Page 43 of Savage

“Careful, kid. I got an itchy trigger finger. It goes off when people start saying stupid shit in front of me.”

“She needs a doctor, probably a morning-after pill too, and screen her for fuckin’ STIs.”

“You saying your fuckin’ Angel-scum cock has been near my little girl’s pussy?”

“No, I’m sayin’ every other Angel had his hands on her but the one who really wanted her, but then they made me watch that shit, over and over again. I’m sayin’ she’s been through fuckin’ hell and back, and she needs away from everything that even remotely resembles bikers.”

The Italian stows his gun and moves to take her from me, but she screams and curls closer. “You gotta let go now, princess. I gotta hand you over.”

Her panicked gaze meets mine. “He’ll shoot you.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Yes, he will.”

I smile down at her. “What are we just gonna stand here forever, you in my arms, your dad holding a gun to my head? If he shoots me, he shoots me. Ain’t nothing I can do about that, princess. At least I’ll know I did one thing right.”

She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

I nod because it’s true. If Slayer hadn’t come at a deal, Prez would’ve eventually killed her, and he’d have tortured her some more first. “Promise me somethin’?”

“What?”

“Get on your feet and then get the hell outta here. Prez will come looking for you again. He’s not a guy who likes to lose. Take as much money as you can, and get the fuck away from this life. Otherwise, you’re gonna wind up filling a body bag way too young.”

Lauren is wrenched away from me then. She screams as the Italian carts her off toward the clubhouse, flailing and slapping at him despite her injuries.

“Daniel!” she screams, reaching out toward me as he struggles to get her inside. Without thinking I take a step forward, but I’m attacked from behind. My knees go out from under me, and I’m shoved face-first into the ground. Some heavy motherfucker sits down on my back. I buck, trying to unseat him, but I’m whacked in the back of the head until I stop.

“Well, isn’t that fuckin’ touching? The Angel scum, in love with my daughter? Didn’t I warn you away from her once before?” Slayer asks, circling me like a predator circles prey. The biker using me for a chair shoves his gun against the back of my skull.

“Yeah, I did,” Slayer continues, and he motions for the guy on top of me to force me to stand. I’m dragged up by the hair and presented to Slayer. “At the rally, where she fuckin’ went missin’!” His red, blotchy face almost touches mine. He’s so close I can see the blood vessels snaking out from the corners of his eyes.He’s fucking high. His daughter’s been locked up, raped, beaten, treated like a fucking animal over some shit that she shouldn’t even have to know about, and the arsehole’s getting high as a fucking kite instead of finding her? He makes me sick. He’s everything I hate about the life. And he’s more than likely exactly where I’ll end up because this is what we are—this is what living in the club gets you: bitterness, enemies, and a shit-tonne of bad blood.

Slayer punches me in the gut. I double over, winded from the impact.

“Get up,” he says, holstering his gun and shoving me until I stand upright. “So your prez doesn’t know you’re here, and I’m thinkin’ once he learns of your betrayal the fucker’s gonna put you to ground quicker than you can blink. He’ll tear you up first, of course. He’ll make you bend the knee and beg for your life, and then he’ll gut you like a fuckin’ fish. So, you know what I’m gonna do?”

“Send me home,” I say because I know how arseholes like him think.

He claps. “How ’bout that, boys? Kid’s a thinker.”

Stifled laughter sounds through the group of men. I stare them down, and the only thing I see is dirty, worthless, piece-of-shit hard-faced criminals, just like there are in my own club. Just like me.

“I’m not fond of thinkers, see? They’re the ones that start stirring up shit, givin’ people hope. Makin’ ’em think there’s something better out there in the future, if only they could follow that fuckin’ rainbow. I don’t make a habit of keepin’ thinkers around, and I certainly don’t need no smart-arsed Angel scum fillin’ my girl’s head with stupid shit that’ll only get her killed.” Slayer sucker punches me. Right in the nut sack, and I go down like the piece of shit that I am. “Have at him, boys. Just make sure he’s got all his limbs to drive back to the clubhouse with.”

I’m already on the ground when the first boot connects with my ribs. I try standing, but some arsehole shoves me back down with a kick to the face. My shoulders and legs are pinned. I buck and try to wrench my arms and legs free, but with eight men beating on me, freeing my limbs makes very little fucking difference. I’m not going anywhere until they let me. I’m pissed on, spat on, and swelling up like I’m in fucking anaphylactic shock. There’s one punch after the other, the slash of knives in my flesh, and steel-capped boots kicking my face, groin, and ribcage. It feels like hours but is more than likely only minutes, and it’s a small price to pay if it means I never have to watch her be beaten and raped again.

After a while, the Italian comes out of the clubhouse and orders the other men away from me. I drag in a jagged, tender breath, grateful for the reprieve. He rolls me over so I’m staring up at his face, and the stars in the night sky beyond him. He lifts me by the lapels of my cut and slams me down on the concrete. I feel my skin split, and warm blood pours out. And then I’m dragged out of the gate, across the rough concrete and thrown to the curb like trash. I close my eyes, and for the first time, I don’t see the terrible things I’ve done in my very short life as I drift into unconsciousness.

I see nothing.

I am nothing.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

INDIE

Our third day in the cabin and I’d successfully eaten my way through half of the fridge’s contents, and you know you have a problem when a bunch of big bikers stare in amazement at how much spaghetti bolognese you were able to put away in one sitting.

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