Page 7 of Savage

I follow the curve of her lips with my fingertip, trace her thick, black lashes. She has a sweet, slightly upturned nose, and I know now why he took her. She may be skinny, but the bitch is fucking gorgeous. Even beneath the dirt and the freshly beaded sweat on her skin, the swollen cheeks, the tangled hair, she’s beautiful. Maybe she’s beautiful because she looks like she went ten fuckin’ rounds in the ring with Tyson and she’s still comin’ out swinging. The longer I stare at her, the more I come to understand this. I begin to see why I saved her, because on some level I saw in her what I’ve only ever seen in one other person—fight. Not self-preservation or the need to beat the shit out of someone like my brothers do on a daily basis, but fight, as if every cell in her body was made up of it, and it’s fucking glorious. Even bruised and filthy, and as physically defeated as she is, this crazy bitch is beautiful. Even in sleep, her fight is undeniable. And I am harder than I can ever remember being. I strip off my jeans and slip beneath the covers, then I wrap my arm around her, pull her close, and close my eyes.

CHAPTER FOUR

KICK

TWO YEARS AGO

I’m always nervous at rallies like this. Opposing clubs come together with a bunch of stuffed teddy bears strapped to our bikes and pretend as if we’re not secretly plotting to off one another in a different setting, with much less media coverage. We play nice with arseholes that we’d likely gut on the street given half a chance, and it’s all in the name of the kiddies.

It’s not the opposing clubs that are the problem, or at least it’s not the other clubs that are making me nervous. It’s that members from the Banditos chapter in Byron are here. Members I falsely accused of ambushing us a year ago when I saved my best friend’s arse.

Ethan—or Elijah, if you want his pansy-arsed new name given to him by the state after he was released from prison with a government issued “get out of jail free” card—and I had grown up brothers. Our fathers belonged to the Angels, still do, and they indoctrinated us into the family when we were barely old enough to ride a goddamned push bike, let alone a motorcycle. But Ethan had been sent to jail; he took the wrap for me, and when he was let out early on good behaviour he disappeared without a trace, Prez had sentenced him to a date with the reaper.

Course we had to find him first. We hadn’t even been looking when Rocker and I were on a run up north and spotted him and his old lady at some quiet country town parade. Every fibre of my being wanted to beat down my brothers in order to allow Ethan to get away, but my hands were tied. When push came to shove, I chose Ethan. I shot my VP in the back and chose the brother who had abandoned me over the brotherhood I had patched into. I had two options—spend the rest of my life running, or fake an ambush and ride back to the club with my tail between my legs and some bullshit story that would cost a lot of people their lives. Prez had gone in, guns blazing. We’d invaded the Byron chapter and shot up every last motherfucker in that club, women too.

Other charters heard about it, ties were broken, and business deals were hard won. And from what I hear, the big bad B’s are still out for blood. So fuck yes, rallies like this make me un-fucking-comfortable, to say the least.

“You keep staring over there and some fucker’s gonna come beat in your head in front of all these cute kiddies here,” Tank says, smacking the back of my skull. He holds out his hand, and I clasp it as he pulls me into a one-armed hug, striking my back with a loose fist in a show of brotherly affection.

“Hey, man. Where you been?”

“Brisbane, Gold Coast, out west, and every shit hole town in between. Prez’s got me tied up in so much shit I’m starting to reek of it.”

Tank is the closest thing I’ve had to a friend since Ethan left. But he’s not Ethan, and I’m not the same stupid kid I was. “Hit me up next time then. I could use some time away from the club; old man’s breathing down my neck. Can’t take a piss without him popping up to put the fuckin’ chokehold on about where I am in the club and where he was at my age.”

“You’re a ballsy little fucker, I’ll give you that, but you’re not cut out for the jobs I do, man. You’re too fuckin’ sensitive.”

“I am not fuckin’ sensitive.”

“Yes, ya fuckin’ are.” He grins. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that, brother. You’re just a pussy, is all.”

“Fuck you.”

Tank sweeps his huge arm out and playfully tags me in a head lock. I buck and writhe in his grip. With a little more pressure and a twist of his bicep, he could decapitate me in the blink of an eye. I make a mental note not to ever do anything to ensure I’m handed over to his tender loving care in the future.

I’m busy looking at the ground when a pair of spiked heels attached to very long leather-clad legs stop in front of us. Beside the perfect pins, an overly-tanned pair of much shorter legs stand on equally high heels. I follow them up past a mini skirt, a midriff pink top and an average pair of tits. Her face is made up with too much gunk—too dark, too orange, too fucking Oompa Loompa. Her friend, on the other hand, is the shitPlayboyis made of—sweet curves to her hips, a toned stomach, big, fucking perfect tits nestled into a vest that’s far too tight, so they spill out in front.Fuck me. Rolling my eyes up further, I’m met with a long neck, shiny brown hair and smooth brown skin—not that fake-tan shit her friend’s wearing, but a creamy café au lait colour. She looks like one of those fancy fucking lattes, and I am a man dying of thirst. Pale blue eyes glare at me, but the corner of her mouth tips up in a seductive smile. I thump Tank in the kidneys again, and he quickly releases me.

“Excuse me, boys,” the brunette says, and Christ on a crapsicle, she has a voice like whiskey and melted butter combined. It’s soft, but husky all the same, and it immediately makes me think of shoving my cock in between that perfect, full pout. A beat passes. One in which we both just stare at one another, and then, feeling some of my wits return, I quit staring and take a step towards her. She doesn’t back up. We’re face to face, chest to chest, fucking cock to pussy, and all I want to do is shove myself so far up inside her that I poke a hole out the other side and see daylight.

She smiles with her eyes. She smiles with every single muscle of her face. I exhale sharply. “You might wanna give me some breathing room”—She glances down at my cut, to the nametag sewn into the soft leather—“Kick.”

“Baby, the only breathing room I wanna give you is when you’re coming up for air after sucking me off. And even then I’d rather you just gag on it.”

She laughs, but there’s heat behind her gaze, and I’d bet my left nut her panties are as soaked as my dick is hard.This bitch wants me bad.And I’d about give my right nut to have her rolling around between my sheets, taking my cock in her mouth, and my cum in her cunt.

“You bikers are all the same. My friend Cece and I were just trying to get out of the heat and grab ourselves a drink, and here you two are, spoiling our fun with your pathetic display of machismo.”

“Pathetic?” I give her an incredulous look and turn to Tank, but he and the petite blonde are already dry humping one another up against the pub wall.Damn, that fucker works fast. “Looks like your friend found refreshment in my brother’s mouth.”

“Jesus,” she mutters and glances across the road to the Severed Sons MC charter, where their president—who looks about ninety in the shade—stands, arguing with a big burly dude in his thirties. His long black hair is tied back, bringing attention to his hook-like nose. Several of the Sons turn to face us.

“You an old lady?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not gonna get my head beaten in for doing this?”

“Doing what?” she asks warily.

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