Page 23 of Savage

I don’t have an answer for him. It wasn’t me telling Ivy that Lauren was dead; she wouldn’t be catatonic over that. No, it wasn’t Lauren’s death that upset her, it’s that she saw the end as plainly as I did. She saw that this is it for us. She saw too far inside, and it’s a chance I won’t ever give her again.

Tank shakes me again, expecting an answer, but I have nothing for him. I have nothing for anyone. I see the moment when he looks beyond me to the bed, to Indie. Tank releases me and hurries to her side. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, did you do this?”

He has every right to ask, because more than anyone, Tank knows me. He knows the depths of my tarnished soul, and he knows how deep my betrayal runs. After all, how can you really trust a brother who betrays their club? Several times? Tank scoops her from the bed, carefully placing her on the floor. He wipes the traces of vomit off her mouth and starts performing CPR.

He’s too rough. Her ribs are bruised, or broken; he’s going to kill her.

All at once I snap to. The world ceases to move as if it’s in slow motion and my heart begins pounding, beating out a furious rhythm against my organs.

Sinking to my knees beside her, I shove Tank out of the way and take over, yelling for him to call an ambulance, then I push past the taste of vomit on her lips and breathe air into her inert lungs, willing her to accept it, to take it and live, though her actions proved to me she’d rather take the out the pills offered than stay here with me.

I’m an arsehole, it’s all I’ve ever been. A biker brat born into the arms of a junkie bitch who only cared about where her next fix was coming from, and a father who’d wished he hadn’t forgotten the fucking condom. I’ve always been trash. I’ve always been nothing. I don’t blame her for choosing to check out, but like I said:I am an arsehole. And she might fight against it, she might want it more than anything she’s felt before in her life, but I’m not letting her take that way out.

In the hall, over the shrill cry of another of Ivy’s mental breakdowns, I hear the rush of booted feet over worn carpet.

“What the fuck happened here?” Prez demands, appearing in the doorway. I glance at him, briefly, and then wonder why Tank is studying my face and not calling a fucking ambulance.

“Call a goddamn ambulance,” I roar, but he just continues to stare at me.

“No ambulance. Someone better fuckin’ start talking.”

“She’s gonna die if we don’t get her help.”

“Tank, call the Butcher,” Prez demands. “I need inside her head. I need this bitch alive long enough to tell us what she knows, but no fuckin’ hospitals. We clear?”

I shake my head in disgust but continue to pump away at her chest, continue to push air into her lungs, breathing for her. It feels like an infinity, but when she finally regains consciousness, coughing, and spluttering, I shift behind her and support her head on my bent knees. She vomits. I turn her head to the side and let the green bile land all over the rug. I’m covered in it. She’s covered in it. My rug is covered in it.

“Jesus Christ,” Prez mutters.

Tank pockets his phone. “Butcher will be here in ten minutes.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and glance at Indie. She’s alive; trembling, but listless, and she’s already falling asleep again. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with her, but I know the Butcher is going to charge me through the nose because she’s wearing the contents of her stomach like a fucking wedding gown. In the hall, Ivy is still shrieking. Tank shoots me a glare. It’s full of the promise to inflict a lot of pain on me later, and then in three angry strides, he’s gone from the room.

I don’t know what the fuck his deal is; perhaps the geriatric giant has a fuckin’ heart after all. Either way, I can’t be Ivy’s keeper anymore. It’s not doing either one of us any bit of good. Ivy never belonged to me; maybe she did in her mind, but it wasn’t like that for me. And the more I try to show her that, that I’m sick, that I’m fucked in the head and full of this dark desire to hurt people, the deeper she falls. It’s time that changed.

I stare down at the girl in my arms and wonder whether history isn’t just on fuckin’ repeat. Not just with Ivy, but Indie, too. Losing Lauren destroyed me, and yet here I am in the same goddamned situation: protecting another stupid bitch from my club and myself.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Ivy screams between sobs. “Don’t touch me.”

The sounds of her losing her shit and lashing out at Tank filters in through the open door. He grunts, no doubt warding off each of her blows about as patiently as a bear with a thorn in its foot, and then lets out an almighty roar, “Stop. Fuckin’. Struggling. Bitch!”

The shrieking goes silent, the door beside mine opens, then slams, and the room and the hallway are swallowed by silence. I glance at Prez, who’d been close enough to the door to watch the entire scene. He shakes his head and turns his attention back to me.

“You wanna get her in the shower? I can get one of the girls to clean this shit up.”

“I don’t wanna move her until the Butcher gets here.”

“What the fuck happened, kid?”

“It’s my fault. I drugged her before I left; I thought she’d be out of it for hours. I didn’t put the pills away.”

“You know for someone who’s as determined to die as she is, you’re awfully fixated on keepin’ her breathin’.”

I smile, but it’s full of remorse. Prez steps further into the room and closes the door behind him, taking a seat in the armchair opposite the bed.

“You and I have never really talked about the past.”

“No, we haven’t.”

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