Tank, page 2
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.
“I ain’t got what you want, darlin’. And even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to ya anyway. You gotta get better, and pumping that shit into your veins isn’t gonna get you better, it’ll kill ya.” And more than likely me. “Go to bed, Ivy.”
“Can I … Can I stay with you?”
“That depends. You gonna hold a knife to my fuckin’ throat like you did yesterday? You gonna get me all worked up again like you did before, and then hold my fuckin’ cock hostage until I give up the goods?”
She shakes her head, and I sigh and pull back the covers, inhaling sharply as she slides between them in only her singlet top and panties. Fuck me. It’s a good thing I don’t belong to another club, because I swear I must have the patience of a fuckin’ saint.
“Tank?”
“Yeah, Ivy?”
“Why am I here?” she asks, and her voice is so tiny, so broken. I’ve had this woman every which way possible. I’ve fucked her hard, and fucked her slow, and I’ve treated her like the dirty whore she thinks she is. I’ve kicked her out on her arse when she cried after fucking her senseless, and I’ve done unspeakable things to her. I’ve called her every fuckin’ insult in the book. I’ve used and abused her. I’ve left her aching and a broken, emotional mess, just like the rest of my club brothers have.
So why do I find it so fucking hard to tell her that I want to be the one to save her?
Why can’t I tell her that she’s my weakness? That she’s the only woman, aside from my mother, that I’ve ever … loved. That she’s the only bitch I wanna see on the back of my bike, and that by her throwing her life away for some dumb fucker who only wanted to use her pain to make himself feel better, made her stupid. Because the whole time she had some other dickhead fawning over her like a lovesick fuckin’ puppy, she had this fuckin’ chump right here who’d do anything for her, including take a bullet to the brain.
I can’t tell her, because it means admitting I’m weak. Because it gives my enemies ammunition—hell it gives my fuckin’ club brothers ammunition. I’m not like the rest of them. I don’t get my jockstrap all fuckin’ twisted up over a woman, sometimes several women. I don’t feel, because feeling is weakness. Love is weakness. I’ve seen what it does to you when you have it and lose it, and I’ve seen the monster it can make of men who want to take it from you. And I won’t let that happen. But I won’t let her kill herself with coke either.
“You’re here because you need to get clean, Ivy. Prez is done. The club is done. If you can’t be useful, you can’t stop OD’ing, you’ll be thrown out on your arse.”
“I know that,” she snaps. “What I don’t understand is, why am I here? In your cabin? I’ve seen what happens to girls who can’t be of any use to the club. Why am I here, Tank?”
She rolls towards me and the moonlight outlines her face and her raven black hair spread out on my pillow. I have to fight the urge to touch her.
“Why am I here?” she whispers.
I know what she’s asking, and it would be nothing to give it to her. It would be nothing to explain why she hasn’t been tossed out on her arse, with only the clothes on her back and a bunch of STDs to keep her company. But I’m not that good a man. I could easily assuage her fears, but I won’t because it means giving herself more of me than I’m willing. It means demands, and promises, and maybe betrayal someday, and watching her being stripped of her dignity if my enemies ever got hold of her—and I have plenty of those. You don’t become hitman for the Angels or the Saints without racking up a nice little stack of enemies, all just waiting for the right time to swoop in and lodge a bullet in your brain. I have a state-of-the-art security system installed in my house for a reason, and it’s got nothing to do with naughty little club whores who can’t get themselves clean and want to run away to get their next fix.
“You’re here because I feel responsible for you.”
“Why?”
I scrub my hand over my face and try not to let my agitation leak out when I say, “Because if you hadn’t come to the club lookin’ for me, you wouldn’t have been surrounded by as much shit as you could get your hands on twenty-four fuckin’ seven.”
“I was a junkie before I met you, Tank. If it weren’t for the club, I’d likely be dead by now. That’s not news to anyone.”
“Don’t mean shit. I wanna help you, sweetheart, but you gotta let me.”
“Why do you want to help me? The others don’t care what happens to me, so why you?”
“The others do care—”
“Not Kick. He has his new plaything now—”
“Let’s get somethin’ fuckin’ straight, bitch. You don’t talk about other men when you’re in my bed. Especially not Kick. I love that fucker like a blood brother, but I don’t wanna hear you mention his name in here. Not in this room, not in this bed, and not fuckin’ while you’re lyin’ next to me in nothing but panties and a teeny little top, you got me?”
“Yeah, I got you.”
“Good.” I feel her trembling, and I know it’s not from the cold. It’s the detox. She shakes constantly. I can’t imagine how annoying that is. “Jesus Christ, you’re shakin’ the whole fuckin’ bed, babe.”
“I can’t help it,” she says, and her teeth bang together. I wrap my arm around her waist and draw her back against my front. I’m naked, and I know she can feel my cock against her arse, hard as fuckin’ nails and raring to go, but we both ignore it because we’re both as stubborn as a hatful of arseholes. She won’t put out until I give her drugs, and I won’t give her drugs—aside from the hit of pot every once in a while to take the edge off the cravings and the hurt. We’re at a fuckin’ stalemate. The only difference is I can use my hand when it all gets too much, but I don’t even have a fucking Panadol lying around to help alleviate her cravings. I pull her closer until there’s no more space between us and I pin her arms against her chest with my own to stop them from shaking. It isn’t long before the trembling subsides, but I’m not letting her go because for a second I can pretend that this is normal for us, that she’s my old lady and she’s right where she’s supposed to be.
Inside, I know that shit’s about as fuckin’ true as the fairy tales people tell their kids. We’re not supposed to be fuckin’ anywhere, because this life is not fit for anyone you love. And I’m not a nice guy. Right now, as she’s tucked away safe in my arms and having the most peaceful sleep I’ve seen her have in weeks, I’m thinking about burying my cock inside her and just taking her, even though I know she doesn’t want it.
I don’t, because while there’s no doubt that I’m an arsehole, I’m not that much of an arsehole. When I get up inside that tight little cunt of hers again, it’ll be because she’s stone-cold sober and she wants me there. I just pray to Christ that it’s soon, or I’m gonna have a fuckin’ aneurism.
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.
