Kick

by Carmen Jenner

  I quicken my pace, lean forward and whisper, “Scream for me, Princess.”

  She clenches her teeth, resisting. I rise to the challenge, or I guess I bow down and kneel to it. The dirty tile hurts my knees. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on them before another person, but I push past the discomfort and spread her thighs apart, hooking one leg over my shoulder. She struggles; when does she not? But I take that bud in my mouth, sucking hard and wrenching the screams from the back of her throat. Her thighs clench around either side of my head as her whole body gives over to the spasms, head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open in pure blissful pleasure.

  I don’t stop at just one, though. I lick and suck through her twisting and twitching, her protests and punches. I delve my tongue into her hole, as far as I can reach, rubbing my coarse stubble against her pussy, making her flinch and cry out, and eventually tilt her hips toward me for more.

  When the cops finally bust down my door, I’ve forgotten all about the fuckers. I stand quickly and capture her face in my hands. If she’s smart, she’ll play along; if not, this may be the only time I get to taste her, have her, kiss her. So I do that, despite the fact that I’m buck naked, she’s scared out of her fucking mind and the cops have a gun trained on my head. I lower my lips to hers and drive my tongue into her mouth, forcing her to taste herself, to feel me in her mouth the way I was inside her pussy. I use the distraction to wrap my hand around the nape of her neck, realising how easy it would be to twist and snap it, and fearing the fragility of her all at once. I keep my eyes trained on her as I take her mouth. She’s doped with pleasure, and her eyes are glassy—or the one that I can see is. The other is still swollen shut.

  “Get your hands on your head and turn around slowly,” the cop commands. I let the girl’s face go and place my hands behind my head, turning with a cocky smile and an even cockier dick, considering I’m still fuckin’ hard as concrete and beggin’ for release. That’s one orgasm I can kiss goodbye.

  The cop closest to the door curls his lip in distaste. “Jesus Christ.”

  “There a reason you officers are busting down my door while I’m trying to make sweet mad love to my old lady here?”

  “Step out of the shower, and drop to your knees, Sir.”

  “Listen, fellas, you might swing that way down at the station, but I don’t suck cock. As you can see, I like pussy.” A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Mostly just her pussy, but I’m not fussy.”

  One of them pulls a towel from the rack and throws it at me. “Cover yourself up,” he hisses, bringing his hand back to his gun.

  I step from the shower and wrap the towel around me, not bothering to dry off, then I throw another at the girl and say, “Princess, go wait for me in bed, okay? This shouldn’t take long, and then I can get back to fucking the shit outta that sweet cunt of yours.”

  She just stares at me and I have to refrain from rolling my eyes. Could she be any more fuckin’ suspicious? Her gaze darts from the cops to me, and back again. She opens her mouth to speak, but I shoot her a warning look and her eyes widen. I’m shoved to the ground. The men slap me in cuffs, though I’m not read my rights, so I don’t know what the fuck is going on. For a half a second I think my prez might have used me as a scapegoat, but no one rats to the cops. Not even Prez can come back from that shit. You rat, you die. It’s the reason they’ve been gunning for Ethan’s head for so long, because the Angels believe he ratted and then cashed in his get-out-of-jail-free card. I know differently, but I can’t exactly tell them that, because that would open up a whole slew of questions Prez wouldn’t like the answer to. Answers that would get me a bullet to the face.

  The water shuts off and her little feet thud on the mat beside me. I dare a glance in her direction. She’s covered by an old towel, hair plastered to her back and water beaded on her skin. I wanna lick it off. I wanna trace my tongue over every fuckin’ inch of that gloriously brown body, but one of the bastards in blue hauls me up by the cuffs and shoves me forward. The towel slips from my waist. The cop in front of me lets out an exasperated sigh.

  “Christ. Can we get some clothes on this fucker?”

  “Just do up the God damned towel.”

  “I’m not going near his Johnson. You fucking do it.”

  I roll my eyes as the two cops fight about my junk hanging out for the world to see. Princess surprises us both, I think, when she bends down in front of me and retrieves the towel. It’s more surprising still when she glances up at me from her position on the floor. Her eyes are dark with challenge. Over what? I don’t know.

  Princess stands and wraps the towel around me, skimming the hard muscles of my hips with her tiny fragile hands as she tucks one end of the towel into the part covering my waist. “Thanks, Princess. Now be a good little girl and go wait in bed for me.”

  Her hatred is a fuckin’ beam that sears me right down to the core. She stands before me, not saying anything, but conveying everything with the tension in her gaze.

  “Princess,” I hiss through my teeth.

  “He the one that did that to your face?” one of the officers asks. She just stares at him, and he turns his stupid fuckin’ questioning gaze on me. He looks like a fuckin’ dickhead. “You like to beat on your old lady?”

  “I didn’t do that, but right now I’m beginning to wish I had,” I warn.

  Her eyes dart between me and the cop again, and she says, “My name is Lauren Costello. My father is Slayer—” She shakes her head. “My father is Vincent Costello. He’s the president of the Severed Sons’ Motorcycle club. These people kidnapped me, they’ve held me hostage. Their president … he raped me … he beat me.”

  “Stupid fucking bitch,” I hiss, shaking my head.

  So Princess has a name, huh? I could have done without knowing what that was, because now the name Lauren will forever be tainted by the fact that I watched her get tortured. That I watched her die right in front of me and that I could do nothing to stop it. And she will die. Prez will see to that. He won’t tolerate that shit. Just because a man wears a uniform doesn’t mean he isn’t just as criminal as the fuckin’ rest of us. And even if she gets lucky and the cops do send her home, we’ll still find her, and we’ll gun her down and string up her insides like Christmas tree tinsel, because that’s what we do to rats. You rat, you die.

  “Ah, shit,” the fatter of the two officers says. His porky belly protrudes over his belt, and he jams a finger through the belt loop and tugs it upward. “And this guy? He rape you too?”

  She glances at me, and it’s the fuckin’ damnedest thing, but I think I see guilt behind her eyes. “No. He was trying to help. He promised to get me out of here.”

  “Stop fuckin’ talkin’, bitch,” I shout. Every word that comes out of her whoring trap sinks me further in the shitter, and she doesn’t even know it.

  “Did he now?” the cop asks. Princess nods her head vigorously.

  Tilting his head towards his partner, the cop yanks me out of the way while the other grabs Lauren’s wrists and hauls her through my bedroom and out into the hall.

  “Wait,” she protests. The wall blocks my view of her but I can hear the panic rising in her voice. “Can I at least get my clothes?”

  “Nope. We need them for evidence,” the cop replies.

  “Ow, you’re hurting me.”

  I don’t need to be told to move forward, cuffs or not. I all but sprint after them, only I’m yanked back by the officer. “There’s been a slight change of plans.”

  “Get your filthy fuckin’ piggy hands off me, motherfucker.” I try twisting from his grip, but he yanks my arms up behind me, causing my elbows and shoulder blades to groan and protest the pain.

  “Walk,” he commands, holding my arms at bay by the chain connecting my cuffs. I stagger out into the hall as he urges me forward. The gun trained at my head is the only thing keeping me from head-butting this motherfucker and making a break for it. Well, that and the cuffs, pinning my hands behind my b
ack.

  As I clear the hall, I’m not met with my brothers kneeling on the floor, all lined up in a degenerate little line of criminals, the way we’d usually be in a raid. Instead, my prez is relaxing back on a fuckin’ La-Z-Boy, sharing a bottle of top-shelf scotch with some douchie lookin’ rail-thin officer of the law, and my brothers are spread throughout the front room, arms folded, guns in holsters, and fuckin’ unhappy expressions on their faces. Though for some of them that’s a regular expression. My father included, who leans against the wall and doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s probably fuckin’ pissy that he didn’t get an invite to Prez’s “Let’s Kidnap A Rival MC’s Daughter And Rape And Torture Her For Fuckin’ Kicks” party. Cunt rag.

  The only people that look as if they’re havin’ a good time here are Prez and the fucking arsehole in blue who’s holdin’ Princess close to him and feelin’ up every inch of her body as she struggles.

  Prez watches me closely as I’m pushed towards the centre of the room. I might have my eyes glued to the fucker whose paws are all over Princess, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel Prez eyeballing me harder than a whore he wants inside of. “And speaking of fuckin’ pathetic,” Prez says as I’m forced down on my knees before him. “I had such high hopes for you, Kick. We raised you from a fuckin’ babe, we made you into a man, and then you go and turn into a snivellin’ fuckin’ pussy, over some fuckin’ pussy.”

  Sniggers come from all around the room. “Have you been inside her tight little cunt yet?”

  “Fuck you.”

  He leans forward and strikes me across the face. I rock back on my knees with the force of the blow, and then I’m shoved flat on the floor, his boot pressing against the back of my neck, crushing my upper spine.

  “Get comfortable, kid,” he says. “I’m gonna teach you the difference between takin’ pussy and fuckin’ being one.”

  I growl into the filthy carpet. My eyes dart wildly around the room and land on my father. He looks bored. The arsehole looks as if he’d rather be scratching his arse than standing here, watching his son debased in front of the club.

  My eyes dart to Tank but he glares back at me, stoic as ever, and then he turns and leaves the room. Prez doesn’t try to stop him. No, Prez doesn’t care about anything but teaching Princess and I a lesson.

  Her screams make me struggle. Prez lifts his foot and for a second I can breathe easier, and then he calls Frogger to his side and the fucker straddles my back, pulling my head up by the hair, my neck yanked up at a painful angle.

  He leans down and whispers, “I’m gonna savour this moment forever, you little shit.” He jerks on my head again and I’m forced to see it: her, them, touching her, tasting her, hurting flesh that should be mine to hurt. Punishing her cunt with their cocks as she screams and struggles and bleeds. I try to close my eyes but Frogger punches my kidneys to make me watch. Prez and the police officers take it in turns, and then Juke steps forward. His mouth turns up in a sideways grin that even the devil wouldn’t touch. He lifts her up. She’s bruised and beaten, covered in cum and blood and spit. She’s not even crying anymore—she doesn’t fight, just allows herself to be positioned wherever they want, however they want.

  “Wait,” I growl out. I’m surprised anyone but Frogger hears me with the ruckus of the room.

  “SHUT UP!” Prez bellows, and the room falls into silence. “Kid’s got somethin’ to say. Let’s hear it, lover boy.”

  “She’s mine. I’m laying claim to her. Want her for my old lady.”

  Prez chuckles. It’s a dark and foreboding sound. “You can’t take a fucking club whore as your old lady, kid.”

  “She’s not a club whore, and you know it.”

  “Well, if it walks like a club whore, and talks like a club whore …”

  “She’s Sons’ property. Slayer’s gonna tear this club apart when he finds her.”

  “Exactly; she’s Sons’ property, and she serves a purpose you can’t even comprehend.” He turns back to my father. “Take her to fuckin’ town, Juke. Show the boy how it’s done.”

  I jolt awake. My heart pounds in my chest, and my body is slick with sweat from yet another nightmare. I’m still in the biker’s room, one arm is still cuffed to the bed, and the other is still hooked up to the IV that prevents it from falling forward. I attempt to move within my restraints, but what the hell is the fucking point? My limbs prickle with pins and needles. My arse cheeks are numb, my bladder full to bursting. I blink my tired eyes and adjust to the dimness that is my hell without windows. At least in the warehouse I knew what time of day it was. Three days could have passed here and I wouldn’t know if it was midnight or morning.

  I know my cookie’s still there, though. I can smell it.

  If the biker ever comes back it’s gonna be a tough decision between peeing and stuffing my face with enough trans-fats to kill off a village full of African children. I sag against my restraints. If the biker ever comes back, feeding my face is probably the least of my worries. I already know I need his help to find those bastards that raped and maimed me, both physically and psychologically, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to trust him. How can I, when he’s every bit as dangerous as them? I know it’s not an act. He wasn’t playing good cop, bad cop with me—I know a monster when I see one. I’ve spent enough time with monsters to know, to feel the wrongness that seeps from every single pore on his body. What I don’t understand is my reaction to him. He may have saved me, but for what purpose? He can play nice guy now and pretend that we need each other to bring those bastards down, and maybe we do need each other for that, but why did he take me in the first place if it wasn’t just to use me the way they did? To wring every last bit of humiliation and pain and dread from my psyche?

  Jesus. All these questions are giving me a headache. Or maybe that’s just the copious amount of drugs I’ve had pumping through my system for days. No, not days, weeks apparently.

  I wonder what my parents are doing now. Are they trying to find me? Are they out walking the streets, seeing my face in every brunette they pass? Did they have any leads? Would they have ever found me if the biker hadn’t found me first?

  A rustling has my adrenaline spiking again. I dart my gaze all around the room but despite how my vision has adjusted to the lack of windows, I can’t see a damn thing but junk, empty trays of take-out, and unwashed coffee cups. Every freaking surface is covered with filth. Biker’s a pig, but it’s not just that. Apart from a couple of pieces of beaten up furniture and the plasma on the wall that’s probably stolen, there’s nothing here to tell me anything about the man who has me chained to his bed.

  The rustling is closer now, and the scurry of tiny feet along hard surfaces has icy fingers creeping down my spine. My eyes roam the room, falling on the table where the biker left the wadded up paper from his sub. The paper moves, falling off the edge of the table onto the floor, revealing a tiny grey mouse with his nose in the air. His little mouth twitches and then he practically pounces on the cookie.

  My cookie.

  I lurch forward, but my restraints hold me back. I buck and shout, “That’s my fucking cookie!”

  The mouse scurries down the table leg and under the armchair the biker had been sleeping in hours earlier, but it isn’t the mouse moving around that catches my eye now—it’s the biker. I was so worked up over that fucking cookie that I didn’t hear or see him come in. But he moves through the room like the angel of death, all darkness and unleashed fury. He pulls the knife from his belt, crouches down and then spears the mouse on the end of the blade.

  He holds it up. Blood and innards stain its short grey fur. A single droplet slides down the mouse’s tail, and falls onto the carpet. Biker carries it across the room and slams his foot down on the pedal of the stainless steel bin, jiggling the knife over the rubbish until the tiny body slides off the blade and lands in the garbage. Something about his brutality, about his ruthlessness and complete disregard for life enrages me.

  “You didn’t have
to kill it,” I shout.

  He glares at me. “You’d rather me let it eat your cookie?”

  “You’re disgusting,” I hiss.

  Rounding the tiny bench he stands in front of the sink, his back to me. The giant winged skull on his cut mocks me. Savage Saints MC, the patch reads. Savage is right. Biker runs the water and rinses off the blade, pulling a tea towel that’s seen better days from a rail above the sink and wiping the knife clean. He slides the blade back in its sheath on his belt and turns to face me. “I can promise you that was a much quicker, and more humane death than setting traps.”

  “Maybe if you cleaned up this shitty room, you wouldn’t have mice you had to kill.”

  “Gotta sink my blade into something, Little Spitfire.” He smiles as he sits down in the armchair opposite me and leans his elbows on his knees. “Can’t afford to get rusty with a priest and a cop to kill.”

  He’s baiting me. I know it, and yet I can’t help but rise to it. “What do you get out of helping me? Besides your tape back?”

  “So you’re going to tell us what you know?”

  “If I do this, we take down those fuckers, and I walk away. You let me walk away.”

  He nods his acquiescence. His dark blue eyes glint with hunger; he’s like a wolf with a prize that he knows is within his reach. I don’t trust him, but what choice do I have? I tell them what I know, or I keep my mouth shut and die anyway. I’m dead if the Priest finds me, so what do I have left to lose?

  “Where do we start?”

  “You tell me what you know, and we go from there.”

  “Can I at least pee first?”

  “If I uncuff you are you gonna run?”

  “Really?” I ask, impatiently. “You left me sitting here for an entire day, staring at a fucking cookie and trying desperately not to think of running water and you’re asking me if I’m going to run? Hell yes, I’m going to run, straight to the freaking bathroom, and then you’re going to feed me, and then we’ll talk.”