Kick Read online

  Sugartown Series

  Welcome to Sugartown (Sugartown #1)

  Enjoy Your Stay (Sugartown #2)

  Greetings from Sugartown (Sugartown #3)

  Now Leaving Sugartown (Sugartown #4) Coming 2015

  Taint Series

  Revelry (Taint #1) Coming Soon

  Closer (Taint #2)

  Hurt (Taint #3)

  “What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.”

  – Charles Bukowski

  For any woman who has ever had to walk through the fire.

  For my Brothers—yes, both of you—thank you for an amazing childhood, and for showing me what a brotherhood was.

  Dear Reader,

  I’d like to thank you for picking up this book, but before I let you get all acquainted with my boy, I feel we need a warning first.

  KICK is not for the faint of heart. It’s not a hot romp through a magical world of sweet bikers, soft leather, hooker heels and cupcakes, and we are definitely NOT in Sugartown anymore, Toto.

  KICK is brutal, it is graphic, and it is probably going to make you question my sanity—to be honest, I’ve been doing that for a while now, so don’t feel bad. There will be situations that will be hard for you to read; they were hard to write. Some of them gutted me.

  You might be wondering why I’m giving you this warning—and it is a warning—because if you’re reading this and trying to determine if KICK is the book for you, then I’m going to say this: it will challenge you, it will probably break your heart, and you will find some of it distressing. I didn’t write this book as a gimmick, to be controversial, or to push boundaries of what people find acceptable and what they can live with themselves enjoying—though in my defence, if I’m not making you feel, if I’m not forcing you to keep a white-knuckled grip on your e-reader or paperback, or leaving you with your heart beating in your throat, then I’m not doing my job properly. I just wanted to write something that felt honest and true to the subject, not something that glorified it, and made MC life pretty. That shit is not pretty; it’s brutal.

  If you’ve read my previous books, you will know that Kick played a large part in Greetings from Sugartown (Book #3) and you will already know a little about Kick’s past with Elijah (Ethan). But for those of you who haven’t read Sugartown, don’t fret. Kick is a standalone spin-off told in a series of present day events and flashbacks, and each chapter gives us a little more insight into our messed up, tormented leading man. His present day takes place after the events in Greetings from Sugartown, but his past takes place in the years between Welcome to Sugartown and Greetings. Confusing, right? Try writing that shit!

  To those of you who do move forward after reading this very dreary preface where I prattle on for far too long, I say this: sometimes you choose to write a book, and sometimes that book chooses you. I couldn’t be more proud of KICK. Even in all its raw and gritty horror, I still think there’s beauty in it, and that Kick’s is a story worth telling.

  I hope you love my insanely fucked-up, damaged biker as much as I do.

  Carmen

  xoxox

  The metallic click of a bullet sliding through a chamber wakes me. My eyes spring open, but the bite of cold metal against my temple forces me to hold completely still.

  Until I see her, bound and gagged on the worn motel carpet.

  Her eyes are wide with fear. Her body quakes as Tag kneels behind her. Her face is contorted with pain. Tears stream down her red cheeks. Her mouth gapes open in horror around the gag. Her eyes stare accusingly at me.

  I explode.

  I don’t think. Just act.

  Too damn bad I wasn’t quick enough.

  Too bad I wasn’t enough to save her.

  I jolt upright. Sweat beads my brow and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. Ivy sits up, her long dark hair trailing over my shoulder as she wraps her naked body around me. She kisses my neck, presses her warm tits into my back and slides her hand around to my cock, which is harder than fucking concrete. That’s the really sick thing about it. No matter how many times I relive the dream, the end result is always the same. Has been for years. I see her bound and gagged with a gun at her temple and I wake up hornier than a fucking bitch in heat. I shove at Ivy’s small, expert hands and stand, causing her to lose her balance.

  I grab a pack of smokes from the bedside table and light up. Down the hall, the party’s still going strong. Who am I fuckin’ kidding? At the Savage Saints clubhouse, every night is a fuckin’ party. There’s always an endless supply of hard liquor, even harder drugs and slippery pussy that’ll ride your cock until you can’t get hard no more.

  I look at the club whore in my bed. Perfect tits, perfect arse, perfect fucking face. She coulda been a model, or a Hollywood starlet. Instead she’s passed around between the brothers, used and abused. And what’s more? She fucking loves it.

  “What are you doing here, darlin’?” I ask, ’cause I can’t for the life of me see how hanging around a club full of arsehole and degenerate criminals is the kind of career move a smart young woman should make.

  “Hoping you come back to bed.” Her eyes follow the line of my torso, rolling over every inch of hard-won muscle. She holds out her hand for my smoke, but I just laugh and shake my head. She pouts.

  “Get up. Go home.” I throw a short leather skirt and a ripped up Harley-Davidson top at her. I can’t find her underwear, but then again, Ivy doesn’t ever really wear it. “Go and get a job in a fucking coffee shop, or some shit. You need away from this club, sweetheart.”

  “I happen to like this club,” she says, tossing that shit she calls clothing aside and coming up on her knees. Her hand wraps around my lagging dick, sliding over the barbell in my frenum. She smiles triumphantly when my cock hardens in her soft grip. “And I’d rather get you up.”

  “You like being treated like a whore, darlin’?” I nip at her neck as she strokes me, faster, harder.

  “I like being treated like your whore.”

  “Stupid girl.” I grunt and take a drag of my cigarette, cupping her nape in my hand. I pull her close and cover her mouth with mine, blowing smoke into her lugs. She gags and wrenches free, her eyes watering.

  “I hate when you do that.”

  “I know.” I chuckle.

  “That bitch really did a number on you, huh, Kick?”

  My hand shoots out and slips around her throat. “You don’t get to say shit about her, you got me?”

  Ivy swallows. The muscles of her throat bob against my hand as I tighten my grip. Her eyes widen in fear. I smile. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not gonna strangle you. It’d be more trouble than it’s worth, trying to get rid of the body.” I slide my free hand over her tits, twisting her nipple, hard.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “But that’s the way you like it, isn’t it, baby? Rough and hard. Just the way your daddy used to give it to you.” I squeeze her firm arse, raking my blunt fingernails across her smooth flesh. She arches into my touch, her tits thrusting forward, firm nipples brushing my chest.

  “Oh, yeah.” She moans. “Hurt me, Daddy.”

  “You’re one sick bitch, Ivy, you know that right?” I shake my head, sliding my fingers down the seam of her crack. She spreads her legs wider for me. I thrust a dry finger in her arse, and my thumb inside her cunt. She moans and rocks against my hand until she cums, slapping and scratching at my bare chest. I tighten my hold around her neck, watching her gasp for air as she rides out the remainder of her orgasm.

  With my hand wrapped around her throat I pull her closer, smother her mouth with my kiss, and then I fuck her. For hours. In every hole she possesses, and in every position possible because the bitch is hot, and not just that, beyond the gorgeous tits, and hair, and that broken down look she gets
in her eyes right before she cums, squeezing my cock with her pussy harder than a vice. It’s because I recognise something in her. Something more than her fucked-up daddy fantasies and her innate need to be used up. I recognise loneliness. And the fact that she may just be the one other person inside this clubhouse who is as fucked in the head as I am.

  My brothers kick her out when she begins sobbing like a little girl. They can’t wait to be rid of her. After they’ve used up every hole she has to offer, they discard her like trash. But not me. I like to watch her cry. I taste her tears. I relish them. Because pain is beauty, at least in my world. And everything in my world is pain.

  Has been since the morning I woke with a gun pressed to my head.

  Since her life was snuffed out.

  I shrug off the frosty fuckin’ reception I receive from Prez and my brothers as I walk into church, and I flop down in my chair beside Tank, a dude with short dark hair, bright blue eyes and a frame a hell of a lot bigger than any other I’ve ever seen, way bigger than Moose ever dreamed of being. I’m late because after fucking all night, Ivy had decided she wanted to snort coke off the end of my cock at the arse crack of dawn. It took forever to cum.

  Prez glares at me, his no-nonsense stare pinning me to the back of my seat. I sniff and feel a wet trickle of what I think is snot dripping from my nose, but after wiping it away with my sleeve I quickly realise I’m bleeding. Tank smacks me upside the head.

  “You fuckin’ high, Kick?”

  “It’s a party isn’t it?” I shrug, but know I’ve said the wrong shit as soon as Crazy, Tank and Killer shake their heads.

  “No, arsehole, it ain’t a fucking party,” Prez roars. “Last night was a fucking party, today we got business. And I don’t need your spoiled little newbie arse fucking my shit up. So you’d better sober up real goddamned fast. Or do you need me to beat that shit outta your bloodstream?”

  I hate when he refers to me as a goddamned newbie. Prez is ten years my senior. He’s a bad-arse motherfucker—don’t get me wrong. But he wasn’t indoctrinated into the life. He stumbled upon it after a stint in a Sydney jail fifteen years ago. He built this club from the ground up, and I gotta give him props for turning it into one of the most notorious clubs in Australia in such a short amount of time, but I was born into the club life. My father was an Angel, and my grandfather before him. I was birthed by a club whore, suckled at the breast before the bitch ODed. I was chewed up as a sweet, blue-eyed baby boy and spat out a man. I took down every bad-arse motherfucker in my chapter when they turned against me. I did my time as a prospect for both the Angels and the Saints, and I patched into both early by doing the really fucking dirty-arsed shit no one else wanted to do. I was not a fucking newbie. I never had been, because I’d never had another choice.

  “I’m sober, Prez,” I say quickly.

  “Good, then go clean your shit up before you ride out. You and Tank are going to pay our friendly neighbourhood dentist a visit. Bastard fucked with Raphe’s old lady. Been putting the moves on bitches while they’re under sedation. This time he picked the wrong bitch to fuck with.”

  “Raphe doesn’t want a go at him?”

  “Why the fuck do you think he isn’t at church? He already had a go, landed his dumb arse in jail because of it. Told him we’d have a little Kinder Sur-fucking-prise for him to play with when he got out.”

  There’s a timid little knock on the door, and Prez leans back in his seat, scrubbing his hands over his face in agitation.

  “What?” he yells, and then his eyes widen a fraction when the door swings open and he sees Raine, a pretty blonde with a bangin’ body and an even sweeter disposition, standing on the other side. “Come on in, darlin’.”

  “Sorry, I’m interrupting,” she says, staring nervously between Prez and the rest of us sorry sons of bitches. She’s carrying a steaming cardboard cup of coffee and one of those little white bakery bags. She sets them down on the table in front of him. “I stopped by the bakery near my house this morning. It’s a warm crème brûlée muffin. They’re really good.”

  “She wants you to eat her warm, sweet muffin, Prez,” Trigger says, waggling his eyebrows like a fuckin’ geriatric douche. His boyish good looks are mis-fucking-leading, because the dude is motherfuckin’ crazy. He’s like a kid with ADHD. On speed.

  Prez glares, and Trigger quickly shuts up.

  Prez took Raine on as a bar wench and occasional cook after she lost her job a few months ago at the local café we frequent. Most of the brothers take care of their own meals, and some of the lucky bastards head home to a cooked meal at the end of a long day and the same familiar pussy in their beds at night. And some of us eat take-out twenty-four fuckin’ seven. But food doesn’t prepare itself for club meets, and that’s where Raine comes in.

  Far as I know, she’s alone in the world; no family and no friends, except a club full of criminals. Raine tiptoes around this place as if at any moment she’s afraid Prez is gonna turn her out on her arse, but he wants up inside that pussy bad; I’d seen it the first time I tagged along to the coffee shop with him, and I still see it every damn day. Prez is hard up for the vanilla bitch who makes his coffee and cleans his office. And I’d bet my last dollar that he’s wishin’ and hopin’ she could start cleaning his pipes, too.

  “Well, I’ll just …” She points to the door, and scurries away like a little mouse.

  “Sweetheart,” Prez calls to her, and she turns. He grins like the fuckin’ Cheshire cat. “I’ll savour every morsel.”

  Raine’s eyes light up like a fuckin’ Christmas tree. She blushes and then leaves the room as silently as she entered, closing the door behind her. My brothers and I practically bust our nuts laughing. All except Grim. Dude needs his fuckin’ head checked ’cause Prez is gonna rip it off his shoulders if he catches Grim starin’ at Raine the way he does.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Prez hollers, as pissed off as a fuckin’ cut snake. “Tank, don’t come back without that dentist.”

  Tank nods. He’s a douche of few words.

  “The rest of you,” Prez says, “we’ve got Bandits to meet with.” He bangs the gavel against the table and the room is filled with the sound of shuffling feet and shifting leather. I sit in my seat long after the others have piled out.

  “You got somethin’ else you need to be discussing with me, Newbie?” Prez is standing in the door way, looking back at me with a pissed off expression on his face.

  “No, Prez,” I say, and rise from my chair.

  “Then get the fuck outta here,” he says, but before I can pass, his arm shoots out and stops me in my tracks. “Wait.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You been with Ivy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know why she’s a coke whore—the whole fucking club knows that kid is messed up—but you’re the only one that’ll let her whiny arse stay the night. Why is that?”

  “’Cause I don’t care if she cries. She gets what she needs, and I get what I need. It works.”

  “You gonna put her on the back of your bike?”

  “Hell fucking no.”

  “I like fucking her as much as the next brother, but that bitch is damaged goods, and not even you can tape that shit back together.”

  “I’m not looking for an old lady, Prez. Made that mistake once before.”

  He shakes his head, running a hand through his greased-back blond hair. “Life’s too fucking short for the same old pussy day in and day out, kid. Thank fuck for club whores or else my dick would have fallen off years ago. My old lady hasn’t let me inside since she found me in this very room, eatin’ out two pussies at once.”

  “Can’t say I blame her, Prez.”

  “Shut up, arsehole,” he says and clips me on the back of the head as I walk towards the door. “Kick? Do the blow on your time, yeah? I don’t need you falling off your bike and getting your stupid arse arrested while you’re wearing my patch.”

  “Yeah, Prez.”

  I s
talk through the door to find Tank leaning against the wall outside church. He slaps me upside the head too, but this time I’m quicker with my retaliation. I punch him in the side and shake out my fist when he doesn’t even flinch. He’s one hundred per cent muscle mass. Fucking giant cunt.

  “Clean up your face, fuck-stick. You look like you’ve been eating clam with red sauce.”

  “Makes sense.” I shrug with a wicked grin. “I about punched a hole through that perfect cunt into her stomach, and then I kissed it better, but what’s a little blood between brothers?”

  The warehouse sits empty, save for Dr Calder. No surprise there. It’s 2:00pm on a Sunday in a quiet part of Erskineville. We sit in an unmarked van with blackout windows and fake plates. We sit and we watch. When it looks as though no one’s coming or going, Tank revs the engine and we pull up to the back entrance and slip from the van in plain, dark clothing, hoodies covering our faces.

  Tank kicks in the door. It takes him all of three seconds for the thing to splinter off its hinges. We’re under instructions to collect the Dentist, deliver him to the club, and keep him safe until Raphe is out of lock-up.

  Easy enough. Right?

  Wrong.

  The music hits me first, some fucking classical shit played way too loud. I can’t hear fucking jack over the noise, but it’s the scent of blood—a lot of blood—that sets off my twitchy trigger finger. When I see him, bent over a rusty surgical chair, a flash of long chestnut hair behind him, and I feel more so than hear the screams coming from the woman that’s strapped to the seat, I explode. The coke high wore off about two hours ago. I feel a little like shit warmed up, but I have all my faculties about me. I’m thinking one hundred per cent clearly when I raise my gun and shoot him point blank in the back of the head. The dentist lands in a heap, a pair of shiny, blood-drenched dental pliers falling from his hand and onto the putrid concrete floor. The tooth he’s extracted skitters across the ground. It reminds me of the games of Knuckles that Ethan and I would play with the other MC brats at clubhouse parties.