Page 61 of Savage

Grim and Killer arrive, reinforcements sent by Prez. I’m not sure what the hell we’re supposed to be “reinforcing”? We already shot dead the motherfuckers, and something tells me that though this fucking nutty Priest wants Indie back to fulfil his stupid-as-fuck prophecy, he will wait her out.

I wait until Country is stitched up, and I help put him in the den downstairs to sleep it off. Prez must have agreed to pay the Butcher a pretty fucking hefty sum because I’ve never seen the bastard dole out medication so freely. I snatch up two pills from the bottle of morphine and pocket them in case Indie needs something.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you,” I say, half hoping Country’s asleep already so I don’t have to do this shit.

He’s not. That old fucker is wide awake and gloating like a stupid son-of-a-bitch. “Seems like you had plenty … of chances. You’re just a stubborn dickhead … when it comes to tellin’ people how you feel,” he says, grinning like a fucking yokel at me. “Besides … you’d do it for me.”

I wondered if that were true. I didn’t think so, not up until this point, and though I was grateful, maybe not even after this point. That was just who I was. Or I thought that was who I was. But honestly? I don’t even fucking recognise myself when I look in the mirror anymore. Lauren had changed me, and Indie seems to have picked up where she fucking left off. I didn’t want to feel shit; I didn’t want to put others before myself, before my wants, before staying alive, but I did. I was, and I am. And it scares the ever-loving shit out of me. When you patch in, you pledge to die for your prez, for your brothers. It’s all part of the code, but can I make itmycode? I don’t fucking know.

When I open the door, Indie is still sitting on the bed. She’s staring straight ahead; I don’t even think her mind has registered that I just walked in.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand. She doesn’t even flinch, which is really fucking rare for her. “You need a shower. You’ve got blood in your hair.”

I lead her across the hall to the bathroom we’ve shared these last few days. I shuffle her into the room and lock the door behind us. Turning on the spray, I undress and then I slowly peel the ruined robe from her shoulders and edge us both in. I take the showerhead off the wall and hose her down with it. It’s so much like the first time we did this—her mentally checked-out, and me going through the motions—and yet it’s completely different.

After a few minutes of thawing out under the warm spray, she takes over, scrubbing her face with soap, lathering up the shampoo and washing her hair. There’s a bench seat in the shower, and I sit and watch her body move as the water runs over it. She soaps up her hands and slides them all over herself. I don’t even know if she understands how fucking crazy that shit is making me. I close my eyes and exhale slowly. I can’t do jack shit about the huge fucking hard-on I’m sporting, but she doesn’t seem to notice, she just continues scrubbing, so hard I think she might be taking off skin.

“It won’t come out, darlin’, and the blood is long gone.”

She stares at me with tear-filled eyes. I give her a sad smile, knowing exactly what she’s feeling: as if she’s a bad person for wanting them dead, as if she’s a monster for wanting to see his blood spilled out all over the gym floor. As if there’s something wrong with her for being the one left standing.

“It won’t come out, but it gets easier.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she whispers.

“Nope, not really. It’s just the truth of it.” I shake my head. “You’re not a monster; you’re just human.”

“What does that make you then?”

“A little of both.”

She stares at me for a beat. “No. I think it makes you human, too.”

“A regular guy wouldn’t be hard as fuck watching a woman wash blood out of her hair.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t make you any less of a man.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what it makes me,” I say, and it’s more than just my cock that’s frustrated. “I don’t know what you want from me, Indie?”

“I don’t know either,” she admits. “I’ve told myself over and over you were a means to an end, but now I don’t know how I feel. I want you to touch me. I want your hands on me. And I’m pretty sure you want that too, or I was before—”

“I can’t be what you need, baby. I’m so fucked up there aren’t even words for the shit I see in my head. All the things I wanna do to you? They’re not normal. I don’t do vanilla; I don’t make love. I fuck. And I fuck hard. And I can’t do that with you. I don’t know how to be any other way.”

I don’t know what someone like me can offer her. I don’t know if I can offer her anything but a life of disappointment and danger. It certainly hasn’t been smooth fucking sailing so far, and shit’s only gonna get worse. If she’s in my bed, on the back of my bike and wearing my patch, she’s a target for anyone who wants to get to me.

“Can I ask you something?” She interrupts my thoughts. “What were you thinking when he put that gun to my head?”

“I was thinking I couldn’t be the reason you died. I promised to protect you; I wanted to protect you. I didn’t want your blood on my hands, too.”

“Too?”

Jesus. This bitch and her questions. I wish I could shove my cock in her mouth and get her to shut the fuck up. “I’ve been here before, and it didn’t end well for her. She died; a brutal and bloody death, the same kind you woulda had if you’d been left in that warehouse.”

She reaches out and touches my hair. I glance up at her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her gently into me. I kiss her stomach, the flesh over her hip. She’s been steadily putting on weight since we pulled her from that warehouse, and she looks fucking amazing. Plump arse, fuller tits, her arms now contain a little muscle, and even that is hot as fuck too. I pull her down onto my lap, spreading her legs apart and shoving her pelvis down against my cock, groaning when her pussy slides over my piercing and the head of my dick. And then I kiss her mouth the way I wanted to earlier tonight. I take her hard with my mouth because I can’t with my body.

When she breaks away, she’s panting for breath. “I want you inside me, biker.”

“You can’t say that shit to me, Indie,” I groan. “I’m not a man with self-control. I take whatever the fuck I want when I want it, and I want you so fucking bad I feel like I might explode, but I don’t trust myself not to hurt you.”

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