Page 4 of Savage

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” I whisper, but the fact that I just shot a man in cold blood three inches from her face might imply otherwise—she is covered in his brain matter, after all. A gob of something white and globular slides over her collarbone and off her nipple, landing in her lap. Her body quakes with fear, her tits jiggle with the jagged, panic-filled rush of air into her lungs. I close my eyes, trying to get my cock to sit the fuck down. I’m all kinds of fucked up; I know this, but there’s a scent to a woman’s fear, and my dick is all too keenly aware of and enamoured with it. It’s fucked up, but it is what it is.

“Snuff it out, Kick,” Tank says behind me. The motherfucker sounds bored shitless, as if he can’t wait to be done here so he can go and grab a fucking Big Mac. “She’s seen too much.”

“I got it. Shut up, man,” I say. “Do something useful and wrap that sick fucker in that plastic tarp.”

“Do I look like your bitch, Kick?”

“Just fuckin’ do it.”

He holsters his piece and pulls the tarp closer. I turn back to the girl. Her face is a fucking mess, and she’s yanking on her restraints and staring at me with wide, terrified eyes. Her cheeks are swollen and bloody.

“I’m gonna untie you. Okay? I’m just here to help you. I’m not gonna hurt you.” She thrashes against the stirrups, trying to free herself. “If you scream, I’ll be forced to put a bullet between your eyes. You don’t want that. I don’t want that.”

She shakes her head.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Tank moans. “Don’t fucking untie the bitch.”

I lean over and unfasten the buckle strapping her head to the chair. She lets me, and then she lurches as far forward as her restraints will allow, and head-butts me.

“Fucking bitch,” I shout. Backing away, I press a hand to my bleeding lip.

“Oh, I like this one.” Tank chuckles. “Shame we gotta put her out of her misery.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I say, and then press my gun against her temple. “Do that again, and I will put a bullet in you. Understand?”

She nods, carefully. Not so fucking brave now that she has a gun aimed at her brain, though I have to admit, her fight has me rock-fucking-hard in my jeans.

“Kick,” Tank warns. “Put her down, or I will.”

“You think she’s gonna talk? That fucker was ripping her teeth out. Bitch ain’t gonna talk.”

I close my eyes and remember a scene only a few short years ago in a cane field in the arsehole of nowhere town. The dude I’d loved my whole life like a brother, standing before a bitch who’d seen too much and begging me to spare her life.

How the mighty have fallen and become fucking pussies.

I can’t believe I’m begging to save her life the way Ethan did with that whore. “We’re taking her with us.”

“The hell we are.” Tank says. “Prez is gonna grind your balls for his bread over this shit.” He waves his gun at the plastic-wrapped body of the dentist. “You can’t bring a civilian into the club.”

The woman takes that opportunity to scream. I clamp my hand down over her mouth, wincing when I touch the cracked and swollen flesh beneath my fingers. She bites down. I yank my fist away, the pain in my hand acute and searing. “Fuck me, bitch! I’m trying to save your goddamned life here, and you’re doing a hell of a job trying to fuck that shit up.”

“Kill me,” she growls. “I’d rather die than be passed around between filthy fucking bikers.”

“Oh, that can be very easily arranged, sweetheart,” Tank says, lifting his gun and aiming it at her head. I hold up my arms and ease in front of the rabid bitch, protecting her. Who the fuck knows why? Certainly not me, that’s for sure. I just can’t walk away. I can’t look at her face, all beaten and bruised, and put her down like a dog.

“Do it,” she screeches. “Fucking do it! Do it! Do it!”

Tank looks as if he’s about to put a bullet through me to stop this bitch’s screaming. I’ve had enough. I snap. I lash out and strike her on the temple with the butt of my gun, rendering her unconscious.

I stare at her face for a long time. Swollen and bloodied as she is, there’s no telling if she’s beautiful, or is she’s as ugly as a hat full of arseholes. Her hair is filthy, her body is covered in crusted blood, and shit, she smells like shit too. How fucking long has she been here? Locked away in an empty warehouse, the plaything for a sick, twisted fuck. Hooked up to an IV that I’m guessing fed her sedatives and other more potent drugs, instead of nutrients. I rip off the tape and yank the needle from her arm, then shove away his tray of torture devices. All gleaming, shiny dentist tools or they would have been gleaming and shiny, if they weren’t covered in the fucker’s brain tissue and tiny fragments of his skull.

Lifting a syringe and a small vial labelled morphine from the tray—which I’m sure he uses to knock her out rather than ease her pain—I push out the air from the needle and tap the crook of her elbow, finding a vein to drive into.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Tank asks, but I ignore him as I place the needle back on the tray, and run my fingertips across her shoulder. I lift a strand of matted hair to my nose. It’s sweat and blood, fear, and general human filth. My gaze rolls over her from head to toe. There are bruises everywhere, but it seems as though he only liked to really mess up her face and mouth.

“She’s not Lauren.”

I close my eyes. “Don’t say her name. Not here.”

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