Tank, page 4
I watched the life slip out of her eyes as the fucking cop jacked off and rubbed his cum into her body, and I thought about Ivy’s past, and wondered whether her father had been this kind of monster, or whether he’d played nice. The concerned parent, the man who only wanted her to feel good. Had he pretended that he loved her? Pretend being the operative fuckin’ word, because you didn’t love anyone you could hurt that badly. You didn’t destroy what you loved.
I’d been overwhelmed with fucking feelings as I watched that tape, because I knew that though he might not have stuck a knife between the junkie bitch’s ribs, Ivy’s father was every bit as evil as these sick fucks, and no one had been there to save her. When I first met her, I’d thought it was a fuckin’ miracle that she’d survived even one night on the streets all alone. I remember thinkin’ it was mighty fuckin’ stupid of her to be turnin’ tricks out there on her own, but after witnessing the work of yet another sadist bastard it makes sense to me now. She’d rather take her chances being raped or even fucking offed on the streets than stay with the man who fathered her. I knew one thing—I had to find that motherfucker and put a bullet through his skull. And I would. If I couldn’t do anything else for her, I’d at least do that. When I got back to the house, I’d make her tell me his name, and I’d find him.
I slow as I crest the hill and my headlights bounce off of something in the middle of the road. It’s black and white, some kind of animal, maybe a dead calf. I rev the throttle, prepared to just drive right past, only it moves and I wind up slowing because animal or not, I can’t let it suffer when it could be put out of its misery.
The closer I get, the more I have trouble comprehending just what the fuck I’m seeing. It isn’t that it’s moving that’s the problem. It’s that it’s a woman lying on the middle of the road. And not just that, but a familiar woman, if the raven hair, the pale white skin and the strung-out expression on her face is anything to go by.
“Motherfucker,” I shout into the darkness around us. It seems to mock me with its silence. I don’t know who I expect to answer. There’s nothing here but a stupid fuckin’ junkie and the arsehole who keeps trying to save her when the bitch won’t save her fuckin’ self.
I pull the bike to a stop and toe the kickstand down. I swing my leg over and crouch down beside her. Tapping her face, I say, “Wake up, you stupid fucking bitch.”
She rolls over, lazily swatting at my hands as I grasp her jaw and punctuate each sentence by tightening my hold on her just a little more. Anger burns through me like acid. “How the fuck did you get out here all alone? Where is Killer? I’m gonna rip that fucker’s head off.”
She moans. Her hair falls away from her face, revealing several scratches over her cheeks and forehead. I slap her, perhaps a little bit harder than I need to. “Ow.”
“Jesus Christ.” I’m half tempted to leave her here in the middle of the road. I must be some sorry-arsed pussy-whipped bastard, because all I want to do is walk away and leave her here—the dumb bitch might finally get what she deserves—but I can’t. “What did you take?”
“Kick?”
“No, it’s not fuckin’ Kick. That bastard helped get you into this, and surprise, sur-fucking-prise, here I am cleaning up more of his fuckin’ mess.”
“You’re not Kick,” she says, as she opens her eyes and tries to focus her gaze. She frowns when she finally sees whose ugly mug she’s starin’ up at. “You’re the fun police.”
“Yep, that’s me. Sergeant Fucking-No-Fun. Now get the fuck up. I gotta get you home so I can kill that dumb-arsed motherfucker who was supposed to be watchin’ you.”
“He wouldn’t have sex with me.” She complains. The muscles in my jaw twitch and my fists ball at my sides. At least I don’t have to cut off his dick for touchin’ my woman, though I may just do it anyway for givin’ her drugs. “He told me what you did. You can’t claim me. I’m not your fuckin’ old lady.”
“Shut the fuck up and sit on the bike.”
“I don’t love you,” she whispers. “You make it hurt in ways it doesn’t have to. You make me remember when all I want is to forget. I could never love you.”
“I know.” I clench my teeth so tight my jaw aches. “And I don’t give a shit. Someone has to save you from yourself ’cause you’re too fuckin’ stupid to do it.”
“He’s looking for me. He’s always looking for me, and he’ll find me, and he’ll kill you because you were in the way.”
I still. At first I think she’s still spoutin’ off some shit about my club brother Kick, but he wouldn’t kill me; he doesn’t care enough about her to kill for her. And then the truth of her words dawns on me. She’s talkin’ about her father. For the first time since I became a man, I feel the icy cold fingers of dread creeping down my spine. I’m afraid. Not for my safety, but for hers.
“Not if I get to him first,” I promise
She laughs hysterically, and something in that stupid, senseless humour strengthens my fear. I’m afraid of losing her. I love her, regardless of whether or not she loves me. I think on some level I’ve loved her since she first sucked my cock under that bridge. I saw her broken pieces scattered there all over the dirty ground, and I just wanted to put them back together. She may not love me, she may never be able to love me because she’s a selfish, spoilt little shit, but I can’t be without her. I won’t be without her. Which means I need to find that motherfucker, and soon.
I manage to get her on the bike and I slip on behind her, sandwiching her skinny shoulders between my arms as my hands grip the handlebars. I have a hell of a time trying to get her to stay upright, and I wind up running off the road because Ivy’s a fucking mess and can’t keep her shit together. The second time this happens we both come off the bike, and she’s crushed beneath me and a half tonne of black metal and engine parts.
Fuck. That’s gonna hurt in the morning.
I pick her up and prop her back on the bike and drive slowly and very carefully to the cabin. Killer’s bike’s still in the drive, but the front door is wide open. I draw Ivy into my arms and carry her inside the house, shouting for that little bastard.
“He’s not here,” Ivy whines, attempting to cover her ears, but failing.
“Where is he, Ivy?”
“I shot him.”
“What?”
“He wouldn’t give me the drugs. I took his gun and I ran. He chased me. So I shot him.”
“Where?” I shout.
“In the woods.”
“Jesus fuck!” I lay her out on the couch and grab a bucket, setting it down beside her. Not that the rug hasn’t seen her vomit before. Detoxing is a bitch. But I got enough shit to clean up without her chuckin’ up all over my lounge room floor.
“You stay fucking put this time,” I order.
Ivy just mumbles and rolls away from me. Bitch is fuckin’ done for one night, and in the mornin’ when her head is aching like a motherfucker and her body’s goin’ through withdrawal all over again, her and me are gonna have ourselves a little talk.
I grab Killer’s hoodie and head outside. At lease the dumb fuck wasn’t wearing his cut after Prez has ordered us patch-free until we find that cop Kick’s lookin’ for. One more thing I don’t have to kick his arse for. Butch tears around the corner of the house and barrels into my legs. Fuckin’ idiot jumps all around like a spaz, even after I yell at him to knock it off.
“Find Killer,” I command, and shove the hoodie under his nose. He barks and runs off towards the house, but a whistle and a harsh command has him obeying. He sniffs the ground and then he darts around the side of the house and into the woods. I follow, armed with nothing but my gun. It’s close enough to a full moon that I can see my way in the dark anyway, until I enter the woods, and then all I can see are the branches in front of me, and all I can hear are the sounds of the dog running through the underbrush.
He barks, and I follow the noise I cock the gun and aim blindly ahead of me.
“Tank,” Killer whispers. Butch barks again and growls. “Call off your fucking dog.”
“You had one job, motherfucker,” I say, and I’m not shouting. I’m far too angry for that. I pull back my foot and kick him in the ribs, hard enough to bruise, not break.
“Ah fuck.” He gasps and rolls on the forest floor, still clutching a blood-soaked shoulder. He’s fuckin’ lucky I was the one to find her. If it’d been someone else, he’d be strung up by his intestines from a tree.
“Do you know where I found her, arsehole?” I ask, finally raising my voice. He shakes his head. “Coked out in the middle of the fuckin’ road.”
“She pulled my gun on me. She shot me, man.” He whimpers. “I know I fucked up, but I didn’t think she’d actually shoot me.”
“She’s a fucking junkie!” I roar, and then I bend over and knock his hand away from his shoulder. Finding the bullet hole, I sink my fingers inside until his screams fill the night around us. “What the fuck else did you expect?”
“I’m sorry, man.” He groans. Jesus fuck. The kid sounds like he’s fuckin’ dying.
“I found her arse lying face-down in the middle of the road.” I slide my finger free and wipe it on the hem of his shirt. Fucker’s lost a hell of a lot of blood. He must have been making his way back to the house and just given up halfway there. Stupid, spoiled little fuck.
Killer’s face contorts again with pain or fear, I don’t know which, and I don’t much care either. “Is she dead?”
“No, she’s not fucking dead,” I snap. “No thanks to you.”
I grasp his chin in my blood-stained hand, glaring down into his eyes. “You fucked up, kid.”
“Are you gonna kill me?”
“I fuckin’ oughta.”
“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t think she’d pull on me. I’m fucking bleeding out all over the place anyway, I’ve been out here for hours.”
“You’re fuckin’ lucky Prez likes you, ya little shit. Otherwise I’d be driving a bullet through your skull. Now get your punk arse up.” I tuck my gun away and pull him to his feet. He stumbles, and I know he ain’t going anywhere else tonight after he bled out all over my yard, so I help him walk back to the house. Before I take him in though, I grab his T-shirt in my fists and lift him off the ground. He hisses with pain. The shirt’s cuttin’ into the fresh little bullet hole Ivy put in his shoulder. I gotta teach her how to aim better.
“You listen to me. You ever bring drugs around her again, you try fucking her again and I will cut off your dick and feed it to Butch here, you got me?”
He raises a hand in surrender. “I didn’t fuckin’ touch her. I swear.”
“Oh I know, I’m just reminding you,” I say and slam my head forward into his. He drops to the porch like a sack of shit, doesn’t even make a fuckin’ sound, but he’s unconscious, and that’s all I fuckin’ care about. I throw him over my shoulder. Screwing my nose up at the trail of blood marking my front porch, I carry the worthless son-of-a-bitch into the spare room, Ivy’s room, and throw him on the bed. Then I pull out my phone and dial the Butcher. Three hours, he gives me, so I head into the lounge room and find Ivy throwing up all over my couch and floor. I walk over to the fridge for a beer—’cause I feel like I’ve fuckin’ earned one after the day I’ve had—but then I realise that I don’t have any because of that little junkie bitch who’s decorating my sofa with the contents of her stomach.
Some days are fuckin’ diamonds, and others you just want to put a gun to your head.
I jolt awake. The pain is immediate, penetrating every inch of my body. I ache from head to toe. The trembling starts as soon as I lift my head from the pillow.
“Morning, sunshine.” Tank’s booming voice fills all the space in my head, and what little room that’s left for pain is smothered with blinding light as he throws back the curtains.
I groan and bury my head under the covers. I’m in his bed. The sheets smell like his cologne. They’re warm and familiar, though I’ve only slept in here once. It feels safe.
That safety is quickly stripped away when Tank pulls the sheet off of me, and just as I’m about to hide under the pillow, that last little vestige of peace is taken from me too. Tank rips it out from under my head and tosses it across the room.
“Am I in hell?” I mutter through a husky throat and a mouth that feels as though it’s been filled with wet cotton wool.
He laughs, humourless and throaty, and there’s a definite edge of anger in it¸ too. “Not yet, but if I hadn’t found you coked-up in the middle of the road last night, you might have been.”
“Oh God,” I say, and curl into a foetal position. Not because of what he said, but because my stomach begins cramping and my head pounds. Comedowns have never been particularly fun for me, but after being clean for so many days it’s so much worse now.
“Course, Prez is more than a little pissed off because you shot one of his men while you were running away with his coke like a fuckin’ crazy drug-addicted bitch!” he shouts, and I cover my ears, but my hands are wrenched painfully away from my body and I’m pulled to a standing position. I scream and try to struggle free, but I may as well be fighting a mountain with arms for all the good it does me. “And who the fuck do you think had to pay to call the Butcher in to clean that shit up?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to shield myself from his anger. He’s never been violent towards me, not in any real way that hurt, or that I didn’t beg him for, but his anger is a palpable thing now. It fills the room, and it’s so much worse than having him ignore me for days, so much worse than having him wait and watch in silence.
Tank grabs my shoulder with one hand. His other finds my chin and yanks it up toward him. “I’m getting a little fuckin’ sick and tired of cleanin’ up your God damn mess, bitch.”
“I know.” I close my eyes because I don’t want to see the rage, the disappointment in his gaze. My whole body trembles, fingers longing to scratch and claw, to tear open my skin.
I itch. I throb. I ache.
I wish that Tank had just finished me off when he’d found me in the middle of the road. A part of me even craves that now, to have him wrap this thick fingers around my neck and squeeze the life out of me until there’s nothing left. Until the metaphysical strings that tie me to this form break free and float off someplace else. Some place where there is no drugs, no pain, and no memory. Some place where there is only death and nothing else.
“Do you know how fuckin’ crazy you make me? Do you have any idea what it’s like to try and try with you and still get fuckin’ nowhere? Do you know what it’s like to find you in the middle of the God damned road, where any arsehole can come along and pick you up and take you fuck knows where?”
He walks me backward to the en suite and releases me so that I stumble back and fall on my arse, landing on the hard tile. I cry out, but I don’t bother to get to my feet because my body is trembling so hard I doubt my legs could support me.
Tank runs one of his huge hands over his face, raking it up through his hair. “I’m fuckin’ done, bitch. I am done with this bullshit. I thought I could help, but I doubt anyone can save your junkie arse,” he says, and his voice is not so angry now. It’s calm, which is far, far worse. “Get in the shower and clean yourself up, and then I want you out of my fuckin’ house and out of my life for good.”
No. He can’t do that. Not now. Not while my brain is still reeling from the comedown. Not while my nerves are shot, and my body longs to succumb to the heavy weight of exhaustion. I need him. I need this place. At least until I get together enough money to flee the city. If he throws me out on my arse now I’ll have no hope of escaping. My father will come for me and drag me back to that place of nightmares.
“Tank, please. You can’t kick me out. I have nowhere else to go. I can’t be on my own. Please?” I beg. Everything hurts too much. My stomach revolts and my body gives a jarring twang of pain as I scramble across the bathroom tiles on my knees and clutch at his pants leg. “Tank, don’t make me go. I’ll get clean. I’ll play by the rules. No more sneaking out, no more drugs. Please, please?”
My pleading becomes frantic sobs that wrench from my gut, and before I know it I’m clinging to his legs like a child not wanting to be separated from their mother. Tank doesn’t show me any tenderness, though—he’s done with that. He just grabs my shoulder and lifts me, one-armed, to my feet, so that his eyes bore down into mine, and I feel the weight of all his fury directed at me.
“You listen to me, bitch. I haven’t spent the last five days straightening out your arse to have you come and fuck it all up. I can’t watch you kill yourself, Ivy. So if that’s what you want, if sinkin’ a needle in your vein is more important to you than makin’ sure you see your fuckin’ twenty-second birthday, then you go right ahead, darlin’, but you do it somewhere far away from me. ’Cause I seen a lot of fucked up shit in my time, but I can’t see that.”
“I … I need it … to forget,” I whisper, and close my eyes against the fresh onslaught of tears. “I can’t breathe otherwise. I can’t—”
“Find another way,” he says, and his hand tilts my chin up towards him. Gently, he wipes my tears away with his thumb. “Talk to me. Use me as your fuckin’ punchin’ bag. Let me be your drug. Let me help you forget. I don’t care how you do it, but find another way because I can’t watch you die, Ivy. I seen too much of you nearly checkin’ out, and I can’t do it anymore.”
I nod, because even now with him begging, I can’t promise that I’ll never touch it again. I’ll try, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve tried to get clean—and if it doesn’t kill me first it won’t be the last. It’s not that I have a death wish, or that I even like what it does to me, it’s that I can’t be without it. I’m dependant. An addict. And no amount of detoxing can take that away. Maybe for someone else, but not for me. Because without it I’m just some poor little broken girl with daddy issues. With the coke, I’m powerful in ways I never have been before.
