Kick

by Carmen Jenner

  The mattress dips with the weight of another body and the soft slide of leather and flesh over my naked hips. At first I think it’s just another club whore—god knows I’ve fucked enough of them in the days since Princess has been gone—but then the barrel of a gun is pressed between my eyes. It’s still fuckin’ hot, which means it’s been used recently. My head clears a little and I know instantly without having to turn on the light who is straddling me. Out in the hall I hear nothing, complete and utter dead silence, and considering this clubhouse is home to at least twelve men and doubles as a fuckin’ rumpus room for a bunch of degenerate criminals who come and go at all hours of the fuckin’ day, that’s kinda disturbing.

  After Slayer’s boys had beaten me within an inch of my life, bloody and completely fuckin’ broken, I’d ridden to the nearest hospital. I had a fractured wrist, broken nose, a couple broken ribs, two black eyes, and a concussion. They kept me for a few days, and by the time the club had found me Prez was well and truly out for my blood. I fed him some bullshit story about being attacked by a group of teenage thugs that I knew he hadn’t bought. I could see it in the depths of his cold, black eyes, but I’m still waking every day to the same damn dreary fuckin’ existence.

  “Pretty brave of you to come back, Princess.”

  “I said I would, didn’t I? That first night? I told you I’d be back to kill you.”

  “And here you fuckin’ are, makin’ good on that promise. Better get it over with then, darlin’. Mustn’t keep the reaper waiting.”

  “Why did you help me escape?” she whispers, her game face is on. I don’t need the light to see that, but that broken girl I glimpsed beneath the clubhouse, and again in my shower, isn’t far beneath the hard exterior. I can feel her, fighting to slink further inside, and fighting to be freed. Always fucking fightin’.

  “What does it fuckin’ matter? You’re gonna shoot me anyway.”

  “Why?” she demands, shoving the gun against my skull.

  “’Cause I fuckin’ wanted you. In my bed. On the back of my bike. I wanted you for myself. I want to fill up that pussy with my cum, I wanna shove myself inside every fuckin’ hole you have, and feel you break beneath my hands. I want you shattered into pieces, so that only I know how to put you back together again. I fuckin’ want you, Princess. In every way, shape and fuckin’ form a man can want a woman, but what the fuck does it matter now that your gun is pointed at my head?”

  To drive my point home I grind my cock against her, relishing the way she moulds to my poor misused dick. Her satin panties catch and tug on the barbell through my frenum, turning my self-control to a pile of fuckin’ mush.

  She’s crying now. I feel it, rather than hear it. Her hot little body trembles on top of me. I move my hips in a steady rhythm, thrusting slowly forward against her and back into the mattress. She writhes with me, so I grab her hip and slam her pelvis down on me while I thrust my cock against her satin-clad cunt. I use my other hand to try and pry the gun from her hand, but she snaps to and tightens her hold, her finger hovering dangerously close to the trigger.

  “Give me the gun, Princess. You didn’t come here to kill me—you came to take what’s yours. So take it.”

  “You. Broke. Me,” she bites out, punctuating each of her words by driving the barrel against my forehead. “I would have stayed strong. I could have closed my eyes and pretended all of this was a bad dream, but you took that away from me—”

  “I know,” I admit, pathetically. “Time to repay the favour, Princess.”

  I wrench the gun free from her hand, but she doesn’t make a grab for it, just allows me to empty out the clip all around us. I toss the piece on the bedside table and wrap my hand around the nape of her neck, pulling her body down to my level. She sucks in a sharp hissing breath when the movement forces my cock to push against her hot, soaking, fuckin’ wet pussy. I take her mouth with mine, driving my tongue as deep as it will go, practically eating her alive from the mouth down. I can’t get enough of her taste, of the slide of her flesh against mine.

  As she nibbles on the stud in my lip, I slip my free hand under the pillow beside mine and curl my fingers around the cold metal handle, bringing it out, and positioning it at the base of her spine where I cock the pistol, my finger on the trigger. She stiffens. Her writhing stops as her mind registers the danger she’s in.

  “One shot would sever your spinal cord.”

  “That one shot could easily pass through me into you.”

  “That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” I whisper. “Now, push your panties aside and climb on top of my cock.”

  “Fuck you,” she hisses.

  “Yeah, Princess, fuck me.” I dig the barrel of the gun into her back for a little reminder. I know she knows I wouldn’t really shoot her, but she also needs me to take away the choice for her, because what woman in their right mind would fall in love with her captor, but not just that, what sane person would come back to exact their revenge and end up giving themselves completely over to one of the arseholes responsible for taking away her freedom? No one would. It’s the shit nightmares are made of, only every god-forsaken second of it is real.

  She leans up and places one hand on my chest to steady herself, while the other does exactly as I ask: pushes the satin of her panties aside—only I decide I want nothing in the way of my cock sliding into her perfect cunt, so I reach out with my free hand and yank hard on the delicate fabric. With a snap, and a muffled gasp from Lauren, the wisp of fabric comes away in my hand. I bring it up to my nose and bury my face in her scent, lick at the wetness her delicious cunt left behind.

  “You’re sick.”

  I laugh, “And you’re fucking perfect.” I take hold of her hip with one hand and position my cock at the entrance to her pussy. She’s drenched for me, and so fucking hot. I let her control how much of me she takes inside, but I have to fight like the son-of-a-bitch I am not to drive into her and rut like a fuckin’ dog.

  She surprises me by sinking down hard, and seating herself in my lap. She gasps as if she’s in pain, but something tells me that despite what she’s been through, she needs it to hurt. I need it too. I need the reminder that whether she plans to blow my brains out next or not doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’m as good as dead anyway, because no one just up and leaves the club. Especially not for some bitch you betrayed them for. I’m dead before I even leave this room because having had her and letting her walk away again will kill me. Assuming she gets to walk away, and isn’t spotted by one of my other brothers. I reach up and tug on a lock of the blonde wig she’s wearing.

  “I had to go blonde to get past that big dopey fucker at the gate. He was onto me, so I shot him anyway.”

  “Jesus Christ.” There’s no love lost between Frogger and me, but my princess just admitted to taking out a fucker in cold blood to get to me. Granted he’d held me down and made me watch, but he and Tank were the only ones that didn’t take a turn with her. Yes, even dear old dad had relished fucking the shit out of the girl that I’d just tried to claim as my old lady. Of course he had.

  “How many more of my brothers did you kill?” I ask.

  “Three. Two in the club lounge and one outside. I used his key to get in.”

  “Fuck me.” I grunt, as she rides my dick like a fuckin’ pony. “Turn on the light. I wanna see my cock as it disappears inside you.”

  “No,” she whispers.

  “If you’re gonna kill me, I at least want the visual before I die.” She shifts, but doesn’t reach for the light. I work on thrusting my hips into her, forgetting all about seeing her face for a moment.

  I rub the wig’s cheap synthetic fibre beneath my fingertips. I yank it off and toss it across the room. Soft auburn waves fall down her back. I run my fingers through it, pulling a couple of strands towards me until she dips her head to the side to avoid having them ripped out completely. And then I take the gun and place it on the pillow beside me, clearly within reach.

  I
know as well as she does that she won’t turn it on me. Not now. She might have fantasised about it, but she’s never really wanted to kill me. Hurt me? Yeah. I’d believe that as much as I believe my father would have aborted me from my mother’s womb if he’d had the option. But Lauren never wanted to kill me; that isn’t why she came here. She could have easily slipped into Prez’s room and shot him while he nailed a club whore to the wall. She could have done that with any one of the brothers she sought revenge from. She didn’t. She killed who she had to in order to get to me. She came to me first because she had a choice between revenge and me, and she may be the only person in the world who has ever chosen me over something they really want. I feel weightless and weighed down knowing that. It’s a fuckin’ heady thing to feel like another person on this huge planet wants you that much.

  Or maybe it’s my cock hitting the end of her, impaling her root to tip that has me pondering the fuckin’ existence of my belly button. I scoop her up in my arms and fuck her like I mean it. And I do mean it, with all that I have—with every part of me I mean it.

  I stop thrusting and lift her off me, laying her back on the mattress. I climb on top of her, positioning the head of my cock just inside her sweet pussy, and then drive the entire way in. I shove a hand between us, rubbing her clit, hurriedly at first, and then as she gasps for breath and her legs tremble, I slow my pace, and touch her with soft, lightly punishing strokes. I pull out and drive back in slowly, deeply. Each stroking glide of my cock in and out of her pussy tugs on my piercing, heightening everything.

  “Cum for me, Princess,” I whisper, as I groan in her ear. “Show me why you risked your life to come back for me.”

  Her soft moan, the way her hips rise to meet my thrusts, the hurried, angry kisses she places on my lips, let me know she’s close. All of this makes me know I didn’t need her to verbalise the answers to those questions either. “I ...” she moans. “I came to ... kill you.”

  “You are killing me. Hurry the fuck up, so I can fill you with my cum.”

  “You first,” she challenges.

  “Woman, fuckin’ give me that orgasm or I’ll take it from you by force.”

  “Take it,” she whispers. “Take me. I’m yours, Daniel.”

  “I know,” I growl and pump faster. Her breathing peaks, her muscles clench and she cries out as I pull that orgasm from her, and my cum shoots from my cock in hot, hard bursts.

  I’m chugging back a beer and staring off into space when Indie comes back down the stairs. She pauses when she sees me occupying the lounge. I move my feet off the end of the couch and shift so that the side she favours is free, and then I kick my feet up on the coffee table. She’s wary at first, sitting down like a kitten that can’t decide if it’s curious or fuckin’ terrified.

  “Does your face hurt?”

  I laugh. “Yeah darlin’, it hurts like a fuckin’ bitch.”

  “Good,” she says, taking a swig of my beer before setting it on the table.

  “By all means, help your fuckin’ self.”

  “Oh, I will,” she replies, giving me a stubborn-arse fuckin’ glare.

  “You wanna help yourself to anything else of mine, then go right ahead,” I mutter, staring pointedly at my crotch.

  “You’re a pig.”

  “And you’re a pain in my arse.” I smirk and snatch up my stubbie, downing the rest and putting my mouth to good use before it gets me in trouble.

  “Thank you, though,” she says, “For the lesson. It was still an arsehole move, but I understand why you did it. Next time, maybe give the rape victim a little warning before you drag her across the room, throw her to the ground and attack her.”

  “If I’d given you warning, you never would have known what you were capable of.”

  She thinks on that for a minute, biting her bottom lip as she stares off into space. Finally, she nods and says, “I want you to teach me how to fire a gun.”

  “Slow your roll, Spitfire. To do that I’d need to take you outside. Prez said outside is off limits.”

  “Your prez isn’t here.”

  “Lucky for you, otherwise he’d beat you down for sayin’ that shit. You have to trust that we know what we’re doing here. If it were safe to take you outside, I’d take you out-fuckin’-side.”

  She lets out a sigh, opens her mouth to say something, and then closes it again.

  “Out with it, Spitfire,” I say.

  She glares at me for a second and then her face crumples. “Tell me about the tooth, Kick.”

  I’m not wearing it anymore. I took it off and threw it across the gym the second she left. And then I walked over and picked it up, threading the necklace through my wallet chain and then pocketing it so I wouldn’t lose it.

  The roar of motorcycles up the drive has my head snapping around towards the kitchen where I can see through the front door. Saved by the fuckin’ bell. Though I know we’re not done here. She’ll be bitchin’ at me later to answer the god damned question.

  “Cavalry’s here,” I say, standing up and stretching out my tired muscles.

  After she’d left me in the gym I’d taken some of my self-loathing out on the bag. I’m not wearing a shirt because I’d soaked it through with sweat, and hadn’t seen the point in putting on the only clean shirt I had left. I liked the way she looked at me when I wasn’t wearing one, her sweet and innocent gaze roaming every inch of my tattooed flesh, as though all the answers to my secrets were written within. I didn’t have the heart to tell her there was no mystery when it came to me. Just selfishness. And shit. And betrayal.

  “Stay,” I say, as I head for the front door.

  “Where the fuck do you think I’m gonna go?” she yells after me, and I can’t help but turn so I see her exasperated expression. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be babysitting the brat, but a part of me is gonna be reluctant to let the bitch go.

  I step outside to find Killer, One Eye, Prez, Squeals, and motherfuckin’ Country. I shoot a questioning glare at Prez. “The guy that wants the bitch dead, the blind old coot, and the motherfuckin’ prospect? Where the hell is Tank and Raphe? Hell, Prez, even fuckin’ Diesel would have been a better choice than these three fuckers?”

  “Tank’s out. Takin’ Ivy home and attemptin’ to get her clean again after this motherfuckin’ idiot stuck his coke under her nose and she ODed. Again.” He smacks Killer in the back of the head, who’s been here since yesterday without a wink of sleep. The fuck-knuckle mumbles another apology, some shit about not knowing she was Tank’s property. “Raphe and Diesel are busy cleaning up your shit. We got more to deal with than your old lady.”

  My head snaps up. “She’s not my old lady.”

  “Wearin’ her claw marks on your neck, aren’t ya?”

  “That’s not what it looks like.”

  “Dude, what the fuck happened to your face?” Killer says. “Did you let a girl beat you up?”

  “Shut up, fuck-stick.” I smack him upside the head and he sneers, slinking back to his post.

  “If that’s not what it looks like, and she’s not your old lady, then what the fuck are we all doing here?” Prez asks. He tries to push past me, but I glare at him and tilt my chin towards One Eye.

  “What about him?”

  “Can I enter my own fuckin’ house and sit down to a meal at my goddamn fuckin’ table, kid? Or are you gonna forbid your prez from goin’ near your pretty piece of flesh in there? One Eye knows what’s fuckin’ up and what’s fuckin’ down, and if he doesn’t play nicely, he’s gonna be ridin’ off into the sunset minus a cut.” He shoulders me out of the way and enters the house.

  “Grub’s fuckin’ up, fuckers,” Prez announces as he heads into the kitchen and throws a black duffle bag on the table. He pulls out two buckets of chicken and a bag containing a couple of containers of coleslaw, and sits them on the dining table. The brothers file in, each taking a seat and diggin’ in. Fuckin’ animals. I head into the lounge to warn Indie that if she wants to eat to
day she better haul that sweet fuckin’ arse in here, but when I see her staring blankly before the TV I quit talkin’ and step up beside her, giving her a little shake. She’s utterly transfixed on some news programme.

  There’s a police officer on the screen. The expression on her face is the same one I saw earlier today, when I’d thrown her on the ground and attacked her. I already know, but I have to ask anyway. “Is that him? Is that the fucker that took you?”

  She doesn’t answer. “Indie!” I grab her face in my hand and she wrenches out of my grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Is. That. Him?”

  The dead motherfucker talking on the TV says, “We have reason to believe that Kayla Kennedy is alive. We’re investigating leads after witnesses reported sightings of the woman earlier this week at a three car pile-up with a notorious Sydney-based motor cycle gang. These people are dangerous, and shouldn’t be approached. Anybody with information should come forward.”

  “Prez! Get the fuck in here!”

  Kitchen chairs scrape against the tile, but they aren’t quick enough. The image on screen has already changed to that of a middle-aged woman, with grey hair and tired-arse eyes that are puffy from crying.

  Indie covers her mouth. “Mum,” she whispers.

  A string of pearls decorate the woman’s neck. Her face is painted up with bright coral lipstick. Her makeup runs with her tears, trailing down her cheeks in black lines and splashing onto her no doubt designer threads. That’s what I don’t understand about rich folk. Your kid is missing and you’re taking the fuckin’ time to look pretty on TV instead of gettin’ out on the streets and looking for her. The chump standing behind her is decked out in a fuckin’ suit. He’s obviously Indie’s dad, because he too looks as if someone just ran him through with a fuckin’ sword. Starin’ at her parents, I decide if I ever meet either of them I’m gonna beat their heads together until I knock the fuckin’ sense into them.