Page 54 of Savage

She wraps one arm around my waist. The other is pointed right at Tank, but as we drive past the corner and by the back entrance to the clubhouse, Juke, and Bear exit. It takes my dad all of two seconds to see the gun in Lauren’s hand and Tank on the ground. I don’t think he even registers who’s driving Tank’s bike, but that sure as hell doesn’t give him pause. He pulls his piece and aims at us. I twist the throttle, and we lurch forward around the clubhouse and towards the main gate. Someone hit the emergency lockdown switch from the inside. I push the bike faster and clear the gate before it closes, but the weight’s thrown off because I’m not used to driving such a massive bike. We skid out when we hit the street. It takes me a second to right the bike, and it’s seconds we didn’t have to lose because dear old Dad and Bear made it through the gate after us. I begin weaving all across the road in an attempt to dodge the bullets they’re shooting at us.

“Princess, if you want your revenge on those fuckers, now is the time,” I shout over the roar of the bike. She doesn’t hesitate, just holds me tighter with one arm while flinging the other out behind her and firing off several bullets.

“Fuck. I’m down,” she yells, and then throws the piece. She reaches around to pull the gun from the front of my jeans. Her hand on my cock is distracting, but not as distracting as the almighty explosion I hear seconds after she starts firing shots again. I glance behind us. Juke is still riding our tail, but Bear and his bike are scattered all over the road. “Jesus Christ, princess,” I shout, but inside I’m filled to bursting with pride and sexual fucking frustration because fuck me, chicks with guns are hot.

Lauren lets out a triumphant growl that has all the blood in my body racing to my dick. The shots behind us make that pride short lived, and I switch my focus back to the road stretching out in front of me. It’s early morning—three or four, maybe? Apart from the occasional car parked at the curb, the streets are completely deserted.

I weave all over the road, taking a turn that leads to the freeway at high speed. My dad follows. This is one road that’s not deserted. It’s not exactly peak-hour traffic, but there’s a steady flow of cars, trucks, and the occasional bus. I have no desire to stay on the highway. Too many cameras, too many cops, too much at fucking stake to be a sitting duck. We fly across multiple lanes, weaving in and out of oncoming traffic. Lauren’s not shooting anymore, but Juke sure as hell is. If there’s one thing I know about my father, it’s that he can’t stand to lose. Even if it means getting flattened by an SUV. And that’s the only way he’ll give up, is if he’s dead.

“Princess, when I say so, you’re gonna need to shoot the tyres on the tanker,” I shout, pushing the bike closer to the massive petrol tanker headed for us.

“What?”

“Shoot the fucking tanker.”

“I can’t!”

“Shoot the motherfucking truck, princess!” I roar.

The shot rings out beside my head, my eardrums squeal their protest, and I lose all equilibrium. I veer right, toward the shoulder and away from the tanker that’s sliding all across the road, collecting cars in front of it, when we’re sideswiped by a fucking Hilux. I yank on the handlebars to correct our path, but the bike slides out from underneath us, and we’re thrown across the asphalt. I land with a bone-jarring crack, my teeth slam together, and my head whacks off the road. My vision goes black.

???

I don’t know how long I’m out, but I wake with a start and a searing pain in my head. In the distance, I can hear sirens, but it’s overshadowed by the hiss and pop of flaming kerosene. I go to speak, and black smoke fills my lungs. I splutter and roll to my side, gasping for breath, searching for princess.

“Lauren,” I shout, but my throat isn’t working. Little bits of tooth crunch in my mouth when I set my jaw. I spit them out, and roll over on my stomach because it’s all my stupid fucking abused body will let me do. Somewhere in the back of my hazy head, I realise the tanker is on fire. That wasn’t supposed to happen. This is real life, not fucking Hollywood. Even if Lauren shot the tank, that wouldn’t happen unless there was a spark. Realisation slams into me the way my body slammed into the road. I glance over to the middle of the road, and I spot her, illuminated by the flames. She’s lying on the asphalt, Juke standing over her, his boot at her throat, and a smile on his god-forsaken fucking face as he tries to crush the life out of her. Princess squirms beneath him. Her small hands dig into the leg of his jeans, clawing at him. The fucker leers as he tries to snuff out her existence. I stagger to my feet. The world spins, my vision goes dark, and then there’s only rage, red and thick as the blood in my veins.

I don’t think. I just act.

I barrel into him, throwing him off balance and slamming him back into the asphalt. I hold my father around the throat, and slam his head into the road, repeatedly. His hands grapple for purchase as I straddle his waist and choke the life out of him.

His gurgled cries don’t stop my assault, but the wail of sirens do, and we can’t be caught here, or we’ll both wind up in the slammer. I draw back my fist and slam it into the side of his head, and then I rise as quickly as my body, and my likely concussed head will allow. I stumble over to Lauren.

“You okay?”

She nods, but her eyes are wide with terror. It’s a look I’d become too accustomed to in the time that I’ve known her, but it isn’t one I fucking like.

“We gotta get outta here before the cops arrive and start asking questions.” I hold out my hand, and she takes it, gingerly peeling herself off the road and standing on shaky legs. One of her boots is missing a heel. I motion for her to prop her foot up on my knee and it takes some work, but eventually I snap the spike off the other one. She might not be running anywhere anytime soon, but at least she won’t break her damn neck.

“That man,” she says, looking past me. “Is he dead?”

I glance back at the body of my father lying prone on the asphalt, and then turn back to her. I don’t tell her that I just beat the shit out of my dad to save us both. I don’t tell her he’s merely unconscious. What would it serve but to fill her with more hatred, and anger, and the desire for revenge?

“As a doornail, princess,” I say, and take her hand. I edge us as far from the burning trailer as possible, and double back to the scene, leading her across the road to a car whose occupants had stopped to help victims of the pile up. Tank’s bike is a write off, and even if it weren’t, they’d be looking for it.

We climb inside a beaten-up old Charade and take off while the owners are preoccupied with watching the tanker burn. When I check the rear-view mirror, they aren’t any closer to realising their car is gone, and the further we get from the sirens, the more my heart rate returns to normal. The sirens get further away the longer we drive. I glance over at Lauren and notice her shaking—no, not shaking. Her whole body is vibrating. She’s in shock. I take her hand in mine and bring it to my lips, nipping and biting her clammy flesh. “Hey, you still with me?”

“Yeah,” she mutters, but it’s an automatic response. She’s not here in this car with me.

“We got this, princess,” I say, and maybe I’m just lulling us both into a false sense of hope because I have no idea where to go from here. We’re both beaten up pretty bad. Grazes cover her upper thigh and arms, and we’re both bleeding from the head, but our injuries are the last of our problems right now because everything Tank said is true. They will find us, and they’ll kill us, so I’d better seek out the best motherfucking hiding spot, or it’s gonna be so much worse than the shit-storm we just rode through.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

INDIE

Ijolt awake from another nightmare, my arms smacking against the floorboards. My head swims, my body aches all over, and with the way the moonlight streams in through the window, for a split second I think I’m back inside the warehouse. Crickets chirp outside, and a lonely owl calls into the night, and I know I’m not at that warehouse, because nothing had life there but my screams. I press my ear to the wall and listen for a beat. Biker’s not there, or if he is, he’s not dreaming.

I stand, stretching out my protesting muscles. Everything hurts, but for once it’s a welcome pain because it means I’ve accomplished something. It means I’m stronger than I was yesterday. I wrap one of the silk robes Mia left inside the box around me. It’s black and really the only thing comfortable enough to wear downstairs—not everyone can pull off designer fuchsia playsuits. I’ve been sleeping in nothing because in that entire box of clothing there was one damn T-shirt, and I’ve already worn it every day this week without washing. I’m also out of clean underwear; I’ll have to locate the laundry room tomorrow because God knows biker’s clothes could do with a wash too.

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