Her tiny hands fly to the string-tie on my pants. She yanks it and slips her hand inside the waistband. She doesn’t bother removing them, just wraps her hand around my thickening cock and strokes. Her movements are jerky and rough, but it’s fuckin’ hot all the same. I groan and slide my hand up her waist, squeezing her tits hard. She moans, a sound halfway between a whimper and a cry of approval.
“I want you inside me, Tank,” she whispers. I look down into her eyes, and then I stiffen. She doesn’t want me; she wants me to cave and hand over her next dosage of pot. I close my eyes and grip her wrist, yanking it out from my pants. My cock bobs and presses painfully against the fabric.
“No,” I say, releasing her hand and shoving her away from me.
I walk past and she lunges at me with a scream, latching onto my back and thumping me in the back of the head. I stride over to the couch and dump her onto the worn leather.
“Fuckin’ knock it off, bitch,” I growl. She launches again, lashing out with nails and biting me, her teeth sinking into my shoulder so hard I’m sure she’s drawn blood. This is the most energetic I’ve seen her in days. Normally she’s holed up in front of the TV, rocking back and forth, and flipping between pissing me off and making me feel sorry for her as she begs and pleads for a hit of something. I don’t think she’d give a shit what I gave her, as long as it took away the aching that the cocaine withdrawal has left behind. I make a mental note to put away all the chemicals under the sink because at this point, it wouldn’t surprise me if she guzzles half a bottle of Drain-O just to get a free ride to the hospital where she could zone out on a Morphine drip.
“Give me my fucking drugs, arsehole.”
“Sit your arse down and chill the fuck out, Warrior Princess.”
“Fuck you,” she shouts.
I laugh. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My cock inside you, reminding you of all the reasons you whore yourself out to men like me. You’re not getting your fucking drugs, Princess. Go back to bed.”
“Fuck you. Fuck your shithole of a place, too. I’m leaving; you can’t keep me here.”
“Where you gonna go, huh? Butch will eat you alive, darlin’. I figure his jaw’s about as big as your head. So good luck getting past him.” She’d have to make it past the alarm first, which means I would know that she’d busted out, and then the dog would be let out of the cage. I’m hoping she doesn’t realise that he’d be more likely to lick her to death than chomp her up. Fucker’s a pussy for chicks. “Even if you could get past the dog, it’s a long fucking walk from here back to civilisation. You’d freeze to death before you made it off the property.”
“I fucking hate you! I hate you!” she screams.
I leave her ranting and walk away, flipping off the light on my way back to the bedroom. This isn’t the first time we’ve done this little dance, but it’s sure as shit getting old.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, and pretend as if that doesn’t sting like a fuckin’ knife to the gut.
I used to be the man that didn’t feel.
I used to be able to sit here in my mountain home and wait for Prez to call me to come kill some fucker that deserved a bullet to the brain, or one who didn’t deserve it—I didn’t really give a shit either way, as long as I was being paid. I didn’t give a shit about anyone. The Saints and Kick were my family, but if push came to shove I’d still betray them all to save my own neck.
I’m not that guy anymore. I have feelings now, and they fuckin’ suck. I’m no longer indestructible. I’m weakened by my love for a woman. And I have this little screwed-up, drugged-fucked junkie to thank for it.
I’ve known Ivy longer than my club brothers. I met her as a starving coked-up little street rat when I went out on a job one day. Back then, she’d been living under a bridge and had given me the best fuckin’ head I’d had since I was a teen. She’d sucked me off on the back of my bike for a dime of coke. The next week, I’d returned and bought her a fuckin’ sandwich. I hated that she was so fuckin’ willing to let men use her up. At least make them buy you a fuckin’ meal first. The following week, I went back and Ivy hadn’t been there. The little wench she hung out with had said that she’d OD’d in the back of some guy’s car. He’d dumped her by the side of the road and someone had called an ambulance as the arsehole sped off into the night.
I hadn’t gone back after that, though I’d thought of her on and off for months. I’d never told her anything more about where to find me than she could see on my leather cut, and six months’ later she’d shown up on the club’s doorstep, fake tits, longer hair and a shorter skirt. Every hot-blooded man’s wet dream. There hadn’t been a dry cock in the clubhouse, so when I’d gathered up her purse and shoved her towards the door, Prez had somethin’ to say about it. Of course he had. Ivy had walked into his club looking for a job. Every motherfucker in that room knew that job hadn’t entailed cleanin’ anything other than my club brothers’ pipes.
I didn’t know if she was prepared for what was to come, but they’d plied her with enough coke that by the time the third brother’s dick had filled her pussy with cum, she’d been high as a motherfuckin’ kite. I’d jumped on my bike and gotten the hell outta there. I’d ridden like a fucking maniac all the way back here to the mountains. I hadn’t known why I was so pissed—this bitch hadn’t been anyone to me, but I’d felt responsible.
I hadn’t been back to the club for a week. Prez had sent me on some job halfway up the coast to Coffs Harbour, but when I returned with a big old sack of money in my saddlebags and the severed fingers of the man who’d stolen from the club, Ivy had been bent over the couch, Kick had been drilling her from behind and Grim’s cock had been shoved so far down her throat she was gagging on it. I’d shoved down my anger as I’d walked past them and into Prez’s office, then when they were done I’d thrown her over my shoulder and carried her off to my room. She hadn’t liked it much, and I hadn’t much cared. I’d told her to get her shit together, that I was taking her outta there. The fuckin’ bitch had dropped to her knees and sucked me deeper than I’d ever been sucked, and I’d been a fuckin’ goner. Much as I hated to admit it. I have a complex, much like my brother Kick. I wanted to save the girl from herself because she couldn’t.
Who knows what might have happened if she hadn’t shown up at the clubhouse lookin’ for me? She might’a ended up dead beneath that bridge like I’d heard her friend had, or she might’a gotten rescued by some fuckin’ tool with more money than sense, lookin’ for a bitch to clean up and tame who wouldn’t bleed him dry for his trust fund. A real life fuckin’ Pretty Woman. I knew that wasn’t likely; power-hungry men didn’t fuck women like Ivy. Bikers. Scum of the earth, immoral, baseless bikers fucked Ivy. Bikers like me. Wasn’t supposed to fall in love with her, though. That shit definitely wasn’t supposed to happen.
I’m lying in the dark, angry as a cut fuckin’ snake, horny and fed up with all of her bullshit when her footsteps come padding softly down the hall. For a half second I expect that she’s coming to raid my bathroom cupboards, checking for anything she can get her dainty little fucking hands on. But she stops in my doorway. I watch her in the dark, wanting to give her everything her little heart desires, and wanting her to have more self-respect. I sigh. “You gonna stand there all fuckin’ night? Or are you gonna tell me what the fuck you want?”
She exhales and whispers, “I need it, Tank.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head and glaring up at the ceiling with its ghostly moonlit shapes and shadows.
“I can’t stop trembling. I can’t stop thinking about it. Please? Please?” she sobs.