Page 39 of Savage

“You wanna risk your life? Fine. But don’t fuckin’ play with hers,” I say, pointing to Indie. I glance at her. She’s not freaking out, or at least she doesn’t appear to be, but her wide-eyed gaze is glued to me as she sits astride my bike. I can’t explain it, but I suddenly feel awkward under the weight of her stare.

“Alright you two, back to your fuckin’ corners,” Prez says. He points to Trigger. “You fuckin’ disrespect me by riding front again, andI’mgonna break your fuckin’ nose. We clear?”

“Yeah, Prez. We’re clear.” Trigger holds the bridge of his nose to stem the blood flow and sits down on the asphalt.

“I’m gonna need you to take a look at these men, darlin’,” Prez says to Indie. “You need to tell us if they’re who we’re after.”

Indie climbs off the bike and takes a few tentative steps forward. I realise now that she wasn’t just kicking back on my bike a second ago; it was more than likely she was worried about standing up and seeing the faces of the men than just tried to blow our brains out.

She stumbles a little. I reach out my hand to her, and she glares at my upturned palm.

“Sea legs, darlin’. First time on the back of a bike is like stepping off a boat onto land. It goes away, though,” I say, attempting to make her feel better. I glance at Prez, whose brows are raised skyward.

“Douche bag.” Killer coughs into his hand. I glare at him. He coughs again and thumps at his chest, clearing his throat as though something is lodged in it.

Indie places her hand in mine, and I lead her towards the van. We both crouch down to take a better look at the dead guys inside. If Trigger’s bullets hadn’t killed the driver than the steering wheel impaling one side of his face certainly had.

She presses a hand to her mouth and shakes her head, standing to her full height in her bright new tennis shoes and a pair short shorts I pulled from the pile of shit Ivy had left in my room. “It’s not them.”

“Well, who the fuck are they?” Raphe says, limping over to us. His shoulder hangs at an unnatural angle. I glance down the road. His bike is in pieces over the shoulder, about three hundred metres back. The minivan is pulled up beside it and the driver, a flustered-looking mother, stands taking pictures on her phone.

“Sent by the motherfuckers no doubt. Plenty of people got beefs with the Saints, but none that’d be stupid enough to pull this shit in broad daylight,” Prez says. “You two better get outta here. We gotta get somewhere safe and set dumb-arse’s shoulder here. There’s a butt-load of witnesses too many. We need outta here before the cops show up.”

Once our men are all accounted for, I jump back on the bike. Indie slides on behind me and clings to me even tighter than before. I wasn’t sure that was possible, but she’s trembling as she fits her lithe body around mine and tucks her head in against my back. Her teeth chatter and her head bobs against my shoulder blade. I don’t know what to say to her. What can you say to someone who has two men that want you dead so badly they’d hire a couple of dumb fucks to take you out? Beats the fuck out of me, although it’s certainly not like I haven’t been in her shoes before.

I rev the throttle, and we take off, leaving my brothers to clean up the shit, remove plates and hastily scratch off the serial numbers of the bikes that are too far gone to move. They’ll likely give our budding photographer from the minivan a shake down too. That shit’s not pretty, especially with kids in the car, but you do what you gotta to stay the hell out of lock up.

I take a slightly more scenic drive to Prez’s house in the mountains. I’ve been here several times since joining the MC, and if circumstances were different I might even relish taking someone to a remote cabin where it’d be just the two of us, but this isn’t exactly a romantic fucking getaway. And I’m not fucking boyfriend material. Been there, done that, got the scars—both mentally and physically—to prove it.

I pull into the drive. It looks like a damn mansion more than a cabin. Indie takes off her helmet and stares up at it.

“Holy shit, do they have a butler too?”

I shake my head. The bitch nearly got gunned down a little less than an hour ago, her life has gone from normal to full-blown fuckin horror movie in a month, and she’s cracking jokes? “No butler, but Prez would probably appreciate a French maid. You should definitely bring it up with Mia.”

“Is she okay with this?”

“Apparently she made out like she gave a shit, but she gets a fuckin’ week at the Sheraton, so I’m sure she’ll live.”

“She’s not staying with us?

“No, it’ll just be you and me,” I say, and then frown when I remember that’s not exactly true. “And the three bikers outside, patrolling the grounds at night. They’ll sleep in the den downstairs during the day.”

She stops walking and stares at me, her face slackened in what looks like a horrified expression.

“Relax, little spitfire, you’re safe with me.” I shake my head. I need to quit saying shit like that because the truth is she’s not safe with me. Not really.

“What if they find us here? What if they both come and you and the others can’t fight them off?”

“Hey, you’re gonna be fine. I’m not leaving your side, however long it takes. I’ll be here. We’re gonna have men patrolling; they’re not gonna get within a hundred metres of you without us knowing about it.”

“I should have gone to the police.”

“And done what, darlin’?” I ask, staring her down. “This guyisthe fuckin’ police. You go to them, and you’ll be dead before you clear the parking lot. Come on,” I say, and tentatively hold out my hand. She stares at it a beat. I let mine fall away, shoving it inside the pocket of my jeans.

I lead her to the house, unlocking it with the key Prez had given me back at the clubhouse in case we got separated. I punch in the security code to turn off the house alarm but switched it to the perimeter. He had this state-of-the-art system installed after a rival club broke in and trashed the place because they couldn’t find Prez. They also made off with a shit-tonne of drugs. We more than made up for the money lost by taking their bikes and selling them on the black market.

I walk from the lounge to the kitchen and shove my overnight bag on the counter. There’s a big-arsed box on top of the island bench with a pink sticky note attached. I pick it up.

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