Page 58 of Kick

“Yeah, if you’d actually hit someone, maybe.” I smile at the old man and nod. “I owe you, brother.”

“Nah, I’m just … pissed … didn’t get to shoot … some stupid-arse mother fuckers.”

“You need to stop talking,” I warn him. I set Indie on her feet and she sits heavily on the tiles.

“You okay, babe?”

“I don’t … I don’t feel anything,” she says, staring at the open door of the gym. I walk over and pull it firmly closed. “I thought I’d feel … something, but there’s nothing. I’m just numb.”

“I know,” I say, taking her in my arms. And I do know. I didn’t feel retribution, or elation, or even satiated when I killed the Angels’ president. I felt numb, because it was way too late to save Lauren.

“He needs a hospital,” she says tilting her chin towards Country.

“He needs the Butcher.”

“Fuck the Butcher … get me a goddamned spoon … I’ll get it out … myself.”

“Shut up, old man.” I pull my phone from my pocket and dial the prez. He answers on the first ring and I tell him what went down while I was off trying to hide my fuckin’ feelings with a stranger sucking my cock. I leave out that last part. No point in upsetting Indie further. He promises that the Butcher will be here soon and orders me to stay with Country.

Forty long minutes later, the Butcher’s Porsche pulls into the drive. I take Indie upstairs because she doesn’t need to meet the man who jabbed her with a needle and knocked her out cold to examine her.

Grim and Killer arrive, reinforcements sent by Prez. I’m not fuckin’ sure what the hell we’re supposed to be “reinforcing”? We already shot dead the motherfuckers, and something tells me that though this fuckin’ nutty Priest wants Indie back to fulfil his stupid-as-fuck prophecy, he will wait her out.

I wait until Country is stitched up, and I help put him in the den downstairs to sleep it off. Prez must have agreed to pay the Butcher a pretty fuckin’ hefty sum because I’ve never seen the bastard doll out medication so freely. I snatch up two pills from the bottle of morphine and pocket them in case Indie needs something.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you,” I say, half hoping Country’s asleep already so I don’t have to do this shit.

He’s not. That old fucker is wide awake and gloating like a stupid son-of-a-bitch. “Seems like you had plenty … of chances. You’re just a stubborn dickhead … when it comes to tellin’ people how you feel,” he says, grinnin’ like a fuckin’ yokel at me. “Besides … you’d do it for me.”

I wondered if that were true. I didn’t think so, not up until this point, and though I was grateful, maybe not even after this point. That was just who I was. Or I thought that was who I was. But honestly? I don’t even fuckin’ recognise myself when I look in the mirror anymore. Lauren had changed me, and Indie seems to have picked up where she fuckin’ left off. I didn’t wanna feel shit; I didn’t want to put others before myself, before my wants, before staying alive, but I did. I was, and I am. And it scares the ever-loving shit outta me. When you patch in, you pledge to die for your prez, for your brothers. It’s all part of the code, but can I make itmycode? I don’t fuckin’ know.

When I open the door, Indie is still sitting on the bed. She’s staring straight ahead; I don’t even think her mind has registered that I just walked in.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand. She doesn’t even flinch, which is really fuckin’ rare for her. “You need a shower. You’ve got blood in your hair.”

I lead her across the hall to the bathroom we’ve shared these last few days. I shuffle her into the room and lock the door behind us. Turning on the spray, I undress and then I slowly peel the ruined robe from her shoulders and edge us both in. I take the showerhead off of the wall and hose her down with it. It’s so much like the first time we did this—her mentally checked-out, and me going through the motions—and yet it’s completely different.

After a few minutes of thawing out under the warm spray, she takes over, scrubbing her face with soap, lathering up the shampoo and washing her hair. There’s a bench seat in the shower, and I sit and watch her body move as the water runs over it. She soaps up her hands and slides them all over herself. I don’t even know if she understands how fuckin’ crazy that shit is making me. I close my eyes and exhale slowly. I can’t do jack shit about the huge fuckin’ hard-on I’m sporting, but she doesn’t seem to notice, she just continues scrubbing, so hard I think she might be taking off skin.

“It won’t come out, darlin’, and the blood is long gone.”

She stares at me with tear-filled eyes. I give her a sad smile, knowing exactly what she’s feeling: as if she’s a bad person for wanting them dead, as if she’s a monster for wanting to see his blood spilled out all over the gym floor. As if there’s something wrong with her for being the one left standing.

“It won’t come out, but it gets easier.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she whispers.

“Nope, not really. It’s just the truth of it.” I shake my head. “You’re not a monster; you’re just human.”

“What does that make you then?”

“A little of both.”

She stares at me for a beat. “No. I think it makes you human, too.”

“A regular guy wouldn’t be hard as fuck watching a woman wash blood out of her hair.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t make you any less of a man.”

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