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

by K. L. Savage

  “Yeti, I don’t want to. God, I’m tired.”

  He barks at me again to finish the last twenty. He always knows when I want to quit, and he always gives me fucking lip when I want to stop.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll do it. Just give me a second to breathe.”

  He growls, showing his teeth, threatening me that I better get off my ass or he’ll do something about it

  “You’re a ballbuster,” I mutter, taking a deep breath and sit up, exhaling the breath. Yeti licks me before I fall back, only to come up again. My stomach cramps as I crank out the first half. I have ten more.

  My muscles protest, and I start to slow. “I can’t, Yeti.” Every sit-up, every crunch of my abs, and every time my elbows hit my knees, I let out a painful groan.

  Five more.

  Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  Three.

  Two.

  I think I’m going to puke.

  One.

  “Damn it!” I collapse on the floor; arms spread out as I gasp for air and sweat my body weight. Yeti’s weight leaves my feet, and he cuddles up next to me, shoving his nose under my dead arm. “You kick my ass, Yeti. Ever heard of giving a guy a break?”

  He lifts his nose and snorts, spraying fucking dog snot all over me. “Thanks for that. I appreciate it.” I groan as I sit up and sling my shirt off, then wipe the sweat off my face with it.

  I walk towards the kitchen and lift my arms to grab the trim of the door and stretch, leaning my body out of the entryway. It’s quiet here since Boomer and his members left. They only came for Christmas, and since that was a complete shitshow, just like everything else is around here, I’m sure he was excited to get home. Especially since he missed Christmas with his ol’ lady Scarlett. She decided to stay back with Homer, the old man who is officially part of the MC, according to Boomer.

  Now, there are just a bunch of us assholes and a few kids to fill the noise.

  I’m not going to lie; I’m one of the few that likes the ruckus.

  Chaos, strife, and pain are the only mistresses I need to keep me awake at night. And you know who checks all those boxes?

  Mary St. James.

  She’s far from a damn saint and reaps nothing but pure havoc on me. I swear the only reason for her existence is to get under my skin and piss me off. Well, mission fucking accomplished. She’s sassy. She’s wild. She’s fucking fierce.

  And all that adds up to one hell of a dynamite package that I want to ignite if I could get over how fucking crazy she drives me. I swear to god, if there was a cliff every time she cocked an attitude with me, I’d fucking jump off it.

  She’s maddening, but I know underneath the red lipstick that is supposed to make a statement, and the black leather jacket that hugs her breasts when she zips it up, Mary is scared.

  With what happened to her, she has every reason to be. She’s one of the girls that we rescued in Atlantic City; the chapter Boomer is taking over. The so-called Ruthless Kings that didn’t deserve the name bought and sold women. Doc’s ol’ lady, Joanna, she was a part of it too, along with Boomer’s ol’ lady, Scarlett.

  Hell, I would think having Joanna here would help Mary, but she’s bound and determined to lose herself in the pit of the hell created by the Atlantic City members. She did her best to join the cut sluts on their mission to suck and fuck every member in the clubhouse, but no matter how hard she tried, none of us would touch her.

  We might be bastards in some way, shape, and form, but we don’t use women who are only looking to feel something other than fear. When a woman wants to be a cut slut, she does it because she wants to; she wants to be used in every hole, in every way. And if that’s their choice, more power to ‘em. All of us know Mary isn’t like that. She’s a good girl. When we found her, she had on pearls and a fucking cardigan.

  And now she’s dressed for a rock and roll concert.

  Don’t get me wrong; some of those leather pants she wears has me watching her walk away longer than I should. Her new look fits her behavior. I’d be sad to see it go, especially since getting to know her. I don’t know much about her past; she doesn’t talk about it, but pearls and cardigans? They don’t match the hellraiser simmering beneath her skin.

  Does it mean I want to touch her flames?

  Abso-fucking-lutely.

  Does mean I’m going to?

  No.

  She annoys me too damn much, and I know she can’t stand me either. She got me coal for Christmas. Coal! As if I’ve been naughty this year! Please. I’m a fucking angel wrapped in a damn bow, and my halo shines brighter than the damn horns she has on her head, I can say that much. She got mad at me for getting her a fake leg because she still walks with a limp after getting impaled by a piece of wood. I thought it was funny.

  And she hates me for it.

  But it’s the kiss I hate her for.

  Maizey pointed out at Christmas that Mary and I were under a mistletoe when we were arguing, and I just got fucking tired of always fighting with her, so I pulled her in by her hair and kissed her to shut her up.

  I didn’t think I’d actually like it.

  And goddamn it, I hate her for giving me the best damn kiss I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. That chaos, strife, and pain I live for, that’s constantly roaring inside of me, came to an abrupt halt as our mouths became one. Time slowed. Sounds ceased. And when our tongues slid together, we forgot we were enemies, and we gave in to one another.

  Her lips were velvet, and her breaths were sweet like candy. I was getting lost in those flames I should always stay away from.

  Until she hit me in the gut with that peg-leg I bought her. Then, she stomped off in a hissy fit, leaving me fucking harder than nails and confused.

  Confused because all I wanted to do was run after her, slam her against the wall, and own her mouth again.

  It’s been two weeks, and every single night I’m waking up from a wet dream, cock in hand, and cum coating my stomach. I have never had that happen, even when I was sixteen and getting erections because the fucking breeze blew.

  Mary has inserted her havoc in my veins, mixing herself in with the other three mistresses constantly whirling around inside me.

  I’m wound up tight, and I’m ready to sling a few of my ninja stars, maybe draw some blood. But now that things are quiet at the club, I’ll just go get another tattoo to help take the edge off. The more I have to be around that damn woman, the tighter she winds me, and the more I want to remind her that when we kiss, the last thing we do is hate each other.

  We want each other. I know she feels it too.

  “You want to take a picture? It lasts longer,” Badge grumbles with a slight curl of his lip as he pulls out a chair at the table. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he sips the plain black coffee from his mug. Badge is a prickly guy, and on a good day, he might not bite your damn head off.

  “Let me grab my camera. There’s nothing I want more than your ugly mug framed next to my nightstand. I’ll kiss it every night before I go to bed.”

  “You’re so fucking weird, Knives.”

  It’s true. I never joke about anything. Why bother, when the truth can make people that much more uncomfortable?

  That’s the only rule I have always made sure applies to me, until recently.

  The truth is a wicked bitch, and everywhere I turn, she’s roaring her ugly head at me. For instance, I’m starting to wonder if I actually like Mary, and that truth makes me uncomfortable. I’m going to ignore it.

  Nothing good can come out of her and I being together. Two people that don’t like each other. That’s like a hurricane and a tornado finding their way into each other’s paths, ready to destroy.

  But the whisper of truth is still there, telling me I want Mary more with every second that passes. I want to kiss her again to see if what I feel is the same or if it was a fluke, but there is no way she’s going to let me near her again.

  And she shouldn’t.

  I’ve done too m
any bad things, and even though she pretends to want the cruel side of temptation the MC offers, she isn’t ready for it or me.

  Like Tongue, I’m a bit fucked in the head, but not in a crazy sense like Tongue is. I’m not going to be bringing home a fucking swamp kitty and calling it ‘Happy.’

  I’m crazy in the sense that I don’t feel grief for what I do. I cut, I draw blood, I inflict pain, and I never want the pain to stop.

  I want to keep cutting, keep them pleading for help. I want to hear the victims begging me to stop. I love making them bleed so much they pass out, so I wait until they wake up, maybe give them a transfusion, and I do it all over again.

  And I’ll keep going until there is almost nothing left.

  Give them hope that they will be able to live, and when I see their smile, their thankful, relieved smile with blissful tears raining down their cheeks, that’s when I’ll sling my ninja star across the room and lodge it directly in their foreheads.

  And even after all of that, I’ll still feel nothing.

  Yet I think of Mary and I feel everything.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Knives. Stop looking at me.” Badge slides the chair back and stomps away toward his office, where all the fancy gadgets are.

  I wasn’t looking at him. I zoned out.

  See what she’s doing to me? I need to get with Tongue. He and I like to sharpen our blades together, or sometimes he helps me make a new ninja star. I have one I haven’t used since it’s been made, and it’s the one made of the knives I found the night Mason died. I should use it.

  And I almost did on the cop who pulled the trigger first. I waited and waited, and then he became Chief of Police, but then he died of a fucking heart attack, and now the man that replaced him is my friend.

  Well, ish.

  We do each other favors, like when Sarah’s SUV got blown up, and we wanted to make sure a report wasn’t filed? I called him. Paid him. And we are in the clear.

  It’s good to have the law on your side, which is why I’ll never understand why Reaper gave Badge the ultimatum.

  The other cops involved in Mason’s murder moved away right after, and I haven’t been able to find them since. But I will.

  And when I do, I’ll use the knives from that night, and I’ll bring myself some sort of peace.

  Sarah comes into the kitchen, and the dark memories fade, replaced by a grin as I watch her tiptoe. She’s holding her stomach, which is still flat, and slowly, gently, and quietly walks to the coffee pot. Sarah is pregnant. After what seems like forever, Prez and his ol’ lady finally get their happy ending, but Sarah isn’t fully excited just yet. She’s afraid of every move she makes because she doesn’t want to miscarry again.

  She’s isn’t that far along. Eight weeks, maybe? Twelve weeks is usually the safe space for women not to worry about miscarriages, at least, that’s what Doc told us.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Sarah yelps, holding her hand to her chest and taking deep breathes. Then, she lets out a gasp, sliding her hand to her stomach to make sure nothing happens. Her hand being there won’t stop a miscarriage, and I think she knows that. It’s only about comfort at this point. “Knives, you can’t do that. You scared me,” she says, taking a second to gather her breath. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and starts tiptoeing again to the coffee pot.

  Even though Doc said she can have one cup of coffee a day, she doesn’t want to risk it, so Reaper bought a decaf coffee machine for her instead. She stares up at the cabinet above her and opens it, but the mug is just out of reach.

  And she won’t reach for it. She’s too nervous to stretch her body. I’m worried about her. I understand she’s scared, but she needs to realize that normal, everyday things she always does aren’t going to hurt the baby.

  “Here, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll get it for you?” I walk out of the hallway between the kitchen and the gym, and Yeti follows behind me. When Sarah sits down, Yeti falls at her feet, then stares at all the entrances to the kitchen. He’s protecting her.

  “Thanks, Knives. I know, I’m crazy for acting this way, but I’m so nervous.”

  I grab the mug, set it on the counter, and pour the decaf coffee to the rim. God, I can’t imagine the withdrawals she must be experiencing. I have to have caffeine every day. “Here you go.” I place the mug in front of her, and she uses her hands to cup each side. I bet it’s nice and warm. “It’s okay to be afraid, but don’t be so afraid that you stop living your life. Okay?”

  “We’ve wanted this for so long, and if we lose another… Knives, I don’t know what we would do.”

  She tries to hold it in, but soon enough, the tears spill right out of her.

  I don’t know what to say. I haven’t experienced this situation before. I want to say, ‘you’ll try again.’ It’s the logical answer, but kind of heartless, because I’m not being sympathetic. I used to be. The teenage me would have cried right along with Sarah, but I haven’t cried since that night.

  Tears dropped are energy wasted.

  “Why the hell is Sarah crying?” Reaper barges into the kitchen, and I lean back in the chair, crossing my hands over my chest to protect my heart.

  If there is one thing I am afraid of, it’s Reaper’s ability to yank someone’s heart out of their chest and not blink twice as he watches it beat to a slow, irreversible stop.

  “I’m hormonal, Jesse! And I’m afraid of everything I do. Knives was trying to encourage me! Don’t be mean to him.”

  My brows raise to my hairline as Sarah buries her face in her hands and sobs. Reaper wraps his arms around her, and then gives me the stink eye when he notices my shirt is off. “You could have covered your hairy chest,” he says. “You’re a goddamn werewolf.”

  I rub my hands down the fur, and Sarah turns around just in time to see me do it, which has me stopping, but her cheeks turn red. Something flashes in her eyes, and I stop rubbing down my chest, because she whispers something to Reaper and runs toward his office, leaving me wondering what the hell I did.

  I know I’m hairy, but I’m not hairy enough to clear a room.

  Reaper points a finger at me. “I’m saying this once. Walk around with a shirt on after this. Sarah is hormonal and the sex… is fucking amazing. She’s always needing sex, and apparently, men shirtless really get her revved up, but I don’t need my woman revved up over anyone but me, got it?”

  “This has happened more than once?” I raise an eyebrow, trying not to laugh.

  “Knives.”

  “Oh, okay. I wouldn’t call it a pattern, Prez. Just a coincidence. Hormones are like that.”

  “And Slingshot, Patrick, Badge, and Tank. One second with their shirts off and she comes running to me—” his eyes widen when he realizes what he is saying. “You have my permission to always be shirtless until she has the baby.” Reaper runs down the hall after his ol’ lady, whipping his shirt off to get down to business before he enters his office.

  “You’re welcome!” I shout after him, which earns me the middle finger. This won’t be the last time I’m half-naked in front of Sarah. I have to listen to my President, right? I snort, taking Sarah’s coffee in my hand and taking a sip, only to spit it right back out when I taste the lack of caffeine.

  How do people drink this?

  My cell phone ringing from my bedroom has me getting up, pouring the coffee down the drain, and getting a new cup of coffee. I sit back down, letting the ringing come to an end. I don’t feel like talking to anyone. They can leave a voicemail.

  I’m thinking about how everyone around me is finding their ol’ lady and being happy, but I don’t know if I’m capable of feeling happiness like that. My soul was damaged a long time ago, and there is no way it can be repaired.

  Then the kiss I shared with Mary plays in my mind, and I remember a sliver of healing that started to thread the gaping hole in my spirit together again.

  No, who am I kidding?

 
I’m beyond repair.

  Crap.

  This is the second time in a week I’ve been pulled over. The first time, I got out of it because I flashed the cop a pretty smile, but it didn’t work this time. Probably didn’t help that I was apparently “rude”, and “uncooperative”, and “being booked for wanton disregard for safety”.

  So sue me, I’m not perfect.

  The cell door slides shut, the metal clanking as it slams against the wall, locking into place. It smells like piss in here. I know I’m a bit reckless, but landing in jail for a speeding ticket, of all things, is a new low for me.

  Even if it was kind of fun for a moment.

  When I’m speeding down the road, the rush is almost too hard to explain. My foot against the pedal, pressing it against the floor as the needle on the speedometer climbs to the red lines. The engine roars, and when I hit 110 miles per hour, I feel like I’m flying, like I’m free.

  Then a damn cop had to flip on his lights and ruin everything.

  I grab the metal bars and push my face against them. “Hey, come on. Let me out of here. I don’t belong here. My speedometer is broken, honest.” It’s a lie, but I need to try something. The one phone call they gave me was useless, since Knives didn’t answer.

  I don’t know why I called him. When they read me my rights and said I get one phone call, the first person that entered my mind was him. He is a pain in my ass ninety-nine percent of the time, but if there is one thing about that damn annoying man is it’s he’s dependable. When the men call him, he drops everything, and he is there for them.

  And for some stupid reason, I thought he’d be there for me, even though we don’t like one another. Even though we fight more than we talk, I stupidly thought he’d come to get me out of this hell hole. After what happened at Christmas… oh, who am I kidding? I can’t even recall what happened because it made no sense.

  Because someone’s first real kiss shouldn’t be that good, right? Toe-curling, body aching, leaving my skin in a fever, good. A first kiss is supposed to be messy and gross, with too much tongue and too wet, wondering why people kiss to begin with, but no, that was not the case with Knives.