Page 49 of Savage

“Stay,” I say, as I head for the front door.

“Where the fuck do you think I’m gonna go?” she yells after me, and I can’t help but turn so I see her exasperated expression. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be babysitting the brat, but a part of me is gonna be reluctant to let the bitch go.

I step outside to find Killer, One Eye, Prez, Squeals, and motherfucking Country. I shoot a questioning glare at Prez. “The guy that wants the bitch dead, the blind old coot, and the motherfucking prospect? Where the hell is Tank and Raphe? Hell, Prez, even fucking Diesel would have been a better choice than these three fuckers?”

“Tank’s out. Takin’ Ivy home and attempting to get her clean again after this motherfucking idiot stuck his coke under her nose and she ODed. Again.” He smacks Killer in the back of the head, who’s been here since yesterday without a wink of sleep. The fuck-knuckle mumbles another apology, some shit about not knowing she was Tank’s property. “Raphe and Diesel are busy cleaning up your shit. We got more to deal with than your old lady.”

My head snaps up. “She’s not my old lady.”

“Wearin’ her claw marks on your neck, aren’t ya?”

“That’s not what it looks like.”

“Dude, what the fuck happened to your face?” Killer says. “Did you let a girl beat you up?”

“Shut up, fuck-stick.” I smack him upside the head, and he sneers, slinking back to his post.

“If that’s not what it looks like, and she’s not your old lady, then what the fuck are we all doing here?” Prez asks. He tries to push past me, but I glare at him and tilt my chin towards One Eye.

“What about him?”

“Can I enter my own fuckin’ house and sit down to a meal at my goddamn fuckin’ table, kid? Or are you gonna forbid your prez from goin’ near your pretty piece of flesh in there? One Eye knows what’s fuckin’ up and what’s fuckin’ down, and if he doesn’t play nicely, he’s gonna be ridin’ off into the sunset minus a cut.” He shoulders me out of the way and enters the house.

“Grub’s fuckin’ up, fuckers,” Prez announces as he heads into the kitchen and throws a black duffle bag on the table. He pulls out two buckets of chicken and a bag containing a couple of containers of coleslaw and sits them on the dining table. The brothers file in, each taking a seat and digging in.Fuckin’ animals. I head into the lounge to warn Indie that if she wants to eat today she better haul that sweet fuckin’ arse in here, but when I see her staring blankly at the TV, I quit talking and step up beside her, giving her a little shake. She’s utterly transfixed on some news programme.

There’s a police officer on the screen. The expression on her face is the same one I saw earlier today when I’d thrown her on the ground and attacked her. I already know, but I have to ask anyway. “Is that him? Is that the fucker that took you?”

She doesn’t answer. “Indie!” I grab her face in my hand, and she wrenches out of my grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

“Is. That. Him?”

The dead motherfucker talking on the TV says, “We have reason to believe that Kayla Kennedy is alive. We’re investigating leads after witnesses reported sightings of the woman earlier this week at a three car pile-up with a notorious Sydney-based motorcycle gang. These people are dangerous, and shouldn’t be approached. Anybody with information should come forward.”

“Prez! Get the fuck in here!”

Kitchen chairs scrape against the tile, but they aren’t quick enough. The image on screen has already changed to that of a middle-aged woman, with grey hair and tired-arse eyes that are puffy from crying.

Indie covers her mouth. “Mum,” she whispers.

A string of pearls decorate the woman’s neck. Her face is painted up with bright coral lipstick. Her makeup runs with her tears, trailing down her cheeks in black lines and splashing onto her no doubt designer threads. That’s what I don’t understand about rich folk. Your kid is missing, and you’re taking the fucking time to look pretty on TV instead of getting out on the streets and looking for her. The chump standing behind her is decked out in a fucking suit. He’s obviously Indie’s dad because he too looks as if someone just ran him through with a fucking sword. Staring at her parents, I decide if I ever meet either of them I’m gonna beat their heads together until I knock the fucking sense into them.

Indie’s face is stricken as she watches her parents speak. New tears form in her mother’s eyes as she pleads with the camera. “Please, just return our daughter to us. And Kayla, honey, if you’re out there watching, come home. Please? We love you, and we just want you safe.”

The image cuts to a reporter standing on the deserted country road where we took down the men who were hunting her. “The police strongly advise against approaching these people. Call Crime Stoppers on 1300—”

I hit the off button and throw the remote at the wall. “Fuck!”

Indie jumps as if she’s just now noticing me for the first time. She’s white as a ghost.

“I didn’t get his name.” I turn to Prez.

“So we’re just as fucked on leads as we were five minutes ago?”

“Hit up the news sites. Someone is bound to have that fucker on there,” One Eye says. He’s standing at the entrance to the room, just behind Prez, with his massive arms folded in front of his chest.

“Someone get a fucking laptop out here,” Prez orders.

“Sergeant Cole,” Indie whispers.

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