Page 44 of Kick

“A fighter,” I say, gulping in air. “She’s … a fighter.”

“Then fuckin’ show me.” He releases me and I bend double, coughing as I catch my breath. From out of nowhere, I’m hit with the force of a wrecking ball, and I’m slammed back onto the mat. Kick sits astride my hips, pinning me to the ground. My arms are forced above my head.

“Stop!” I cry.

“Show me. Fuckin’ hit me, Kayla. Hit me. Make it hurt!”

The use of my name jars me completely. I still beneath him. “Please, let me go.”

“Not until you show me the fight I saw in you when we first met.”

I squirm beneath him, twisting my wrist against his painful grip.

“Hit me!” he roars.

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck me?” He smiles and lets go of my hands, leaning back to undo his belt buckle. “If you’re offerin’, darlin’”

Something inside me snaps. I lose all trace of Indie, of Kayla, and I become something alien, something animal. I punch him in the face. It may not be the hard and fast jabs he taught me, but he still feels it. Hitting the bag is nothing like hitting a person, though. There’s no crunch, or flesh giving way beneath your fingers to the force of the punch with a bag. This is so much more primal than striking an inanimate object.

He grunts and grits his teeth. “Again.”

I hit him again in the face. He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose and my lips twist into a sneer because I know that one hurt. While he’s distracted I buck in an attempt to get him off me. It doesn’t work, though; my hands are bloody and raw, despite the tape, so I claw at him because he’s still holding me down. I rent his flesh, and four long scratches mar his tattooed neck. There isn’t much else I can do with my hands strapped the way they are.

“I knew you had it in you,” he says. He’s leaning over me now, his face above mine, and he’s panting hard. I am too. “Now you have your attacker’s DNA underneath your nails. If he has a record, the cops will find him.”

I’m only half listening to what he says because the chain around his neck has worked free of his T-shirt and it gently swings back and forth in the space between us. Attached to the chain is a tooth … my tooth. I don’t know how I know that it’s mine. Maybe it’s intrinsic. How does a baby know its mother when it’s only been in the world a day? You know instinctively when you lose something that belongs to you, something that’sofyou. And that tooth is mine.

“Where did you get that?” I whisper, my eyes glued to the piece of me that he’s wearing around his neck like a fucking trophy. He follows my gaze and shoves the chain back inside the collar of his T-shirt, pushing up off me and standing to his full height. He holds out his hand but I knock it away, climbing to my feet. I squeeze my hands into fists, attempting to feel only the rage and to keep the hurt and injustice of what he just did—of everything he’s done to me up until this point—at bay. It doesn’t work, and tears of betrayal and frustration spill over my cheeks.

“You’re sick,” I accuse. He only nods. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you only fight when there’s fear. And you’re too fuckin’ stubborn, and too defiant to see when you should break and when you should fight back. I want you to be able to protect yourself. I want you to be able to fight back no matter who is involved, and who might get hurt in the process. You’re not always going to have four bikers around standing between you and some arsehole that wants inside your pants.”

That’s not what I was asking, and he knows it. I know why he attacked me just now. I want to know why he has my tooth hanging around his neck. I also know he’s not going to give me the answers I want. On this, and this alone, he’s as transparent as glass. I stalk away but he comes up behind me, yanking me around to face him.

I wrench out of his hold and without a second’s hesitation, I punch him in the face with as much force as I can muster. I do exactly what he taught me—I make it hard, and fast, and lethal. His head snaps to the side and he covers his mouth with his hand, collecting a drop of blood from his split lip. To be fair, he’d told me that one of his brothers had given that to him the other day, but I took a little delight in knowing I helped open it up again. He stares at the blood and smiles. “Thatta girl.”

“Fuck you,” I snap, and leave the gym.

In the bathroom, I strip the tape from my hands and slowly peel off my clothes. For the first time since he saved me I don’t cover the mirror. Instead, I look at my body, at the healing bruises and the new ones he just created. I move closer and inspect my face. It’s still a little swollen, there are dark circles under my eyes, and there is a shadow of a bruise high across my cheekbone and temple. I open my mouth, looking at the pink flesh at the back of my mouth where my teeth used to be. Where the most recent extraction came from, the one he wears around his neck.

I’ve endured more pain than most can even conceive. I went through all of that and I’m still standing. I might be covered in bruises that are still healing, and I might be just as scared for what the future holds as I was in that warehouse, but they didn’t break my spirit. My lungs still breathe, my head still processes thought, and my heart still beats. No, those men didn’t break me—those men made me strong. They forced me to see the strength that I never would have known I possessed if I hadn’t lived through their torture. The Cop and the Priest brought out the warrior inside me who is going to bring them both to their knees, and who’s going to smile while doing it. And though it was an arsehole move, Kick was showing me that. If he’d told me I was strong, I’d never have believed it. Now I know for certain. Now I know I could kill them both or die trying, but at least I won’t be sitting around waiting for them to find me.

The mattress dips with the weight of another body and the soft slide of leather and flesh over my naked hips. At first I think it’s just another club whore—god knows I’ve fucked enough of them in the days since Princess has been gone—but then the barrel of a gun is pressed between my eyes. It’s still fuckin’ hot, which means it’s been used recently. My head clears a little and I know instantly without having to turn on the light who is straddling me. Out in the hall I hear nothing, complete and utter dead silence, and considering this clubhouse is home to at least twelve men and doubles as a fuckin’ rumpus room for a bunch of degenerate criminals who come and go at all hours of the fuckin’ day, that’s kinda disturbing.

After Slayer’s boys had beaten me within an inch of my life, bloody and completely fuckin’ broken, I’d ridden to the nearest hospital. I had a fractured wrist, broken nose, a couple broken ribs, two black eyes, and a concussion. They kept me for a few days, and by the time the club had found me Prez was well and truly out for my blood. I fed him some bullshit story about being attacked by a group of teenage thugs that I knew he hadn’t bought. I could see it in the depths of his cold, black eyes, but I’m still waking every day to the same damn dreary fuckin’ existence.

“Pretty brave of you to come back, Princess.”

“I said I would, didn’t I? That first night? I told you I’d be back to kill you.”

“And here you fuckin’ are, makin’ good on that promise. Better get it over with then, darlin’. Mustn’t keep the reaper waiting.”

“Why did you help me escape?” she whispers, her game face is on. I don’t need the light to see that, but that broken girl I glimpsed beneath the clubhouse, and again in my shower, isn’t far beneath the hard exterior. I can feel her, fighting to slink further inside, and fighting to be freed.Always fucking fightin’.

“What does it fuckin’ matter? You’re gonna shoot me anyway.”

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