Текст книги "Tank"

Автор книги: Carmen Jenner

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

I curl up in the bathtub. The water is cold. It’s been cold for too long, and it’s making me shiver. My fingers are wrinkled and my skin has gone all white and soft. My teeth chatter together and I clamp my mouth shut so they won’t make a noise. If I make noise, Daddy will get up from the couch and he’ll order me to get out. And then he’ll dry me off.

I’m so cold that I want to dry off. I want to get warm and put on my pyjamas and snuggle down into my soft, cosy bed. But that won’t happen. That never happens.

Because Daddy likes to dry me, and dress me up, and take pictures. I’m not allowed to dry myself. I’m not allowed to dress myself, or run my own bath, or tell him no. I’m not allowed to make a sound, or the punishment will be worse.

I asked my babysitter, Josie, once, if her daddy took pictures of her too. She hadn’t liked that question. She’d asked me a lot more, and then she’d cried and told me we were going out for ice cream. We didn’t go for ice cream. We’d driven for hours, and I’d gotten scared because Josie was acting weird. She’d told me she was taking me away; she’d said that my daddy wouldn’t ever see me again. I’d cried.

Eventually I’d fallen asleep, and when I’d woken up the car was upside-down. Josie’s face had been all mashed up, like a giant had stomped on her. She’d reached over and unbuckled my strap, and I’d fallen out of my seat. Feet had appeared at her window and I’d screamed.

“Run,” Josie had said, and then the man had opened her door. My door had opened too, and I’d screamed because in the dark I couldn’t see, but then my daddy had been there, kissing my forehead and pulling me from the wrecked car.

Josie had screamed. “Run, Ivy. Run!”

I’d looked back over my daddy’s shoulder, but he’d covered my eyes.

“Don’t look, baby. You’re safe now. She can never hurt you again. Daddy’s here.”

Josie had screamed again and there was a loud bang from behind us, and then it had gone quiet but for the noise of the van that Daddy had bundled us into.

“It’s time to get out.” Daddy startles me in the doorway. He walks toward me with a soft smile on his face. “Has Daddy’s girl been good in here all alone?”

I shiver in the water, and glance down at my wrinkled skin. Sometimes I wish my face had been mashed up the way Josie’s was.

Maybe then he wouldn’t love me so much.

Maybe then he wouldn’t take the pictures.

Maybe then the other man would have shot me instead of Josie.

As soon as I hear the bike roar down the drive, I’m out of bed and moving towards the kitchen. This is the first time Tank has left me alone since he brought me here. I half expected him to wake me up, but whatever he had to do must have been urgent because I heard his phone ring and then he was up and tearing around the house. He opened my door and just stood there for a moment, watching me “sleep”. He couldn’t see that I was awake because I was facing the wall, and probably giving him a pretty good view of my naked arse. He’d groaned. The sound had resonated through the room like music, sexual, primal, and it had tightened things low in my belly that in my agony I’d almost forgotten were there. Then he’d sighed and quietly closed the door before walking away. I’d heard him set the alarm before he left.

I wander into the kitchen and see the note he’d scrawled in his big, hard to decipher chicken scratch:

Ivy,

Club biz. You fuckin’ stay put. You hear?

Alarm’s in place and dog is in the yard.

He doesn’t fuck around, and he doesn’t know you. Try it and you’ll wind up a chew toy.

T.

Such an arsehole.

There has to be a way out of this house. I’d just have to find it.

Grabbing one of his protein bars from the cupboard—which tastes like chocolate-covered cardboard—I try to ignore the aches and pains in my body, the pounding in my head, and I walk back to my room. I slip into jeans, a new singlet, a T-shirt and my leather jacket and boots, but even that effort exhausts me, so I sit on the bed and think about what the hell I’m going to do. If I leave now, the alarm will sound, Tank will be alerted by his security provider and he’ll come back and tie me up, and I’ll never get out of here. I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, but even that hurts in my weakened state.

I can’t do much of anything. The only time I feel even remotely energetic is when I think about scoring a fix. And where would I even find someone to sell me drugs out here? I figure it’s at least an hour’s walk to the closest town, if not more, but if I’m going to go I’ll have to wait until Tank’s at least a half hour away. That’ll give me time to run. Hopefully in the opposite direction.

Of course, it might help if I actually knew he was more than thirty minutes away, or where the nearest town is. He could be just telling me that he’s gone out on club business when he’s really lying in wait to see if I make a move.

Fuck.

No. Tank wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t play games. He doesn’t have time for that. If he says he’s going on club business then that is what he means, because he’s the type of man that does what he says he will. He’s perhaps the most honest man I’ve ever met. For a criminal.

Tank might come off as all big and scary, and he’s certainly not a pussycat underneath—he’s not like that at all. But he is a good man. Right down to the very core of him, he’s good. Pure. Despite what he does for a living. Not like Kick. That man is one hundred per cent pure bastard. He cares only for himself … and that’s what I love about him. I’m so fucked in the head. I like that he treats me like shit, because that’s what I’m used to. I am shit. And I’m certainly not worthy of someone like Tank.

I have to get out of here. I don’t have a choice. I can’t stay and pretend like this is my home, that I’m welcome here. I can’t cook and clean for him, and be a good little house mouse. That’s not who I am. I’ve never had a problem with Tank in bed; he gives me what I need, and I give him a soft body to lie with and a tight pussy to stick his dick in. But he doesn’t need this headache. No one needs this fucking headache.

I don’t need his help. I can use again, and I’ll be better this time about knowing when to stop. I know my limits. I’ve always known them. But the coke keeps me feeling good, it helps me forget, and when it starts wearing off, the memories come back in an abundance.

The rapes, the fear, the hiding under my covers each night and just praying he wouldn’t come in to find me. When the drugs wear off, I remember what he did. That’s what makes me snort another line, or shoot another needle into my veins, or seek out another warm, hard body to own me. Because when those memories come creeping back in, I’m no longer whole. I’m no longer me. I’m just another victim of sexual abuse. I’m just another little girl who was broken, who’s still broken.

Who’ll always be broken.

I sigh and sink farther into the soft warm bed, feeling guilty because Tank might be the only person in the entire world who actually cares about my wellbeing, which is exactly why I have to get out of here. I’m not an idiot. I see the way he looks at me. I see the way he looks at other women, too. It’s not even remotely the same. I guess I’ve always known how he felt about me. And it’s not that I’m waiting for him to admit it. Why would I? Because I’m in love with Kick. A selfish bastard who collects broken women like trophies. Who pets them, reassures them until they feel safe, and then he uses them up until there’s nothing left. He sticks the knife in their back while he slides out from between their legs, and he laughs as they bleed out in front of him.

Tank may seem detached and cold, even heartless at times, but he’s not soulless. Not like Kick. I don’t need Tank caught up in my shit. Which is why I have to leave the clubhouse behind. Because as long as I’m there, he’s always going to feel like he owes me something. And I don’t want to owe him anything in return.

I’ll steal a couple hundred bucks from him to get me on my way, and then I’ll leave this city behind. Hop a bus to Melbourne. The only thing I have in my life is coke, and I can get that anywhere. Though maybe it’s time to move to heroine? It’s a cheaper habit to have. One thing I know for sure is I cannot give it up. If I give it up, then my father wins. And I’d rather be dead than give that son-of-a-bitch another chance to own me.

I wake drenched in sweat. I’m burning up, and I shed my shoes, jacket and T-shirt like a snake on a bad malt. My limbs ache with each movement, I itch all over, and I can’t get free quick enough. Stupid fucking detox. I wasn’t even aware that I’d been drifting off and now it’s afternoon, probably three or four o’clock, if the sun beating in through my window is anything to go by. And there’s someone knocking on the front door. I listen for a minute, wondering who might come to visit Tank all the way out here, and disliking the images of mob bosses and degenerate criminals that my head conjures up. And then I bust out in a grin when I recognise the voice.

Killer.

Killer means drugs. He never goes anywhere without a line.

I jump up from the bed and race to the front door. He sees me through the glass panels and smiles. His blond hair flops in front of bright green eyes that are always coloured with mischief.

“Open up, babe,” he says, with a grin that suggests he wants me to open more than just the door for him.

“I can’t. Tank has this place locked up tighter than Fort Knox.”

Killer points to the little white box on the wall.

“I don’t know the fucking code, genius,” I snap, and glare at him through the thick tinted glass. “Otherwise I would have used it to get out of here hours ago.”

He rolls his eyes. “Bitch, shut up and punch in the fucking code, already. Three, five, zero, four.”

I do as he says and the little red light on the box turns green as it beeps. I unlock the door and jump at Killer so he has no choice but to gather me up as I wrap my legs around him. “Hey, baby. Ya miss me?”

I kiss him smack on the lips and he kisses me back, his tongue pushing into my mouth and playing there. He walks us over to the couch and lies me down, but then when I reach out and touch his cock he pulls away as if he’s been stung and takes several steps back, running his hand through his hair. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. We can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I appreciate having a dick.”

I stare in confusion and blow off the comment by reaching for him again. “It is a very nice dick. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Killer paces out of my reach. “It’s not you I’m worried about, darlin’. It’s your bodyguard.”

“Tank’s not here,” I say impatiently.

“Don’t matter. He’ll know. Trust me, the fucker sees everything. Even when he’s nowhere to be seen.”

“So what? Tank doesn’t own me. I’ll fuck whoever I want.”

“Oh, but he does, darlin’. See, you don’t know ’cause the last time you jumped my fucking bones you were too high to remember it, but he laid me out, and then laid claim to you. No one’s allowed to touch you anymore, Ivy.”

All the blood drains from my face. “Motherfucker.”

“Yep, that’s Tank.”

“He can’t just claim me,” I protest, folding my arms over my chest and unfolding them again when the effort of holding them there hurts too much. “I’m not his.”

Killer grimaces and sits down on the couch beside me, playfully patting my thigh. “Yeah, you pretty much are.”

“This is bullshit. I don’t belong to him. I can fuck whoever I want.”

“Not anymore.”

Fury burns through my veins and turns them all to ash. I’m gonna beat the shit out of that big, dumb motherfucker the second I see him. It’s my body, and I’ll fuck whoever, whenever I want. And as though Tank were here to see me prove my point, I climb into Killer’s lap and straddle him, grasping his face in my hands and kissing him square on the mouth. He doesn’t kiss me back.

“Ivy. No.”

He turns his cheek. I won’t lie, it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, but I recover quickly and go to work kissing my way down his neck, writhing in his lap. His cock is hard and my body is just as responsive to him. My panties are soaked.

“Bitch, you gotta cut that shit out—oh fuck.” I move my hand between us, tug his zip down and slip my hand into his jeans, pulling out his cock and stroking him. “Ahh. NO!” He jumps up from the couch, unseating me in the process, and I land hard on the floor and whack my spine on the edge of the coffee table. All the bones in my body jar as they grind against one another. My flesh smarts, and so does my pride. Killer sends me an apologetic look and tucks himself back inside his jeans, though not without some difficulty.

“I’m sorry, babe. You know how fuckin’ hot I am for that arse of yours, but you’re my brother’s old lady, and I appreciate my balls far too much to lose them.”

Ignoring his proffered hand, I shoot up from the floor, even though I feel it in all of my muscles. “This is fucking ridiculous, you know that, right? You can’t claim someone who doesn’t want to be claimed.”

“Have you seen Tank? No one is gonna dispute what the fuck he’s laying claim to. I bet if he challenged Prez, that son-of-a-bitch would hand over the gavel pretty fucking quick to save his own hide from Tank, and you know how much Prez loves his club.” Killer rubs a hand over the back of his neck and sits down again, though this time he keeps to the far side of the couch.

I don’t sit. I’m too angry to sit. I don’t pace either, because that would hurt and take way too much energy.

“Anyway, clubhouse is kinda lame without you, babe,” Killer says, picking up the remote from the coffee table and switching on a game. “Everyone’s calling dibs on Brooke, ’cause Prez won’t let us touch Raine, and Neisha’s got her strap-on all fuckin’ twisted up in Crazy’s arse. It’s slim fuckin’ pickings at the club. Prez is gonna have to find us some fresh meat to play with or the boys are gonna fuckin’ riot. Everyone’s wearing their panties all twisted up their arse since Kick’s bitch threw a fucking grenade into the works.”

“She’s not Kick’s bitch,” I snap, too loudly. Too aggressive.

Killer narrows his eyes. “Actually, darlin’ she sort of is. At least he’s acting like she is.”

I can’t hear talk of Kick and the woman he replaced me with. Not today. I can’t. I stalk into the kitchen, so he won’t see the tears forming in my eyes. “What the fuck are you doing here, Killer?”

“Prez’s orders. He sent Tank off on some club business, so Tank called me. It’s your lucky day—before I walked into the clubhouse, Prez was about to send Country.”

“Do you have drugs?”

“What? No,” he says, but that’s the thing about spending time with liars—you become really good at spotting a bad one. “Anyway, what the fuck have you been doing out here?”

I frown and sigh deeply, and then I head over to the coffee machine and start banging shit around to eliminate some of my frustrations. “I’m detoxing. What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing?”

“And how’s that working out? I see you’re acting bitchier than usual.”

“I want to strip my skin off, Killer.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck is right. Only I haven’t done any fucking, because Tank is an arsehole.”

“He’s an arsehole that cares about you. We all are. We’re gonna get you straightened out, baby. And then you can come back to the clubhouse and I don’t know, serve drinks with Raine or some shit.” He directs all of this over his shoulder, all the while leaning forward to immerse himself in the game.

I love Killer; he’s like the sibling I never had. I mean, aside from the fact that we have sex a lot—or used to—but sometimes I could strangle his annoying, privileged arse. Sometimes he drives me fucking crazy with his inability to function as a regular human being and not some spoiled trust-fund baby.

“Wow. That sounds like a really fulfilling job,” I mutter.

“I don’t fuckin’ know what he has in store for you, babe, but you can kiss fucking the club brothers goodbye, ’cause it ain’t gonna happen while Tank’s around. He’s already out for blood. He only sent me because no one else was available.” He leans back, folding his arms behind his head, and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. “Hey, grab me a beer, will ya?”

“Sorry. It’s coffee or that herbal tea shit that Tank likes to poison me with.”

“What the fuck? Bastard didn’t tell me there wouldn’t be anything to fucking drink while I babysat your arse.”

“Alcohol is still a drug,” I say, mimicking Tank’s deep, growling baritone. “We’re eradicating everything to do with fun.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. And here I thought this detox bullshit was just an excuse to get you up here and make you his house mouse?”

“Welcome to my own personal hell, Killer.” I smile like a Stepford wife, though the anxiety gnawing at my chest doesn’t have me smiling for long. I need a hit. He must have some on him; this is Killer we’re talking about. Tank would have threatened him, but I know Killer. He can go about as long as I can without a line, and that’s not long at all.

I make coffee and Killer gets up, removing his hoodie and his gun, and setting them on the table. He never takes his eyes from the game once. I take the mugs to the lounge room and sit on the couch. We watch a bunch of ’roid-raging athletes run around the field with a ball. AFL, or some crap—I don’t pay too much attention. I just sit quietly as Killer slowly becomes more and more absorbed. After a while, I get up and say, “You want something to eat?”

“Yeah, make me a sandwich, will ya?”

I don’t even bother heading for the kitchen, I just quietly snatch up the gun from the table along with his keys, which I stuff into my pocket, and then I cock the gun and point it at the back of his head. He stills.

“Make your own goddamned sandwich.”

“What the fuck are you doin’, bitch?”

“Sorry, Killer, but you kind of suck at this babysitting thing.” His hands are in his lap, and he tries to turn towards me but I shout, “Hands where I can see them.”

He lets out an angry sigh and puts his hands up, crossing them behind his head. “Don’t do this, Ivy. You’re gonna get my head beaten in. And you’ve been clean for how many days now?”

“Too many,” I reply. I rummage through the pockets inside his hoodie, and smile when my hand seizes a tiny plastic bag. I pull it out and laugh as I glance at the little bag of snow-white powder. “You really are the worst liar, Killer.”

“Put the fuckin’ gun down, bitch.”

“Sorry. But this is more than just a fix to me. I know you don’t understand it; none of you do. But it’s life or death.” I ease back towards the front door and Killer stands.

“I can’t let you walk out that door, Ivy.”

“Yes, you can. Unless you want your head splattered all over Tank’s cabin,” I say evenly, but my hands are shaking, and my blood is whooshing in my ears, thundering through my veins with both excitement and desperation. “You’re going to let me walk.”

“Fucking bitch,” he says, and there’s murder in his eyes. Not because I’m stealing his drugs, and probably not because I have a gun pointed at his head, but because he knows he’s a dead man when Tank finds out I’ve gone.

He takes a step towards me and I squeeze the trigger. The gun goes off. The kickback jolts my arm and almost knocks me off my feet because I didn’t brace properly. I recover in time to see what I already knew—that I’m a lousy shot. Killer strides towards me. I turn and flee the cabin. I run for the bike, but Killer is already out of the house and sprinting towards me. My restless legs like running even less than they like standing still, and I know I’ll never make it and get the thing started before he’s on me so I dart in the opposite direction. It’s too risky to stop and aim—he’d be on top of me and dragging my arse right back to the house before I could even fire off a shot, much less hit him with one. I stalk around to the side of the house, through the thick scrub that I’ve spent days and sometimes even nights studying from my bedroom window, and I disappear into it.

Killer’s behind me though, his heavy footsteps thudding across the grass. I duck under tree limbs and jump over bushes. I don’t know much about Killer’s past, but I know he used to play on the football team in high school. He’s young and fit, and yeah, pretty fucking stupid, but he’s fitter than me. He won’t stop until he’s caught me, and even then he might consider knocking me out in order to drag me back to the house. He won’t stop unless I make him.

Abruptly, I turn and aim the gun, but Killer just barrels towards me. I dart away at the last minute, but it’s not quick enough. He stumbles and falls, grabbing my leg and dragging me down with him. I don’t hesitate; I just shoot.

“Ah fuck!” he roars and blood blooms on his shirt sleeve, trailing down the tattoos on his arm. “You fuckin’ shot me. You bitch. You fuckin’ shot me.” He clutches his shoulder. I don’t waste time. I just run.

“Get back here, you fuckin’ bitch!”

I don’t bother looking back. Only forward. I know he’s likely losing a lot of blood as he gives chase again, and for a half-second I think of throwing him the keys to his bike so he can drive himself to a hospital, but I can’t have him follow me. I need away from that house, away from Tank.

Maybe I’ll find another club that will take me in. Maybe I’ll just wind up on the street turning tricks for drug money, or maybe my father will find me and finally slit my throat the way he threatened to the last time I ran. It doesn’t matter. All that does matter is not bringing them down with me. And more than that, what matters right now is the teeny, tiny bag of junk clutched firmly in my grasp. I thrust my hand deep into my pocket so I won’t lose it as I move.

I run until my legs give out. I run long after Killer has stopped chasing me. It’s dark now, and adrenaline is making me raw and exposed. The trees have cleared a little, giving way to dense underbrush that crunches beneath my bare feet. Night has set in thick and fast, and even though I’m sweating, the cold wraps itself around me and seeps into my bones. I sit down on a log and take stock of where I am. An owl hoots; nearby, a small stream runs and I’m dying for a drink, but I’m so exhausted I don’t have the energy to walk there. I really should have planned this better. I should have taken my jacket that I’d shed when I woke earlier, and a couple of Tank’s shitty power bars. Not to mention shoes. I’ve been running through the cold July woods barefoot in only a singlet top and a pair of jeans for God only knows how long.

I shake and stare around me in the darkness. The chances of me finding someone else wandering the woods are pretty slim, especially at this hour, but I still find my ears pricking up at every tiny sound that echoes through the forest. I don’t really want to spend the night here, but what other choice do I have? I have a set of keys and … the coke. In all the adrenaline-induced fear I forgot the thing I was running for.

The thing I was running towards.

I shift on the log and shove my hand in my pocket, yanking out the keys and closing my fist around the tiny bag. I can’t snort it, I know that much—not unless I want it contaminated with moss and shit from the forest floor. I open the bag and dump it into my mouth. I wince at the sharp chemical taste but delight in it all the same because it’s so familiar. Pushing the powder around as much as I can, I run my coke-covered tongue over my gums and around my mouth. When I can hold it in my mouth no more, I swallow, thrust my tongue into the bag and lick it clean. My whole mouth goes numb.

Moments later, I taste nothing, I see everything, and I feel fucking incredible.