Page 52 of Kick

“Princess, when I say so, you’re gonna need to shoot the tyres on the tanker.” I shout, pushing the bike closer to the massive petrol tanker headed for us.

“What?”

“Shoot the fucking tanker.”

“I can’t!”

“Shoot the motherfucking truck, Princess!” I roar.

The shot rings out beside my head, my eardrums squeal their protest and I lose all equilibrium. I veer right, toward the shoulder and away from the tanker that’s sliding all across the road, collecting cars in front of it, when we’re sideswiped by a fuckin’ Hilux. I yank on the handlebars to correct our path, but the bike slides out from underneath us and we’re thrown across the asphalt. I land with a bone-jarring crack, my teeth slam together and my head whacks off of the road. My vision goes black.

I don’t know how long I’m out, but I wake with a start and a searing pain in my head. In the distance I can hear sirens, but it’s overshadowed by the hiss and pop of flaming kerosene. I go to speak, and black smoke fills my lungs. I splutter and roll to my side, gasping for breath, searching for Princess.

“Lauren,” I shout, but my throat isn’t working. Little bits of tooth crunch in my mouth when I set my jaw. I spit them out, and roll over on my stomach because it’s all my stupid fuckin’ abused body will let me do. Somewhere in the back of my hazy head I realise the tanker is on fire. That wasn’t supposed to happen. This is real life, not fuckin’ Hollywood. Even if Lauren shot the tank, that wouldn’t happen unless there was a spark. Realisation slams into me the way my body slammed into the road. I glance over to the middle of the road and I spot her, illuminated by the flames. She’s lying on the asphalt, Juke standing over her, his boot at her throat, and a smile on his god-forsaken fuckin’ face as he tries to crush the life out of her. Princess squirms beneath him. Her small hands dig into the leg of his jeans, clawing at him. The fucker leers as he tries to snuff out her existence. I stagger to my feet. The world spins, my vision goes dark, and then there’s only rage, red and thick as the blood in my veins.

I don’t think. I just act.

I barrel into him, throwing him off balance and slamming him back into the asphalt. I hold my father around the throat, and slam his head into the road, repeatedly. His hands grapple for purchase as I straddle his waist and choke the life out of him.

His gurgled cries don’t stop my assault, but the wail of sirens do, and we can’t be caught here, or we’ll both wind up in the slammer. I draw back my fist and slam it into the side of his head, and then I rise as quickly as my body, and my likely concussed head will allow. I stumble over to Lauren.

“You okay?”

She nods, but her eyes are wide with terror. It’s a look I’d become too accustomed to in the time that I’ve known her, but it isn’t one I fuckin’ like.

“We gotta get outta here before the cops arrive and start asking questions.” I hold out my hand and she takes it, gingerly peeling herself off the road and standing on shaky legs. One of her boots is missing a heel. I motion for her to prop her foot up on my knee and it takes some work, but eventually I snap the spike off the other one. She might not be runnin’ anywhere anytime soon, but at least she won’t break her damn neck.

“That man,” she says, looking past me. “Is he dead?”

I glance back at the body of my father lying prone on the asphalt, and then turn back to her. I don’t tell her that I just beat the shit outta my dad to save us both. I don’t tell her he’s merely unconscious. What would it serve but to fill her with more hatred, and anger, and the desire for revenge?

“As a doornail, Princess,” I say, and take her hand. I edge us as far from the burning trailer as possible, and double back to the scene, leading her across the road to a car whose occupants had stopped to help victims of the pile up. Tank’s bike is a write off, and even if it weren’t, they’d be looking for it.

We climb inside a beaten-up old Charade and take off while the owners are preoccupied with watching the tanker burn. When I check the rear-view mirror, they aren’t any closer to realising their car is gone, and the further we get from the sirens, the more my heart rate returns to normal. The sirens get further away the longer we drive. I glance over at Lauren and notice her shaking—no, not shaking. Her whole body is vibrating. She’s in shock. I take her hand in mine and bring it to my lips, nipping and biting her clammy flesh. “Hey, you still with me?”

“Yeah,” she mutters, but it’s an automatic response. She’s not here in this car with me.

“We got this, Princess,” I say, and maybe I’m just lulling us both into a false sense of hope, because I have no idea where to go from here. We’re both beaten up pretty bad. Grazes cover her upper thigh and arms, and we’re both bleeding from the head, but our injuries are the last of our problems right now because everything Tank said is true. They will find us, and they’ll kill us, so I’d better seek out the best motherfuckin’ hiding spot, or it’s gonna be so much worse than the shit-storm we just rode through.

Ijolt awake from another nightmare, my arms smacking against the floorboards. My head swims, my body aches all over, and with the way the moonlight streams in through the window, for a split second I think I’m back inside the warehouse. Crickets chirp outside, and a lonely owl calls into the night, and I know I’m not at that warehouse, because nothing had life there but my screams. I press my ear to the wall and listen for a beat. Biker’s not there, or if he is he’s not dreaming.

I stand, stretching out my protesting muscles. Everything hurts, but for once it’s a welcome pain, because it means I’ve accomplished something. It means I’m stronger than I was yesterday. I wrap one of the silk robes Mia left inside the box around me. It’s black and really the only thing comfortable enough to wear downstairs—not everyone can pull off designer fuchsia coloured playsuits. I’ve been sleeping in nothing because in that entire box of clothing there was one damn T-shirt, and I’ve already worn it every day this week without washing. I’m also out of clean underwear; I’ll have to locate the laundry room tomorrow, because god knows Biker’s clothes could do with a wash too.

I open the door and creep downstairs to the kitchen. I pull a glass from the cupboard and fill it with water. I have only a small sip when a noise from the west wing of the house draws my attention. I set the glass down on the bench and softly pad up the hall. The gymnasium light is on and the sound of flesh hitting the bag over and over again filters out through the partially open door. I push it wider.

Kick is facing away from me, tattoos on display, back slick with sweat. It drips from his hair onto the rubber mat flooring. His arms piston with his frenetic punching. One after the other, his bare fists slam the bag. He’s merciless, an animal in his rage. I move forward, my feet making no sound against the mats. I can’t see his face, but I feel the fury coming off of him.

What has happened to this man that he can be so full of violence and hate?Was it the same as me? Is that why he saved me? Did someone hurt him too? I’ve seen his scars, the perfect circular cigarette burns up his arms, the angry, jagged marks over his hard abdomen. They’re covered mostly by his tattoos, and maybe an ordinary person wouldn’t notice them—maybe the old me wouldn’t have noticed them either—but there’s a silent exchange between victims. I feel it every time we’re together. I felt it the first time I met Grim. I stared at his scars and wept, because though our situations were probably vastly different, I’d been where he had, at the mercy of a monster, and neither one of us had come out unscathed.

It’s different with Kick. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can still feel his hurt from a mile away.

His grunts of exertion pull me away from my thoughts. His hands are damaged, the skin busted, stretched raw and bloody over his knuckles.

“Stop!” I reach up and grab his shoulder. He whirls around. One fist guards his face, and the other is pulled and ready to strike.

I suck in a sharp breath, staring at his loaded fist, waiting for the blow to connect.

“What the fuck are you doin’?”

---