Kick

by Carmen Jenner

  I shove the girl off of my limp dick, she falls in her stupid fuckin’ heels and lands on the seat of her arse on the hard concrete. I tuck my cock back inside my jeans.

  “Hey,” she protests.

  As I make my way over to my bike, all I can think about is the way Indie looked spread out before me, asking to be accepted, to be wanted. And I wanted to. God damn, did I want to take her, and shove inside her, and show her that even with her scars she was fucking perfect—or that maybe, she’s perfect because of her scars. Maybe that’s the reason I want her so fuckin’ much. Because she’s been through hell and she looks like a fuckin’ warrior. But if she’s a warrior, then what does that make me?

  Warriors don’t need saviours.

  Warriors save themselves.

  I wake with a start and I have no idea where I am. The doorknob turns and I glance around, realising I’m still in the gym. I watch the door and at first I think it’s Kick coming back to apologise, but then I get a good look at the guy, and while it’s definitely a biker, it’s not my biker.

  “There she is.” The biker with the eye patch announces. I scramble to my feet, pulling the robe closed and wishing Kick hadn’t yanked out the sash. I clutch at the soft silk holding it tight, and then when the Cop follows the biker through the door and closes it behind him, I forget all about my robe and clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from vocalising my horrified gasp.

  “Hello, Whore,” the Cop says, pulling his gun and taking aim at my face. “Father James is very disappointed in you.”

  “Father James can suck my big fat clit,” I retort.

  The biker laughs and moves towards me. “Can I suck your big fat clit too?”

  “Don’t touch her,” The Cop orders, and the biker turns to stare incredulously at him.

  “Don’t fuckin’ touch her? You wouldn’t have her if it weren’t for me. I took out my brothers for you,” he says, pulling his own gun from the back of his leathers. “I think it’s time I took a little piece of the fuckin’ action.”

  Oh god. Kick.

  I make a move towards the front of the room but both men turn their guns on me.

  “Not another step, sweetheart,” the biker says.

  He edges forward, but I refuse to be herded. If he gets the wall at my back, I have nowhere to go. As it is I have no weapons; all I have is fear and fight, but they won’t be enough.

  I scream, as loud as I can. I scream Kick’s name and hope to hell that he hears me, but I know he more than likely won’t, because if this biker was smart he would have put Kick down like a dog. He’d be stupid not to.

  The biker circles me, stopping at my back. He leans in and sniffs my hair. One hand holds a gun to my temple, the other tries to slide inside my robe. I clench the material tighter in my fists, but he bats them away and grabs my breast in his big calloused paw. He presses his lips to my hair and I turn away, but he shoves the gun against my head. Tears prick my eyes, and threaten to spill over, but I won’t be that pathetic girl I was in the warehouse. I won’t be the girl that Kick stood in front of the mirror, crying and begging him to stop.

  “This girl. Is she a fighter or a fuckin’ victim?”

  “A fighter. She’s a fighter.”

  “Then fuckin’ show me.”

  “Take your hands off the whore,” the Cop says through gritted teeth. His gun is no longer trained on me. It’s on the biker.

  “I don’t think I will,” the biker with the patch says. He takes his gun from my head and points it at the Cop. “See, I already got my money. You can have your girl when I’m done with her, Sergeant.”

  I spin while he’s distracted and fist my hand just the way Kick taught me, and I punch him with all that I have, right in the nuts. Shots ring out, and blood blooms on the biker’s shirt. He lets out a strangled cry and falls to the ground, and then I’m left in the room with the Cop. The man who tortured me for weeks. The man who tried to break me and failed.

  The gun falls from the biker’s lifeless hand. I reach out to grab it, but the Cop kicks me in the stomach. I try to curl in on myself, try to protect myself, but he rolls me onto my back, straddling my waist as he shoves the gun up under my chin. Beneath my hand I feel the silk sash from my robe and I slowly gather it up in my fist.

  “You can’t hurt me anymore,” I whisper.

  When I get back to the house, everything feels off. Country is no longer on the front step, but there’s a shitload of blood where he was sitting and the front door is wide fuckin’ open. I take off my helmet, park the bike and pull the gun from my pants, creeping quietly across the drive. I climb the front stairs, glancing down at the patch of blood, and then at the bloody handprints on the door. I keep low to the ground and move inside, walking through the kitchen, but when I clear the island I almost trip over Country. He’s dead, propped up against the bench. His shotgun is gone, taken from him likely, and he has a bullet hole in his chest, just below his clavicle.

  I turn around, but a hand reaches out and grabs my leg. I spin, my gun aimed and at the ready. “What the fuck, old man?” I whisper. “I almost shot your fuckin’ face off. Where’s Indie?”

  “Gym … she’s in the gym. Crawled in here, haven’t … made it no further … though.”

  “How many?”

  “One Eye.” He takes a ragged breath in. “Cop.”

  “Where’s Squeals?”

  “Dead.”

  Gunshots go off, and I forget all about being quiet, ’cause my fuckin’ girl is in that room. I kick open the door; fuckin’ idiots didn’t lock it. One Eye is dead, the Cop has Indie on the ground, and his gun is shoved up under her chin.

  “Shoot me, and she dies,” he says, glaring up at me.

  “Shoot her and you die,” I challenge.

  “I’m not going to shoot her, and I’m not leaving without her. He wants her back. He’s not finished with her. You took her from us.”

  “Oh, he is finished with her. I can promise you that. The Priest is finished, period. Girl belongs to me now, and I don’t appreciate people trying to take what’s mine.”

  “You can’t stop him. He’s higher than you or I could ever grasp. He’s on a holy mission, sent down from God to save us all.”

  “By abducting women and destroying them? That’s his holy mission? It’s been a while since I was in Sunday School—no, wait, scratch that, I’ve never fuckin’ been to Sunday School—but I’m pretty sure your definition of worship is fucked.”

  “You can kill me, but God’s plan, the Father’s plan cannot be undone.”

  “Fuck God’s plan.” Indie jerks forward, wrapping a long black piece of fabric around his neck and yanking it tight. I don’t have time to think. I just aim and shoot the way I have with so many other mother fuckers. I fire off three bullets between his eyes, hoping and praying like hell his finger wasn’t actually on the trigger. He slumps forward on top of her.

  My heart stops as I wait.

  I can’t move.

  I can’t breathe.

  His body jerks and then he’s rolled to the side as she emerges. I stalk over and fire off several more shots, emptying my whole clip into that fucker’s face. Indie covers her ears and squeezes her eyes tightly closed.

  “Fucking zealots,” I mutter.

  Indie stares up at me for a moment, and then the levee breaks. She covers her eyes and sobs while I stand there like a fuckin’ tool with no idea how to comfort her. I wanna pull her into my lap the way I did once before, but for the second time tonight I’m considering someone other than myself. Country is in the kitchen; he risked his life to save her and it’s only fair I repay the favour. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her out of the gym. Before we clear the door, she glances over my shoulder at the man who tortured her.

  Country looks like shit. He’s pale, the wrinkled skin beneath his eyes as ashen as his beard.

  “Not … too shabby …” He wheezes. “For a blind … geriatric, hey kid?”

  “Yeah, if you’d actually hit someone
, maybe.” I smile at the old man and nod. “I owe you, brother.”

  “Nah, I’m just … pissed … didn’t get to shoot … some stupid-arse mother fuckers.”

  “You need to stop talking,” I warn him. I set Indie on her feet and she sits heavily on the tiles.

  “You okay, babe?”

  “I don’t … I don’t feel anything,” she says, staring at the open door of the gym. I walk over and pull it firmly closed. “I thought I’d feel … something, but there’s nothing. I’m just numb.”

  “I know,” I say, taking her in my arms. And I do know. I didn’t feel retribution, or elation, or even satiated when I killed the Angels’ president. I felt numb, because it was way too late to save Lauren.

  “He needs a hospital,” she says tilting her chin towards Country.

  “He needs the Butcher.”

  “Fuck the Butcher … get me a goddamned spoon … I’ll get it out … myself.”

  “Shut up, old man.” I pull my phone from my pocket and dial the prez. He answers on the first ring and I tell him what went down while I was off trying to hide my fuckin’ feelings with a stranger sucking my cock. I leave out that last part. No point in upsetting Indie further. He promises that the Butcher will be here soon and orders me to stay with Country.

  Forty long minutes later, the Butcher’s Porsche pulls into the drive. I take Indie upstairs because she doesn’t need to meet the man who jabbed her with a needle and knocked her out cold to examine her.

  Grim and Killer arrive, reinforcements sent by Prez. I’m not fuckin’ sure what the hell we’re supposed to be “reinforcing”? We already shot dead the motherfuckers, and something tells me that though this fuckin’ nutty Priest wants Indie back to fulfil his stupid-as-fuck prophecy, he will wait her out.

  I wait until Country is stitched up, and I help put him in the den downstairs to sleep it off. Prez must have agreed to pay the Butcher a pretty fuckin’ hefty sum because I’ve never seen the bastard doll out medication so freely. I snatch up two pills from the bottle of morphine and pocket them in case Indie needs something.

  “I didn’t get a chance to thank you,” I say, half hoping Country’s asleep already so I don’t have to do this shit.

  He’s not. That old fucker is wide awake and gloating like a stupid son-of-a-bitch. “Seems like you had plenty … of chances. You’re just a stubborn dickhead … when it comes to tellin’ people how you feel,” he says, grinnin’ like a fuckin’ yokel at me. “Besides … you’d do it for me.”

  I wondered if that were true. I didn’t think so, not up until this point, and though I was grateful, maybe not even after this point. That was just who I was. Or I thought that was who I was. But honestly? I don’t even fuckin’ recognise myself when I look in the mirror anymore. Lauren had changed me, and Indie seems to have picked up where she fuckin’ left off. I didn’t wanna feel shit; I didn’t want to put others before myself, before my wants, before staying alive, but I did. I was, and I am. And it scares the ever-loving shit outta me. When you patch in, you pledge to die for your prez, for your brothers. It’s all part of the code, but can I make it my code? I don’t fuckin’ know.

  When I open the door, Indie is still sitting on the bed. She’s staring straight ahead; I don’t even think her mind has registered that I just walked in.

  “Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand. She doesn’t even flinch, which is really fuckin’ rare for her. “You need a shower. You’ve got blood in your hair.”

  I lead her across the hall to the bathroom we’ve shared these last few days. I shuffle her into the room and lock the door behind us. Turning on the spray, I undress and then I slowly peel the ruined robe from her shoulders and edge us both in. I take the showerhead off of the wall and hose her down with it. It’s so much like the first time we did this—her mentally checked-out, and me going through the motions—and yet it’s completely different.

  After a few minutes of thawing out under the warm spray, she takes over, scrubbing her face with soap, lathering up the shampoo and washing her hair. There’s a bench seat in the shower, and I sit and watch her body move as the water runs over it. She soaps up her hands and slides them all over herself. I don’t even know if she understands how fuckin’ crazy that shit is making me. I close my eyes and exhale slowly. I can’t do jack shit about the huge fuckin’ hard-on I’m sporting, but she doesn’t seem to notice, she just continues scrubbing, so hard I think she might be taking off skin.

  “It won’t come out, darlin’, and the blood is long gone.”

  She stares at me with tear-filled eyes. I give her a sad smile, knowing exactly what she’s feeling: as if she’s a bad person for wanting them dead, as if she’s a monster for wanting to see his blood spilled out all over the gym floor. As if there’s something wrong with her for being the one left standing.

  “It won’t come out, but it gets easier.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she whispers.

  “Nope, not really. It’s just the truth of it.” I shake my head. “You’re not a monster; you’re just human.”

  “What does that make you then?”

  “A little of both.”

  She stares at me for a beat. “No. I think it makes you human, too.”

  “A regular guy wouldn’t be hard as fuck watching a woman wash blood out of her hair.”

  “Maybe not, but that doesn’t make you any less of a man.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what it makes me,” I say, and it’s more than just my cock that’s frustrated. “I don’t know what you want from me, Indie?”

  “I don’t know either,” she admits. “I’ve told myself over and over you were a means to an end, but now I don’t know how I feel. I want you to touch me. I want your hands on me. And I’m pretty sure you want that too, or I was before—”

  “I can’t be what you need, baby. I’m so fucked up there aren’t even words for the shit I see in my head. All the things I wanna do to you? They’re not normal. I don’t do vanilla; I don’t make love. I fuck. And I fuck hard. And I can’t do that with you. I don’t know how to be any other way.”

  I don’t know what someone like me can offer her. I don’t know if I can offer her anything but a life of disappointment and danger. It certainly hasn’t been smooth fuckin’ sailing so far, and shit’s only gonna get worse. If she’s in my bed, on the back of my bike and wearing my patch, she’s a target for anyone who wants to get to me.

  “Can I ask you something?” She interrupts my thoughts. “What were you thinking when he put that gun to my head?”

  “I was thinking I couldn’t be the reason you died. I promised to protect you; I wanted to protect you. I didn’t want your blood on my hands, too.”

  “Too?”

  Jesus. This bitch and her questions. I wish I could shove my cock in her mouth and get her to shut the fuck up. “I’ve been here before, and it didn’t end well for her. She died; a brutal and bloody death, the same kind you woulda had if you’d been left in that warehouse.”

  She reaches out and touches my hair. I glance up at her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her gently into me. I kiss her stomach, the flesh over her hip. She’s been steadily putting on weight since we pulled her from that warehouse, and she looks fucking amazing. Plump arse, fuller tits, her arms now contain a little muscle, and even that is hot as fuck too. I pull her down onto my lap, spreading her legs apart and shoving her pelvis down against my cock, groaning when her pussy slides over my piercing and the head of my dick. And then I kiss her mouth the way I wanted to earlier tonight. I take her hard with my mouth because I can’t with my body.

  When she breaks away she’s panting for breath. “I want you inside me, Biker.”

  “You can’t say that shit to me, Indie,” I groan. “I’m not a man with self-control. I take whatever the fuck I want, when I want it, and I want you so fucking bad I feel like I might explode, but I don’t trust myself not to hurt you.”

  “I trust you.”

 
“Fuuuck,” I growl and then grab my dick, positioning it at the entrance of her sweet pussy. Later I’ll take my time exploring what makes her wet, what she likes, what she doesn’t. I plan on getting real fucking friendly with that gorgeous cunt, but for now I have to bring us together. I have to bury myself deep, and feel her clench around me as she rides me hard.

  She reaches between us and takes hold of my cock, sliding it back and forth through her wetness. She toys with the piercing, touching it with gentle strokes, and then she’s pumping me hard and fast with her soft hands. It feels fuckin’ amazing. She guides me inside her body, gasping as she stretches to accommodate me, and I feel as if I’m gonna explode. The sweet, slow burn, the drag and slide of flesh, her walls squeezing me tightly. It’s fuckin’ killing me. Slowly.

  “So fuckin’ tight,” I murmur in her ear. I let her control the pace, and my hands roam over her tits and down her back to cup her arse. She rocks her hips back and forward, sliding her sweet cunt up and down my shaft. Her face is soft with pleasure, but I want to own that look. I could be anyone filling this void for her, making her forget all the things those men had done in the past. I grab a fistful of hair and force her eyes on me.

  “Look at me.” Her heated gaze locks onto mine. I challenge her, a little game we’ve come to love. “I want you to look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember who owns you.”

  “No one owns me.”

  “I own you. You belong to me. You let another man near that pussy of yours and I’ll gut him like a fuckin’ fish while you watch. You gonna ride on the back of my bike? Be in my bed? Then I own you, Spitfire. You’re mine, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it.”

  “Jeez, Biker, you really know how to ruin the mood,” she whispers, but the bitch is still riding me hard, so I know she’s not as put off by that as she says she is.