Page 9 of Savage

“Your old lady. I make her lick my skid-marked jocks before she reams me out.” A beat passes in which Rocker bursts out laughing, and then Frogger launches himself at me, crashing us both into the side of the van. His hands slide around my throat, and he smacks the back of my head into the metal siding. I laugh as he punches my already bruised face.

“Fuckin’ knock it off, or I’ll strip both your patches,” Prez yells from the front of the van as he brings us to a skidding stop, probably no more than two hundred metres from the cop shop. Tank is the one to pull Frogger off me. His big, meaty fist yanks him back by the curls at the nape of Frogger’s neck, and he slams his body into the side of the van the way Frogger just did with me. Only seeing as it’s Tank, I’m guessing it was a lot harder than the way Frogger had thrown me around.

“Say fuck about my old lady again, and I’ll gut you in your sleep, you little prick.”

I open my mouth to speak, but Tank gives me a warning look and I wind up spitting out blood onto the steel van floor instead. Tank is one huge motherfucker. I’m not scared of him—I’ve taken him on before, fucking around at the Clubhouse after having a few drinks—but after having the shit kicked out of me by the Sons, taking a police baton to the head and letting Frogger give me a few good hits to the face just now, Tank would hand me my arse in three seconds flat. I’m done fighting today. I just wanna head back to the clubhouse, grab the first available bitch and let her nurse me back to health with a long, hard fuck.

And that’s exactly what I do. Cindy, a skinny club whore with long dark hair, who I’ve never really looked at twice before now, is the first bitch I lay eyes on. I walk right up to her—as the rest of the club cheer and applaud our return from lock-up—and take hold of her hand, sliding it down into the waistband of my jeans as I kiss the corner of her mouth. My fat lip stings like a bitch, but I relish the pain anyway because it makes the pleasure of her tiny hand stroking my cock that much sweeter. I lead her to my room, and I fuck her every which way possible, imagining all the while that it’s that mouthy little bitch’s cunt I’m driving my dick into. I punish Cindy, or Carla, or whatever the fuck her name is, the way I want to that Severed Sons club brat, and vow that one day it will be her bouncing up and down on my cock, despite the fact that my Prez just forbade it.

I gotta get inside that woman, even if I have to take a bullet to the gut for betraying my club.

I gotta get inside.

CHAPTER FIVE

KICK

Iwake to a pounding on my door and Prez’s angry voice bellowing for me to open up or he’s going to kick it down, and then he’s going to kick my head in, too. I slide my arm out from underneath the woman’s filthy body and stumble to the door, buck naked. I push back the lock and Prez comes barrelling into the room, bailing me up against the wall.

“You had one simple order: bring the dentist back alive, and you disobeyed it. For what? Some filthy little whore who should have been put down?”

“I know,” I throw my hands up to ward him off. “I fucked up. I know. But I couldn’t shoot her. I couldn’t let Tank shoot her either.”

He pulls a piece from the back of his jeans and turns it on her. “It’s pretty fucking easy, Kick; you just aim and pull the trigger.”

“Don’t. Please?” I beg. I actually fucking drop to my knees and beg. I shake my head, knowing that I’ve hit an all-time low. I don’t even know this bitch, and I’m throwing myself at my prez’s feet, begging him to spare her life. Jesus Christ, I’m a worthless, sorry fuck.

“Christ, get the fuck up.” He shakes his head at me. “Saints don’t fucking bend the knee for anyone. Why is this bitch so important to you?”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out because the truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know why I saved her from one monster only to be taken into the care of another. I don’t fucking know anything anymore. And I don’t like it one fucking bit. I shake my head and say, “I knew someone like her once.”

Prez laughs and tucks his gun away, scrubbing a hand down over his tired face. “Let me guess—this is your way of making amends for not saving that someone?”

I nod. “She needs a doctor. I shot her up with some coke so she’d sleep soundly, but it’ll wear off soon, and she’ll feel worse than before. She has bruises everywhere, maybe a few broken ribs. There’s no telling how long he had her there.”

“Fucking long time by the smell of her,” Prez says. “I’ll call the Butcher, but it’s gonna fucking cost ya. And you’re keeping her: food, clothes, all of it is on you. I can’t have her running scared and straight into the open arms of the pigs. The minute she tries to run, she gets a bullet to the head. It’s your job to make sure she doesn’t run. You got it?”

“Yeah,” I say.

He looks down at my naked body and shakes his head. “Put some fuckin’ clothes on. If you’re fuckin’ lucky I can get the Butcher here within the hour, and you gotta get her smelling a little more like roses and perfume than shit before he’ll touch her. You know he’s fuckin’ weird about shit like that.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, wondering how the hell I’m going to clean her up without losing my nut-sack.

Prez makes for the door, but he turns with his hand on the knob. “Ivy’s having a full meltdown out in the fuckin’ hall. You know no one can handle her shit the way you do.”

Fucking Ivy. That girl doesn’t need me, she needs to get clean and get as far away from men that use her up as fast as possible. She needs a rich man to keep and care for her, and she needs the best fucking psychiatrist money can buy.

I haven’t slept properly for three days straight, with the exception of the nap I just took, that is, so Ivy on a comedown is the last thing I feel like dealing with today. I grab a pair of jeans that haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine for far too long off the back of the recliner and pull them on. Prez turns to leave, throwing one last pitiful look at the girl in the bed.

“Prez,” I say. “Thanks.”

“You’ll be doing a lot more than thanking me, brother. You’re gonna be my bitch for the next three weeks straight for disobeying an order.” When he opens the door, the sound of Ivy’s screeching as she comes down fills the room. “If wishes were bullets,” Prez mutters as he stalks out and walks in the opposite direction of the noise.

I step out into the hall. Ivy is rocking on the balls of her feet, her hair hanging down in sweaty, limp strands in front of her face. She’s shaking and chanting into the crook of her arm. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me. Please, stop.”

I crouch down in front of her, taking hold of her arm. She yanks it away and presses herself back into the wall. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Ivy,” I command in a voice that’s not really my own, but some weird persona of authority that she responds to when she gets like this. It’s the only fuckin’ voice she responds to. You could scream and shout and even strike her, as some of the others have done when she flips out, but she just retreats further into herself. Only when I use this voice does she sit up and pay attention like a good little girl. She’s told me bits and pieces of what her father did to her growing up, but none of us know the full extent of it. “Ivy, come here.”

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