Page 66 of Kick

“You doin’ alright?” he asks, and he seems as though he’s taking every opportunity to drink me in the way I was with him.

I nod, but then my face crumples, and I bite my lip to stop the tears from spilling out. I shake my head. “You?”

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

Of course he’s alright. Why wouldn’t he be?

He keeps smoothing his thumb over the knuckle of his middle finger. There’s an indentation there, and a tan line from what must be a very thick ring, though I don’t remember him wearing a ring before. Panic seizes my chest for a second, but then I realise that while it might be the right hand, it’s the wrong finger on which to wear a ring of any significance.

“I would have called, but I didn’t know where to find you.” I lie. I don’t know why I said that, and it only seems to have made him angry.

“Then you weren’t openin’ your fuckin’ eyes, babe. I’ve been following you around like a lost fuckin’ puppy for months.”

“Why?” I whisper.

“Now isn’t that the million-dollar fuckin’ question.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Kick.”

“Then you’re stupid.” He shakes his head and stands to leave. “I want you, Kayla. That’s all; just you.” And then he turns and walks away. I watch his back until tears blur my vision, and I can’t see anything anymore.

“Oh honey, what happened?” Kimba asks, squatting down in front of me. She grasps the tops of my arms and I flinch, and suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t like to be touched. I’m a hugger by default, so I’m going to have to work on that.”

Kick and Kimba have been the only ones I’ve felt comfortable enough with to let touch me since I was taken. But right now I’m too raw. I’m too full of feeling, too full of hurt. It’s ironic that I just let the only man who I’ll probably ever feel comfortable with walk away.

“Did that guy say something to you?” Kimba asks, giving me a little space and staring at the retreating figure of my biker as he walks away.

“No,” I say, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands. I stand and straighten my apron. “No, I’m just having a bad life.”

Kimba laughs, and then she snaps her mouth closed when she realises I’m not kidding. I have a pretty good feeling she knows that I haven’t forgotten what happened to me; she’s pretty intuitive that way. “Come on, it’s nothing that a sugar coma won’t fix,” she says and steps inside the café.

I glance once more up the street, hoping to catch a final glimpse of biker, but he’s gone. I follow Kimba inside, breathing in the warm, rich scent of her special mocha. In a way this café feels more like home than my own apartment does.

A part of me would love to just head home and curl up under the covers right now, but another part knows that the minute I do, I’ll fall apart. Only this time, there will be no Biker to put the pieces back together. And I miss him so much. With everything I am, I miss him. I just don’t know if it really matters anymore. He’s a criminal; he made me into a killer and it excited him. Either way, God or no God, religion or no religion, I’m going to suffer for the things I’ve done, if not in the afterlife, then in this one.

Isit in the lounge, downing my fifth beer for the night and listening to Crazy flick another fuckin’ Zippo while we watch some shitty fuckin’National Lampoonmovie that they’ve played a hundred fuckin’ times this month. Ordinarily, there’d be a party on a night like tonight. There’d be more blow and bitches than you knew what to do with, but I guess even club whores need a day off. Prez’s old lady usually hosts a barbeque at the house on special holidays—not that the bitch has ever cooked a meal in her life—still, it might’ve been nice to have somewhere to go other than this stinkin’ fuckin’ clubhouse.

It’s been a pretty fuckin’ miserable Christmas, but it’s not as if I were expecting Santa to stuff my stocking with a hot brunette. No. The only hot brunette I want doesn’t want me back. Ivy may not be around anymore, but there are plenty of other whores I could take to bed, and it’s not without trying, believe me. But I’m so fuckin’ pussy-whipped I can’t even sustain a hard-on with another bitch. I think even my fuckin’ cock misses Indie.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Kick.”

Kick. Not Daniel. And not Biker—a nickname I’d grown kinda fond of—but Kick. The name that everyone else calls me.

I watch Raine fill Crazy’s beer. She’s bent double and her tits are in my fuckin’ face again, but I don’t even feel the hint of a stirring in my dick. She leans across the table to grab my glass, but I shake my head and sit up.

“Fuck this shit. I’m going to bed.”

“You okay, hon?”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “Darlin’, I’m so far from okay that I’m in my own fuckin’ postcode.”

Flick. Flick. Flick.

Crazy is killing me with that fuckin’ shit. One day I’m gonna ram a Zippo up his arse and with any fuckin’ luck, he’ll light up like a fire cracker and piss the fuck off.

“Oh, the girl I kidnapped up and left me,” he says. “Wah, wah, wah. Tell him he’s a whinging fuckin’ little bitch, Raine.”

She shoots him a reproving glare. I lean over and punch him in the side of the head.

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