Page 56 of Kick

“You’re gonna be riding somethin’, but it ain’t gonna be my bike.”

Her painted red mouth turns up in the corners, and she puts her tiny hand in mine. I think of Indie when she does that, of me doing this same very thing, and daring her to take it. Daring her to trust me.

Pissed off that she’s invading my fucking thoughts again, I yank on the blonde’s arm and lead her past the whoops and exclamations of ‘go get him tiger’ from her friends, out into the crisp mountain air. I try leading her around the corner, but the second she sees my bike she heads for it. “Can I sit on it?”

“No,” I say, too sharply. She frowns and glares at me. “You don’t just sit on the back of a biker’s ride. You have to be invited.”

“Don’t you wanna invite me?” she says, stumbling a little on her ridiculous heels.

“Bitch, the only thing I want you ridin’ is my cock.”

“You bikers are so aggressive. I love that.” She glides over to me, dancing to music only she can hear. I snatch up her hand and drag her around to the side of the building. It’s an alleyway, it’s dank and cold as fuck, but it’ll do. She moves closer to me, her eyes on my mouth, but I have no desire to taste her lips so I grab her chin with my hand and turn her head to the side, kissing her neck. She tastes like perfume, and after a couple of seconds I’m gagging from it. Her hands are busy with my jeans. She unzips my fly and takes my cock in her hand, pausing when she feels the piercing.

“Are you—?”

“Why don’t you take a closer look?” I push on her shoulders so she’ll get the fucking hint. I almost praise fuckin’ Jesus when she goes down on her knees before me. The bimbo takes me in her mouth and I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the brick wall. My fingers rake her hair into something I can hold onto. I pump my hips forward, shoving my cock to the back of her throat until she gags.

The blonde leans back, taking only the head of my dick in her mouth now. Probably smart, ’cause I’m kind of an arsehole, and I’d likely only try choking her with it again. She quickens her pace, and though I know how good it’s supposed to be, I feel nothing. Nothing like the need I felt when I had Indie in my arms. I’m numb. I’m furious, and I’m fuckin’ lagging.

I shove the girl off of my limp dick, she falls in her stupid fuckin’ heels and lands on the seat of her arse on the hard concrete. I tuck my cock back inside my jeans.

“Hey,” she protests.

As I make my way over to my bike, all I can think about is the way Indie looked spread out before me, asking to be accepted, to be wanted. And I wanted to. God damn, did I want to take her, and shove inside her, and show her that even with her scars she was fucking perfect—or that maybe, she’s perfect because of her scars. Maybe that’s the reason I want her so fuckin’ much. Because she’s been through hell and she looks like a fuckin’ warrior. But if she’s a warrior, then what does that make me?

Warriors don’t need saviours.

Warriors save themselves.

Iwake with a start and I have no idea where I am. The doorknob turns and I glance around, realising I’m still in the gym. I watch the door and at first I think it’s Kick coming back to apologise, but then I get a good look at the guy, and while it’s definitely a biker, it’s not my biker.

“There she is.” The biker with the eye patch announces. I scramble to my feet, pulling the robe closed and wishing Kick hadn’t yanked out the sash. I clutch at the soft silk holding it tight, and then when the Cop follows the biker through the door and closes it behind him, I forget all about my robe and clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from vocalising my horrified gasp.

“Hello, Whore,” the Cop says, pulling his gun and taking aim at my face. “Father James is very disappointed in you.”

“Father James can suck my big fat clit,” I retort.

The biker laughs and moves towards me. “Can I suck your big fat clit too?”

“Don’t touch her,” The Cop orders, and the biker turns to stare incredulously at him.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch her? You wouldn’t have her if it weren’t for me. I took out my brothers for you,” he says, pulling his own gun from the back of his leathers. “I think it’s time I took a little piece of the fuckin’ action.”

Oh god. Kick.

I make a move towards the front of the room but both men turn their guns on me.

“Not another step, sweetheart,” the biker says.

He edges forward, but I refuse to be herded. If he gets the wall at my back, I have nowhere to go. As it is I have no weapons; all I have is fear and fight, but they won’t be enough.

I scream, as loud as I can. I scream Kick’s name and hope to hell that he hears me, but I know he more than likely won’t, because if this biker was smart he would have put Kick down like a dog. He’d be stupid not to.

The biker circles me, stopping at my back. He leans in and sniffs my hair. One hand holds a gun to my temple, the other tries to slide inside my robe. I clench the material tighter in my fists, but he bats them away and grabs my breast in his big calloused paw. He presses his lips to my hair and I turn away, but he shoves the gun against my head. Tears prick my eyes, and threaten to spill over, but I won’t be that pathetic girl I was in the warehouse. I won’t be the girl that Kick stood in front of the mirror, crying and begging him to stop.

“This girl. Is she a fighter or a fuckin’ victim?”

“A fighter. She’s a fighter.”

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