“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.