Page 88 of Savage

“Who are you?”

He chuckles, and his mouth turns up in a smile. The dimple in the side of his cheek comes out to play. “What? Just because I’m a biker, I can’t hold a tune?”

“No, not because you’re a biker, but because you’re an assassin. You’re one motherfucking scary dude, and here you are singing along to some country shit and driving your truck into town looking like a farmer. All you need now is a straw hat and some tobacco to chew.”

“Hey, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with Johnny Cash.”

“Do the boys know about this?”

“Tell ’em you heard me singin’, and I will hurt you.”

“Promise?” I tease, but he frowns, and I know he’s thinking about earlier.

Tank leans over and turns down the radio. “I’ve never asked you to tell me about your dad. I’ve never really wanted to know—didn’t think I could handle that. But I’m askin’ now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I lean forward and open the glove box, slamming it closed with my foot when I see the gun inside. I rest my feet up on the dash and pull my jumper down, so the sleeves envelop my hands.

“Is he still alive?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All I need is a name, darlin’.” Tank glances at me, his eyes burning with bloodlust.

“I’m not giving you his name,” I say, and all the muscles in my body tense at once, because the thought of Tank, of any one I care about being anywhere nearhim, terrifies me. “That part of my life is done.”

“Right. Says the woman who can’t get off without having some arsehole put her in a fuckin’ chokehold.”

“Can we not talk about this now? Jesus, I’d rather be tied to Crazy’s bed while he dry-fucks my arse and threatens to burn all my hair off with his Zippo lighter.”

Tank’s eyes leave the road, and they burn into me. “Crazy did that to you?”

“Tank.” I pause because I don’t really know how to ask this next question. “Are you in love with me?”

He glances back at the road. “Don’t flatter yourself, darlin’. I’m just trying to get you clean. As a friend.”

“As a friend I fuck?”

“Have we been doin’ any fuckin’? ’cause last time I checked my balls were still fuckin’ blue as that pretty sky up above us, and I still jacked off twice today.”

“Poor baby. You need me to suck your cock?” I tease, undoing my belt and sliding across the bench seat towards him. I rest my hand on his thigh, and he surprises me by removing it.

“I’m not giving you drugs, Ivy,” he says, with a stern look.

“Oh fuck you,” I say, and move away from him. I hadn’t even been thinking about drugs. I hadn’t been thinking anything at all besides the fact that despite howcountryhe looks right now, he also looks good. And it’s been so long. For both of us. I buckle my seatbelt again and angle my body, so it’s facing away from him, then I glare out the window at the endless sea of sunburnt grass and fat cows behind barbed wire fences. “You know you really are an arsehole, Tank.”

“So you keep telling me,” he says and reaches for the dial on the radio again, turning it on and drowning out all of the silence between us. There’s some horrid wailing banshee singing about gunpowder and lead, and when I lean over to change the station, Tank intervenes by smacking my hand away and turning it up until the bass reverberates through the dinky cabin around us. He yells like some fucking country yahoo, “Settle in, Warrior Princess. We’ve still got a long-arse ride to civilization.”

I hate youI mouth, and he grins like a madman.

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, darlin’.”

We don’t speak after that. When we do finally make it to town, Tank pulls me into a Kmart, and we head to the women’s clothing section. He comes to a stop in front of a rack filled with graphic T-shirts and waves at them as if the things are on his shit list. “Get some things.”

“I’m a club whore who mooches off of the Prez when I catch him in a giving mood, Tank.” I point out. “I don’t have any money.”

“I have money. Buy whatever shit you need. You can’t be walking around the cabin in your underwear, and you’re gonna need more than a couple of ratty old jumpers and a pair of jeans. The cold will be settlin’ in to stay soon. We might even see some snow, and I reckon you’ll be wantin’ some clothes.” He frowns and glances at my hair. “Shampoo too, toiletries and whatever else you want. Get all the girly shit you need now. I don’t wanna do this again.”

A lump forms in my throat because he doesn’t have to do this. He could just as easily swing by his room at the clubhouse and pick up all my shit the next time he’s there, and it makes me both grateful and uneasy that he’s so willing to take care of me with nothing in return. Worse still that I’m so quick to let him, that I like it, spending time with him, having him around. It’s a dangerous way to be, because nothing good can come of it, and so I brush off everything I’m feeling and say with a bored tone, “Just how long do you think I’ll be staying with you?”

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