Page 80 of Savage

“And how’s that working out? I see you’re acting bitchier than usual.”

“I want to strip my skin off, Killer.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck is right. Only I haven’t done any fucking, because Tank is an arsehole.”

“He’s an arsehole that cares about you. We all are. We’re gonna get you straightened out, baby. And then you can come back to the clubhouse, and I don’t know, serve drinks with Raine or some shit.” He directs all of this over his shoulder, all the while leaning forward to immerse himself in the game.

I love Killer; he’s like the sibling I never had. I mean, aside from the fact that we have sex a lot—or used to—but sometimes I could strangle his annoying, privileged arse. Sometimes he drives me fucking crazy with his inability to function as a regular human being and not some spoiled trust-fund baby.

“Wow. That sounds like a really fulfilling job,” I mutter.

“I don’t fuckin’ know what he has in store for you, babe, but you can kiss fucking the club brothers goodbye, ’cause it ain’t gonna happen while Tank’s around. He’s already out for blood. He only sent me because no one else was available.” He leans back, folding his arms behind his head, and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. “Hey, grab me a beer, will ya?”

“Sorry. It’s coffee or that herbal tea shit that Tank likes to poison me with.”

“What the fuck? Bastard didn’t tell me there wouldn’t be anything to fucking drink while I babysat your arse.”

“Alcohol is still a drug,” I say, mimicking Tank’s deep, growling baritone. “We’re eradicating everything to do with fun.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. And here I thought this detox bullshit was just an excuse to get you up here and make you his house mouse?”

“Welcome to my own personal hell, Killer.” I smile like a Stepford wife, though the anxiety gnawing at my chest doesn’t have me smiling for long. I need a hit. He must have some on him; this is Killer we’re talking about. Tank would have threatened him, but I know Killer. He can go about as long as I can without a line, and that’s not long at all.

I make coffee, and Killer gets up, removing his hoodie and his gun, and setting them on the table. He never takes his eyes from the game once. I take the mugs to the lounge room and sit on the couch. We watch a bunch of ’roid-raging athletes run around the field with a ball. AFL, or some crap—I don’t pay too much attention. I just sit quietly as Killer slowly becomes more and more absorbed. After a while, I get up and say, “You want something to eat?”

“Yeah, make me a sandwich, will ya?”

I don’t even bother heading for the kitchen, I just quietly snatch up the gun from the table along with his keys, which I stuff into my pocket, and then I cock the gun and point it at the back of his head. He stills.

“Make your own goddamned sandwich.”

“What the fuck are you doin’, bitch?”

“Sorry, Killer, but you kind of suck at this babysitting thing.” His hands are in his lap, and he tries to turn towards me, but I shout, “Hands where I can see them.”

He lets out an angry sigh and puts his hands up, crossing them behind his head. “Don’t do this, Ivy. You’re gonna get my head beaten in. And you’ve been clean for how many days now?”

“Too many,” I reply. I rummage through the pockets of his hoodie and smile when my hand seizes a tiny plastic bag. I pull it out and laugh as I glance at the little bag of snow-white powder. “You really are the worst liar, Killer.”

“Put the fuckin’ gun down, bitch.”

“Sorry. But this is more than just a fix to me. I know you don’t understand it; none of you do. But it’s life or death.” I ease back towards the front door, and Killer stands.

“I can’t let you walk out that door, Ivy.”

“Yes, you can. Unless you want your head splattered all over Tank’s cabin,” I say evenly, but my hands are shaking, and my blood is whooshing in my ears, thundering through my veins with both excitement and desperation. “You’re going to let me walk.”

“Fucking bitch,” he says, and there’s murder in his eyes. Not because I’m stealing his drugs, and probably not because I have a gun pointed at his head, but because he knows he’s a dead man when Tank finds out I’ve gone.

He takes a step towards me, and I squeeze the trigger. The gun goes off. The kickback jolts my arm and almost knocks me off my feet because I didn’t brace properly. I recover in time to see what I already knew—that I’m a lousy shot. Killer strides towards me. I turn and flee the cabin. I run for the bike, but Killer is already out of the house and sprinting towards me. My restless legs like running even less than they like standing still, and I know I’ll never make it and get the thing started before he’s on me, so I dart in the opposite direction. It’s too risky to stop and aim—he’d be on top of me and dragging my arse right back to the house before I could even fire off a shot, much less hit him with one. I stalk around to the side of the house, through the thick scrub that I’ve spent days and sometimes even nights studying from my bedroom window, and I disappear into it.

Killer’s behind me, though, his heavy footsteps thudding across the grass. I duck under tree limbs and jump over bushes. I don’t know much about Killer’s past, but I know he used to play on the football team in high school. He’s young and fit, and yeah, pretty fucking stupid, but he’s fitter than me. He won’t stop until he’s caught me, and even then he might consider knocking me out in order to drag me back to the house. He won’t stop unless I make him.

Abruptly, I turn and aim the gun, but Killer just barrels towards me. I dart away at the last minute, but it’s not quick enough. He stumbles and falls, grabbing my leg and dragging me down with him. I don’t hesitate; I just shoot.

“Ah fuck!” he roars and blood blooms on his shirt sleeve, trailing down the tattoos on his arm. “You fuckin’ shot me. You bitch. You fuckin’ shot me.” He clutches his shoulder. I don’t waste time. I just run.

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