KNIVES (RUTHLESS KINGS MC™ (A RUTHLESS UNDERWORLD NOVEL) Book 10)

by K. L. Savage

  How am I going to live life without Mason? He’s the only reason I’m alive.

  “Thomas, open your eyes and look at me. Look at me!” He shakes my shoulders until my eyes snap open. “Breathe.”

  I manage to pry my wet kids back and peer into the eyes of the only person that’s ever given a shit about me. I’m trembling.

  “The cops are going to come, and they are going to arrest me.”

  I shake my head back and forth, dislodging the pools of water filling my vision. The droplets drip down my cheeks, and when I look away from Mason, I see three dead bodies. Blood is everywhere.

  So much blood.

  “Thomas, I need you to run.”

  I’m so confused as to how we got here. My stomach is rolling. I think I’m in shock, or maybe I’m dreaming. “We need to get out of here Mason. Let’s go.”

  “There isn’t time. You need to hide. They are going to be here any minute. I want you to go to that biker bar we pass all the time, okay? Tell them I sent you. Tell them you don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “What?” This makes no sense. Why the hell would he know any bikers? “Bikers? Mason, you aren’t making any sense. Come on, we can cut through here—” I point over the fence where the mountains are “—We can keep running until we are far away from here, and we can start our lives.”

  “No. Someone has to take responsibility for what happened here, and it’s going to be me. I shot them. I do the time. You always take responsibility. For everything you do, you hear me, Thomas?”

  “Mason, please. You’re all I have. This was all my fault. Let me take the blame. This is my fault. If I had taken the other route, you wouldn’t have looked for me and grabbed that gun from… where did you get it?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  The sirens are only a block or so away. I turn around to look down the road to make sure we are still alone. “Please, we don’t have much time. Mason, let’s go. Let’s go now.” I tug on his hand and try to pull him to the fence, but he stays in one spot, unmoving, the blood spreading across the ground and touching his sneakers.

  “Let’s go. Why aren’t you coming!” I yell. “Damn it, Mason. You’re the only person in the world who has my back. I need you. If you do this, I’ll never see you again. Please.”

  “I will always have your back. Always.” His head jerks when the sound of squealing tires comes ripping across the road. He pushes me toward the abandoned building. “Go. Go, Thomas. Now!”

  I stumble when I see the rolls of dusty clouds from the police cars speeding down the road getting closer and closer. The sirens are ear-splittingly loud. The hints of red and blue lights are already filling the distance. I don’t want to leave him. I open the wooden door to the rundown shed. It’s dark, musky, and cobwebs are all over me. The only light that spills through is from the window that’s clouded with dust and grim. The bottom right square is broken, but I can see Mason from this spot.

  The wet, humid air sticks to my skin, and when I grab onto the ledge of the window, beads of sweat mixed with blood drip down my lips. I almost lick them.

  Almost.

  Until I remember it isn’t my blood I’m about to lick. I wipe my mouth on my shirt sleeve and hope Mason makes it out of this situation okay.

  “Put your hands behind your head!”

  I inhale a sharp breath, staring at a cop who has his weapon drawn, pointing it directly at Mason.

  “He’s armed!” the cop announces, and three other officers flank each other, pointing their guns at Mason.

  Four cops.

  Four guns.

  One Mason.

  No hope.

  “Please,” I beg, someone, anyone, to not take Mason away from me.

  “Put down the weapon,” the cop barks at Mason.

  “Okay,” Mason says, giving me a quick parting glance. He has no fear, at least none that is showing, which only makes me admire him more. But I know the look he gives me, and it isn’t one filled with hope.

  It’s one that says goodbye.

  He leans down to place the gun on the ground, but the barrel is pointed at the police officers, and the first gunshot sounds.

  Then the next.

  And the next.

  I place a hand over my mouth to stifle my sobs when I see Mason’s body jerk until he is boneless on top of Murray, Louis, and Peter.

  I flip to my back and slide against the wall, unable to look out the window a second longer and cry silently. My best friend is dead. For some fucked up reason, he decided I was worth it.

  Worth what? I have no idea.

  “Fuck, Ripley. He was putting the gun down,” one officer says.

  “Like it matters.” One snorts. “Look at the kids he killed.”

  “We didn’t know the story. He was just a kid himself. You never pull that shit again; do you understand?”

  “Yeah, Nolan. I got it.”

  “Call it in. Let’s get this crime scene taped off and these bodies bagged.”

  I cup my hands over my ears and begin to rock back and forth. I don’t know how long I sit there, but the zippers of the body bags are so loud they break me open. The sirens come and go.

  And soon, the only thing left is silence.

  The wind blows through the broken piece of the glass, blowing against the sweat on my neck. All I can see every time I blink are the bullets piercing through Mason’s body. I stand on unstable legs and open the wooden door that leads outside. It’s colder outside. The night sky reminds me of the night I lost my entire family.

  My real family.

  My sister. My mom. My dad.

  It’s only fitting I lose Mason on a night that feels so similar. Cold, beautiful, star-filled, and the crickets… yeah, the crickets were just as loud as the night of the accident. Life goes on even when you don’t want it to.

  Taking a lungful of air, I make my way to the left, and the door behind me slams shut. My nerves are shot, and I jump from the loud boom it brings over the empty pastures on either side of the road. My heart thumps in my chest as I stare at where Mason was shot hours ago.

  Four people died today, right here, right in the middle of the road, but it’s like it didn’t even happen. The road is clear, disappearing into the edge of the sky. The silence, the world around me, the crickets… everything is as it was, but I’m changed forever.

  There are only the puddles of blood drying in the sand of the road. It’s the only proof to let me know it wasn’t a dream.

  It’s evidence to reassure me that I’m alone.

  I wipe my cheek on my shirt sleeve again, dragging the material across the dried blood and wet tears. I place my hands on my hips and start walking, because what else am I supposed to do? I see my backpack out of the corner of my eye behind a trashcan, and I debate if I want to take it.

  If it’s up to me, I’ll never go back to school. I’ll never get close to anyone again.

  I remember the biker bar Mason brought up to me and told me to go to. It’s a place we used to pass every day walking to and from school to go home. The place scared me, but he loved it. He loved the tough and rough look, the bikes, the women, the leather. Mason was always badass like that though, and if he wanted me to go there, then I’m going to go.

  Picking up my backpack, I toss it in the trashcan and cover it with a lid. I give one last look to where I saw Mason’s body fall.

  What am I going to do without him? In the last two homes, he protected me from perverted dads, handsy moms, and disturbed kids. When he could, he protected me at school.

  And he died doing the one thing he always did.

  What can I do to return the favor?

  Go to the bar.

  Where the badass bikers are going to kill me, probably.

  I tuck my hands into my pockets, my fingers brushing over a ball of lint, and hunch my shoulders as a rare howl bursts through the air. A coyote. They probably smell the blood in the road, hoping to feast.

  When the highway comes to view,
it’s empty, nearly as abandoned as I am. I take a left, the soles of my shoes scuffing against the asphalt. I’m not afraid to admit I’m crying. I know I shouldn’t. My foster dad says, ‘Men don’t cry. Men aren’t allowed to cry.’

  But I’ve lost the only person that’s mattered to me in a long time.

  I don’t know how long I walk. I keep my head down, eyes glued to the road, watching the bumps of rocks in the pavement vanish from my footsteps.

  A grumble of bikes comes from up ahead, and it has me jerking my head up, seeing a headlight float in the night as it turns left, the opposite direction of where I am coming from.

  I stop at the edge of the fence where the road turns to gravel, and the old, beat-up bar looks like it’s about to fall apart. It’s made of wood planks, and there isn’t a sign to tell me if the bar has a name. Loud music spills from the inside, and all the chrome of the bikes lined up out front shine against the red neon skull sign hanging on the inside of the window.

  My feet drag against the gravel, the rocks crunching under my converses. I thought I’d be afraid, but after everything I’ve just been through, what I’ve seen, what’s the worst these guys can do to me? Kill me?

  I dare them.

  I pause at the door, which is wide open, and decide to walk in. The air is warmer in here from all the bodies moving around. Smoke hangs heavily in the air, and the floor is sticky against my shoes. My adrenaline is crashing. My body is starting to shake, and my eyes are pooling again. I’m hoping I’m in a safe place because I think I’m about to lose it.

  No one notices me yet in the dark room. I don’t blame them. Men are watching women strip on the poles; some men are having sex, screwing right here in front of everyone. I look over my shoulder, wrapping my arms around myself when I slam into something solid.

  “Who the fuck are you, slim?” a raspy dark voice asks me.

  When I turn to him, his eyes widen in surprise. It must be the blood all over me.

  “Slim, what the fuck happened to you?”

  I’m too distracted. The lights, the music, the conversations, everything is so loud.

  “Hey.” The man lays his big paw on my shoulder, shaking me. “Slim, you okay? Hey,” he snaps his fingers in front of my face, and I know he can see how scared I am. I don’t hide my emotions well. “Come here. Follow me.” He lights a cigarette and throws an arm around my shoulders, forcing me to walk as he does.

  There are a few other men by his side, huge guys. They remind me of Mason, in a way. Like grown-up badass versions of him.

  But he’ll never be able to become them now.

  The music dies down as we walk to the back. The lights are brighter, and the music is a dull thump against the walls. The guy opens a door, revealing a huge table with a skull engraved in it. He pulls out a chair and drops his arm from my shoulder. “Sit,” he says.

  Like I’d ever disrespect a man eight-times my size.

  I sit down quickly as he takes a seat in the chair at the front of the table while the other two men flank either side of him. They are wearing the same leather vests, but his says Prez, while the other two say VP and SGT at Arms, respectively.

  Whatever that means.

  “Want a drink?” he asks.

  I nod eagerly. I’d love some water.

  The VP opens a mini-fridge in the corner and pulls out a brown bottle, opens it with his forearm, and sets it in front of me.

  “I’m… I’m… not old enough to drink,” I say, my voice shaking.

  The three of them laugh. “Kid, we know that. You look like you need it, though. Go ahead; it’ll be our secret,” says the VP.

  I wrap the bottle in my hand and bring it to my lips. I’ve never had beer before. It’s cold, and it tastes like shit, but it feels good. Half the bottle is gone by the time I place it on the table.

  The man that calls himself the Prez leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. “Now that you look like you aren’t about to pass out—”

  “—He might throw up,” the VP jokes.

  It isn’t funny. I might.

  “Slim, do you know where you’re at?”

  “Biker bar,” I mumble, wiping my lips of beer foam. “I…” I start to rock again, pressing the palms of my hands against my eyes. “He told me to come here. I don’t know where else to go.”

  “This is Ruthless Kings territory you’re in. What happened to you? I need you to tell me everything. Are you bringing bad shit to my club?”

  I shake my head and yank the knives out of my pockets, slamming them on the table. “Mason. Mason saved me. These kids followed me, but he was my foster brother, and he saved me—”

  “You’re Mason’s brother? You must be Thomas.”

  I lock eyes with the Prez, a hundred emotions suddenly swirling in me. How do these guys know about me and Mason?

  “Yeah.”

  The Prez’s eyes soften. “He’s said a lot about you. Says you’re smart. That true?”

  I shrug my shoulders at the Prez. “I know how to survive. Barely. Mason…” My eyes start to water again. “He’s dead. He died. He killed the guys following me, and the cops killed him. Before it happened, he made me hide and told me to come here. I don’t know where else to go. Where do I go? I’m sorry. I don’t want to cause trouble, but I don’t have anyone else. Mason was all I had. I tried to protect myself with these knives, but Mason had a gun.”

  “Fuck. I was wondering where it went.” The man who calls himself Prez slides his fingers through his beard and tugs on the silver strands on his chin. “I need you to tell me everything, from start to finish, and don’t leave shit out, okay?” Prez says.

  “Mason died, you sure, Slim?” the VP asks. “He had real promise in becoming a prospect. Damn it. Damn it!” he shouts, kicking the mini-fridge so hard, the door breaks off the hinge.

  “Let’s all calm down,” Prez states, and the two men surrounding him take a seat, the VP breathing heavily like a raged bull. “Start from the beginning, and the more you can tell me about those cops, the better, okay?”

  “Yeah,” I nod, swigging my beer. “Yeah, okay.”

  The man across the table reaches in the middle and grabs the only weapons I have. I try to steal them away from him, but he is quicker, lifting them up in the air so I can’t get them. “I think I can teach you how to make a pretty cool weapon out of these knives.”

  His patch says SGT at Arms, and the guy’s arms are the size of my head. “They are old, rusted to hell, but we can shape them up and make a badass ninja star. We’ll break the blades, then weld them together in the middle. After all this is settled, of course. It will be easier for you to learn since you’re so small.”

  I hate being small. I blush and glance away, twiddling my fingers together. A rag is placed down in front of me. “Clean yourself up, Slim. Get that blood off you. And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with being small. It’s here that matters,” the VP taps my chest, “and here.” Then presses his finger against my temple.

  “That’s really fucking sweet, but I need information. You two keep getting off track. Slim, fucking speak before these assholes start going on about something else. I want retribution for what happened to Mason,” Prez states.

  I take another swig of beer to gather some sort of courage and meet the eyes of the Sergeant at Arms. He gives me an encouraging nod, and I take a deep breath before returning the Prez’s gaze.

  “I’m the kid that gets bullied, and there were these three kids that always liked to give me a hard time. I don’t have family and neither did Mason. We lived in a shit foster home, but he took it upon himself to always save me. He was my brother. My best friend. I owe him everything.”

  “Mason was good like that,” Prez nods, a genuinely sympathetic tone in his voice. “Go on.”

  I do. From start to finish until I’m sobbing like a damn baby, because I feel like it’s all my fault. Mason would be alive if it weren’t for me. I have to prove myself to him now, so he didn’t die for nothing. I nee
d to be more than I’ve ever been.

  “We will have our lawyer draw up some adoption papers. We’re going to send you to a new school. When you turn eighteen, it’s up to you on what you want to do. Prospect or get the hell out of dodge, but I think you’ll like it here. I got a kid about your age named Jesse. Relax, Slim. You’re with us now, but that’s the only beer you’re getting from me until you’re a man. Got it?”

  I nod eagerly, wondering if I’m dreaming, but when I rubbed the damp towel over my face and see red, I know this is reality.

  Mason sent me to a place where I’d be safe. Even in death, he is protecting me. I’m not going to let him down. This place, if they will allow it, will be my home, and I’ll be everything Mason wanted to be.

  It’s the least I can do after everything he has done for me.

  Present day

  “Ninety-Eight. Ninety-nine. One-hundred.” I lift my chin over the pull-up bar one last time and drop to my feet, then fall to the floor and get into a push-up position. I place one hand behind my back and grunt as I push down. I do three sets of ten, alternate my hands, then do three more sets of ten on the other side. A bead of sweat drops from my forehead, rolling down my nose, and splashes against the floor.

  I don’t work out because I want to. I work out because I have to. I refuse to be weak. I refuse to not be at my strongest. I refuse to be that small, scrawny kid that didn’t know how to hold his own.

  Dropping to my back, I call out for Yeti, our resident white pitbull, and I hear the clobber of his paws against the wooden floors. When he is at the door, I point to my feet, and his pink tongue is out of his mouth as his stocky frame comes and sits on my feet.

  “Good boy,” I praise him, placing my hands across my chest to begin my sit-ups. Every time I hit my elbows to my knees, Yeti gives me a big wet kiss on my cheek, which gives me that much more motivation, because who doesn’t love kisses from dogs? My abs begin to ache and tighten. I do five sets of twenty sit ups, only taking a few seconds between sets to catch my breath. By the fifth set, my body is shaking, and when I fall to the floor to stop, Yeti barks at me, slobbering all over my legs.