in her painfully white new tennis shoes and a pair short shorts I pulled from the pile of shit Ivy had left in my room. “It’s not them.”

“Well, who the fuck are they?” Raphe says, limping over to us. His shoulder hangs at an unnatural angle. I glance down the road. His bike is in pieces over the shoulder, about three hundred metres back. The minivan is pulled up beside it and the driver, a flustered-looking mother, stands taking pictures on her phone.

“Sent by the motherfuckers no doubt. Plenty of people got beefs with the Saints, but none that’d be stupid enough to pull this shit in broad daylight,” Prez says. “You two better get outta here. We gotta get somewhere safe and set dumb-arse’s shoulder here. There’s a butt-load of witnesses too many. We need outta here before the cops show up.”

Once our men are all accounted for, I jump back on the bike. Indie slides on behind me and clings to me even tighter than before. I wasn’t sure that was possible, but she’s trembling as she fits her lithe body around mine and tucks her head in against my back. Her teeth chatter, and her head bobs against my shoulder blade. I don’t know what to say to her. What can you say to someone who has two men that want you dead so badly they’d hire a couple of dumb fucks to take you out? Beats the fuck outta me, although it’s certainly not like I haven’t been in her shoes before.

I rev the throttle and we take off, leaving my brothers to clean up the shit, remove plates and hastily scratch off the serial numbers of the bikes that are too far gone to move. They’ll likely give our budding photographer from the minivan a shake down too. That shit’s not pretty, especially with kids in the car, but you do what you gotta to stay the hell out of lock up.

I take a slightly more scenic drive to Prez’s house in the mountains. I’ve been here several times since joining the MC, and if circumstances were different I might even relish taking someone to a remote cabin where it’d be just the two of us, but this isn’t exactly a romantic fuckin’ getaway. And I’m not fuckin’ boyfriend material. Been there, done that, got the scars—both mentally and physically—to prove it.

I pull into the drive. It looks like a damn mansion more than a cabin. Indie takes off her helmet and stares up at it.

“Holy shit, do they have a butler too?”

I shake my head. The bitch nearly got gunned down a little less than an hour ago, her life has gone from normal to full-blown fuckin horror movie in a month, and she’s cracking jokes? “No butler, but Prez would probably appreciate a French maid. You should definitely bring it up with Mia.”

“Is she okay with this?”

“Apparently she made out like she gave a shit, but she gets a fuckin’ week at the Sheraton, so I’m sure she’ll live.”

“She’s not staying with us?

“No, it’ll just be you and me.” I say, and then frown when I remember that’s not exactly true. “And the three bikers outside, patrolling the grounds at night. They’ll sleep in the den downstairs during the day.”

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