Page 75 of Savage

TANK

THREE DAYS LATER

Soaked with sweat, I throw the covers back and run a hand through my hair, wiping the perspiration from my brow. I get up and splash water on my face from the bathroom sink, and then I stare at myself in the mirror.Hiseyes glare back.The monster. The man whose DNA I share. The same cold blue eyes set in the same face, with the same thick neck, square jaw, and full lips. A wide nose with a bump on the bridge from being broken too many times, hard cheekbones, and the same thick black brows as my father.

No matter how many times I stare at my reflection, the truth of it never changes: I am my father’s son. And though I’ve tried for years to pretend otherwise, I’m cut with the same cloth.

Heartless, cold, corrupt.

I pat my face dry and head back to bed, but noise from the kitchen draws my attention.Ivy.I wander through the cabin. It’s dark, and the only light this far out comes from the moon shining in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I find her in the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards, tearing the place apart like a tornado, searching for her next fix.

I sigh and flip on the light switch. She blinks and stares, caught like a deer in headlights. Her hair is limp and mussed from spending days being strung out. Black circles shadow her eyes, a combination of old eye makeup and a lack of sleep from detoxing. Ivy’s lips curl up in a sneer and then she lunges at me.

“Give it to me, Tank,” she shouts. “I know you have more. Give it to me.”

“No,” I say, my voice devoid of any emotion, though I’m certainly not devoid of anything but sense when it comes to this fuckin’ infuriating bitch. I hate the drug that’s eating her from the inside. I hate how desperate it makes her.

“Please?” she begs. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll let you fuck me again.” She claws at my bare chest. It hurts like a motherfucker. I raise my brows at her. She hasn’t let me touch her like that for days, and suddenly she’s willing to whore herself out? I close my eyes because I want so badly to sink inside her. I want to fuck the shit out of her the way I used to at the club, before I dragged her arse up to the mountains to get her clean. I want that so bad my balls ache.

Her tiny hands fly to the string-tie on my pants. She yanks it and slips her hand inside the waistband. She doesn’t bother removing them, just wraps her hand around my thickening cock and strokes. Her movements are jerky and rough, but it’s fuckin’ hot all the same. I groan and slide my hand up her waist, squeezing her tits hard. She moans, a sound halfway between a whimper and a cry of approval.

“I want you inside me, Tank,” she whispers. I look down into her eyes, and then I stiffen. She doesn’t want me; she wants me to cave and hand over her next dosage of pot. I close my eyes and grip her wrist, yanking it out from my pants. My cock bobs and presses painfully against the fabric.

“No,” I say, releasing her hand and shoving her away from me.

I walk past, and she lunges at me with a scream, latching onto my back and thumping me in the back of the head. I stride over to the couch and dump her onto the worn leather.

“Fuckin’ knock it off, bitch,” I growl. She launches again, lashing out with nails and biting me, her teeth sinking into my shoulder so hard I’m sure she’s drawn blood. This is the most energetic I’ve seen her in days. Normally she’s holed up in front of the TV, rocking back and forth, and flipping between pissing me off and making me feel sorry for her as she begs and pleads for a hit of something. I don’t think she’d give a shit what I gave her, as long as it took away the aching that the cocaine withdrawal has left behind. I make a mental note to put away all the chemicals under the sink because, at this point, it wouldn’t surprise me if she guzzles half a bottle of Drain-O just to get a free ride to the hospital where she could zone out on a Morphine drip.

“Give me my fucking drugs, arsehole.”

“Sit your arse down and chill the fuck out, Warrior Princess.”

“Fuck you,” she shouts.

I laugh. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My cock inside you, reminding you of all the reasons you whore yourself out to men like me. You’re not getting your fucking drugs, Princess. Go back to bed.”

“Fuck you. Fuck your shithole of a place, too. I’m leaving; you can’t keep me here.”

“Where you gonna go, huh? Butch will eat you alive, darlin’. I figure his jaw’s about as big as your head. So good luck getting past him.” She’d have to make it past the alarm first, which means I would know that she’d busted out, and then the dog would be let out of the cage. I’m hoping she doesn’t realise that he’d be more likely to lick her to death than chomp her up. Fucker’s a pussy for chicks. “Even if you could get past the dog, it’s a long fucking walk from here back to civilisation. You’d freeze to death before you made it off the property.”

“I fucking hate you! I hate you!” she screams.

I leave her ranting and walk away, flipping off the light on my way back to the bedroom. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this little dance, but it’s sure as shit getting old.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, and pretend as if that doesn’t sting like a fuckin’ knife to the gut.

I used to be the man that didn’t feel.

I used to be able to sit here in my mountain home and wait for Prez to call me to come kill some fucker that deserved a bullet to the brain, or one who didn’t deserve it—I didn’t really give a shit either way, as long as I was being paid. I didn’t give a shit about anyone. The Saints and Kick were my family, but if push came to shove I’d still betray them all to save my own neck.

I’m not that guy anymore. I have feelings now, and they fuckin’ suck. I’m no longer indestructible. I’m weakened by my love for a woman. And I have this little screwed-up, drugged-fucked junkie to thank for it.

???

I’ve known Ivy longer than my club brothers. I met her as a starving coked-up little street rat when I went out on a job one day. Back then, she’d been living under a bridge and had given me the best fuckin’ head I’d had since I was a teen. She’d sucked me off on the back of my bike for a dime of coke. The next week, I’d returned and bought her a fuckin’ sandwich. I hated that she was so fuckin’ willing to let men use her up. At least make them buy you a fuckin’ meal first. The following week, I went back, and Ivy hadn’t been there. The little wench she hung out with had said that she’d OD’d in the back of some guy’s car. He’d dumped her by the side of the road, and someone had called an ambulance as the arsehole sped off into the night.

I hadn’t gone back after that, though I’d thought of her on and off for months. I’d never told her anything more about where to find me than she could see on my leather cut, and six months’ later she’d shown up on the club’s doorstep, fake tits, longer hair and a shorter skirt. Every hot-blooded man’s wet dream. There hadn’t been a dry cock in the clubhouse, so when I’d gathered up her purse and shoved her towards the door, Prez had somethin’ to say about it. Of course he had. Ivy had walked into his club looking for a job. Every motherfucker in that room knew that job hadn’t entailed cleanin’ anything other than my club brothers’ pipes.

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