Page 12 of Savage

The woman slaps at my arms to ward me away, but I clench my jaw, wrap my hands around her waist and yank her towards me, and out of the bathtub. I set her down roughly on the mat as I unlock the door and shove her into the room. I stalk naked over to the edge of the bed and pick up the gun, then I empty out the magazine and set the gun and the clip on the table.

The room is always stifling after a shower. With no windows and a pretty shitty central air-conditioning system the clubhouse is stuffy as fuck, and we have to rely on the small ventilation fan above the shower to suck up the steam. Of course, I didn’t remember to turn that fucker on because of the crazy bitch I had to wrangle into my shower.

I turn to the beaten-up old dresser and pull out a new pair of jeans. Sliding them on, I turn and look at her. Her eyes are downcast, her arms still attempting to hide her body from view. “What’s your name, little spitfire?”

She glares through bloodshot, puffy eyes, dropping her gaze to the gun. I quirk a brow and tilt my head towards it, daring her to take it. She doesn’t; she just glares at me.

“What’s your name?”

“Go fuck yourself,” she whispers. A beat passes. One in which the old wounds left byheropen up again, rending my heart open. I’m reminded of a conversation I had with a girl that sounded very much like this one, and looked almost exactly like this one, too. Only her skin was a pretty latte colour, and this girl’s is pale.

“That’s a nice name,” I whisper, echoing words from what seem like a lifetime ago.

CHAPTER SEVEN

KICK

TWO YEARS AGO

Ipush Cindy, or Kim, or whatever the fuck her name is off my dick the minute I finish coming and collapse on my bed beside her. She lets out a sexy little moan and crawls up the mattress, lying down flat on her stomach.

“God, the way you fuck is incredible, Daniel.”

I fucking hate this part. I mean, really? Could she come up with something any more unoriginal? Was it the four orgasms I just gave her that gave it away? I hate this part because all I want is for her to take her skanky-arsed pussy out of my room and away from my bed before she gets cum all over my fucking sheets. But I don’t kick her out; maybe it’s because I’m lonely, or maybe I’m just too fucking lazy to point towards the door. Either way, the bitch is taking up space in my bed, and even though I hate it, I couldn’t be fucked doing shit about it.

“It’s Kick,” I say, rolling onto my back and pulling a smoke from the bedside table. I light it up and take a deep drag, blowing out smoke rings. “Only my friends call me Daniel, and you are not my friend.”

“Well we seemed pretty friendly a moment ago,” the whore says. She snatches my cigarette and draws the smoke into her lungs. I don’t try and reclaim it. The butt has ruby red lipstick all over it, and I have no desire to have this whore’s mouth anywhere near mine. Instead, I close my eyes and let the pull of post-orgasmic bliss drag me under.

Seconds later, some arsehole is pounding on my door.

“What?” I shout, waking up the club whore next to me. She groans and buries her head beneath the pillow.

“Time for church, kid.”

Ah, fuck, my goddamned dad. I’m gonna get a fucking arse-rimming about the stunt I pulled at the rally. My dad, Robert Johnson, aka Juke, has never beaten around the bush about his desire for a better son. All my life he’s told me how inferior I am, how unworthy I am of the patch, and how Ethan has always shown more promise as a prospect than I ever did. But Ethan is a traitor, a rat—at least in the club’s eyes. They don’t know he never sold us out; he just traded his cut for his freedom, and by the looks of the girl he was shacking up with, I’d say it was the smartest move he ever made. The club don’t know about any of that, though. If they did, I’d be dead because I shot my VP in the back to save the friend who abandoned me, and I took a beating to help the bastard escape. I guess I really am unworthy of the patch I wear because I chose a civilian over the brotherhood. I chose Ethan, and I’d do it again because he is more family to me than the rest of the brotherhood has ever been.

“Sometime today, arsehole,” Juke hollers, banging on the door.

“I’m comin’,” I shout back, bolting out of bed and sliding into a pair of stained jeans, a black T-shirt, and my cut. “Hold your fucking horses, Dad. Jesus.”

I slap the club whore on the arse. “Get up. I got business.”

“Go sort your business. I’ll be here waiting when you get back.” She gyrates against the mattress, and yeah, her arse is tempting, but been there, done that, probably got the fucking clap to prove it.

I take hold of her arm and yank her upright.

“Ow, you’re hurting me.” She claws at my hand, attempting to free her wrist. I stalk towards the door and open it, depositing her arse in the hallway, buck naked. “Jeez, you’re an arsehole, Kick.”

“I learned everything I know from dear old dad here,” I say, folding my arms and setting my gaze on my father. He looks just like me, but older: blue eyes, dirty blond hair, full sleeves, blond scruff, and like he’s spent twenty years doing hard time. He didn’t, of course. My father’s too smart to be caught by the boys in blue, and he’ll tell you, too. Every fucking chance he gets.

I step into the hall and pull my keys out of my jeans, locking the door behind me.

“Can I at least get my clothes?” she whines, standing now and covering herself from our eyes like she’s the Virgin fucking Mary.

“Door’s locked, sweetheart,” I say and fold my arms over my chest again. This is sort of a defence mechanism when my dad’s around. I’ve done it since I was a kid, and try as I might, I’ve never been able to stop.

Juke chuckles at the club whore—or maybe he’s chuckling at me. I don’t know. I don’t fucking care. My father pulls the whore at my door towards him, mauling the face off the bitch I just fucked. He’s such a fucktard. Everything is a goddamned competition with him, and he bests me every fucking time. He makes sure of it.

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