Page 6 of Kick

“I got your rehab right here, baby,” Tank says, clutching the bulge in his jeans. Ivy licks her lips and smiles like the cat that got the fucking cream. Tank throws her over his shoulder, smacking her arse as he carries a shrieking Ivy from the room.

I lay the woman down on my bed, quickly moving Ivy’s little party treats and setting them on the dresser before covering her with a sheet. I go to my cupboard, where Ivy stores all her shit. Unlike the other brothers, this is my home. I don’t have some fancy fuck-off house in the mountains like Tank or Prez, or even a shitty rundown apartment in the city like Grim. This room contains everything I own. This room contains everything Ivy owns, too. I never thought about that before, but as I rummage through her bags and pull out an unused needle, it hits me. I’ve let her become too familiar with me. Ivy’s gorgeous; not just because of the way she looks outwardly but she’s so beautifully broken that I just gravitate towards her.

I love the broken ones because for a brief second, in the heat of the moment, I can forget how fucked up I truly am inside. I can forget about the darkness that I crave. I can forget who I am and focus on someone else’s pain, because that has to be infinitely better than wallowing in my own.

And I have so much of it, seeping from every pore in my body. So much pain, and betrayal, and fucked-up-ness. All of it.

I am the king of shit, and my throne is built upon the bodies of all I have betrayed; my crown is made of her teeth and tears.

I wasn’t always this way though. Once upon a time I was happy, content with my swift slide into a life of criminal activity and debauchery. And now? Now I’m just bitter and hollow. Soulless. Fucked up.

I walk over to the bed, pulling the cap off the needle with my teeth. I wrap my belt around the woman’s arm and cinch it in tight. Grabbing a spoon from the kitchenette that I built into my room, I sprinkle a little of the coke onto it, and then flick my lighter beneath it, waiting until it bubbles and becomes liquid. I pull back the plunger and draw it up through the needle, and then I release the air. The woman’s eyes open drowsily. She glances at the needle in my hand and shrieks, kicking like a wild animal, despite her injuries. She struggles against my hold, screaming. I cop an elbow to the face. Her nails rake the skin over my bare chest, but I lunge onto her and lean my weight against her body. I can’t reach her arm without copping a kick to the face, so I plunge the needle into her neck, instead.

She sobs as her weak hands pound against my back. I ease off of her and watch her wide, panicked eyes lose the fight against the drug coursing through her veins.

“I hate you,” she spits, barely able to keep her eyelids open.

“I saved your life.”

“You should have killed me.” She laughs. It’s a weak and worthless sound. “The first chance I get, I’m going to put a knife in your heart.”

“Shh,” I whisper, stroking her disgusting, matted hair as I lie down on the bed beside her. She flinches and tries to pull away, but the coke makes it a lost cause. She’s weak from malnutrition, coke, and whatever drugs he’s been cycling through her system for who knows how long. When she slips under, her breathing is light but fractured, as if she’s nursing a broken rib.

I study her face. I wish I could sink my fingers inside her skull and pull out all the memories she’ll spend her life trying to repress. I wish I could run a feed from her mind to mine and see exactly what the dentist did to her.

I follow the curve of her lips with my fingertip, trace her thick, black lashes. She has a sweet, slightly upturned nose, and I know now why he took her. She may be skinny, but the bitch is fucking gorgeous. Even beneath the dirt and the fresh layer of beaded sweat on her skin, the swollen cheeks, the tangled hair, she’s beautiful. Maybe she’s beautiful because she looks like she went ten fuckin’ rounds in the ring with Tyson and she’s still comin’ out swinging. The longer I stare at her, the more I come to understand this. I begin to understand why I saved her, because on some level I saw in her what I’ve only ever seen in one other person: fight. Not self-preservation, or the need to beat the shit outta someone like my brothers do on a daily basis, but fight, as if every cell in her body was made up of it, and it’s fucking glorious. Even bruised and filthy and as physically defeated as she is, this crazy bitch is beautiful. Even in sleep, her fight is undeniable. And I am harder than I can ever remember being. I strip off my jeans and slip beneath the covers, then I wrap my arm around her, pull her close, and close my eyes.

I’m always nervous at rallies like this. Opposing clubs come together with a bunch of stuffed teddy bears strapped to our bikes and pretend as if we’re not secretly plotting to off one another in a different setting, with much less media coverage. We play nice with arseholes that we’d likely gut on the street given the chance, and it’s all in the name of the kiddies.

It’s not the opposing clubs that are the problem though, or at least it’s not the other clubs that are making me nervous. It’s that members from the Banditos chapter in Byron are here. Members I falsely accused of ambushing us a year ago when I saved my best friend’s arse.

Ethan—or Elijah, if you want his pansy-arsed new name given to him by the state after he was released from prison with a government issued “get out of jail free” card—and I had grown up brothers. Our fathers belonged to the Angels, still do, and they indoctrinated us into the family when we were barely old enough to ride a goddamned push bike, let alone a motorcycle. But Ethan had been sent to jail; he took the wrap for me, and when he was let out early on good behaviour he disappeared without a trace, Prez had sentenced him to a date with the reaper.

Course we had to find him first. We hadn’t even been looking when Rocker and I were on a run up north and spotted him and his old lady at some quiet country-town parade. Every fibre of my being wanted to beat down my brothers in order to allow Ethan to get away, but my hands were tied. When push came to shove, I chose Ethan. I shot my VP in the back and chose the brother who had abandoned me over the brotherhood I had patched into. I had two options—spend the rest of my life running, or fake an ambush and ride back to the club with my tail between my legs and some bullshit story that would cost a lot of people their lives. Prez had gone in, guns blazing. We’d invaded the Byron chapter and shot up every last motherfucker in that club, women too.

Other charters heard about it, ties were broken and business deals were hard won. And from what I hear, the big bad B’s are still out for blood. So fuck yes, rallies like this make me un-fucking-comfortable, to say the least.

“You keep staring over there and some fucker’s gonna come beat in your head in front of all these cute kiddies here,” Tank says, smacking the back of my skull. He holds out his hand and I clasp it as he pulls me into a one-armed hug, striking my back with a loose fist in a show of brotherly affection.

“Hey man, where you been?”

“Brisbane, Gold Coast, out west, and every shit hole town in between. Prez’s got me tied up in so much shit I’m starting to reek of it.”

Tank is the closest thing I’ve had to a friend since Ethan left. But he’s not Ethan, and I’m not the same stupid kid I was. “Hit me up next time then. I could use some time away from the club; old man’s breathing down my neck. Can’t take a piss without him popping up to put the fuckin’ chokehold on about where I am in the club and where he was at my age.”

“You’re a ballsy little fucker, I’ll give you that, but you’re not cut out for the jobs I do, man. You’re too fuckin’ sensitive.”

“I am not fuckin’ sensitive.”

“Yes, ya fuckin’ are.” He grins. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that, brother. You’re just a pussy, is all.”

“Fuck you.”

Tank sweeps his huge arm out and playfully tags me in a head lock. I buck and writhe in his grip. With a little more pressure and a twist of his bicep he could decapitate me in the blink of an eye. I make a mental note not to ever do anything to ensure I’m handed over to his tender loving care in the future.

I’m busy looking at the ground when a pair of spiked heels attached to very long leather-clad legs stop in front of us. Beside the perfect pins, an overly-tanned pair of much shorter legs stand on equally high heels. I follow them up past a mini skirt, a midriff pink top and an average pair of tits. Her face is made up with too much gunk—too dark, too orange, too fucking Oompa Loompa. Her friend on the other hand, is the shitPlayboyis made of—sweet curves to her hips, a toned stomach, big, fucking perfect tits nestled into a vest that’s far too tight so they spill out in front.Fuck me. Rolling my eyes up further, I’m met with a long neck, shiny brown hair and clear brown skin—not that fake-tan shit her friend’s wearing, but a creamy café au lait colour. She looks like one of those fancy fucking lattes, and I am a man dying of thirst. Pale blue eyes glare at me, but the corner of her mouth tips up in a seductive smile. I thump Tank in the kidneys again and he quickly releases me.

“Excuse me, boys,” the brunette says, and Christ on a crapsicle, she has a voice like whiskey and melted butter combined. It’s soft, but husky all the same, and it immediately makes me think of shoving my cock in between that perfect, full pout. A beat passes. One in which we both just stare at one another, and then, feeling some of my wits return, I quit staring and take a step towards her. She doesn’t back up. We’re face to face, chest to chest, fucking cock to pussy, and all I want to do is shove myself so far up inside her that I poke a hole out the other side and see daylight.

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