by K. L. Savage
COPYRIGHT© 2021 WHISTLER BY KL SAVAGE
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. WHISTLER is intended for 18+ older, and for mature audiences only.
ISBN:978-1-952500-63-3
PHOTOGRAPHY BY WANDER AGUIAR PHOTOGRAPHY
COVER MODEL: ANDREW BIERNAT
COVER DESIGN: LORI JACKSON DESIGN
EDITING: RUTHLESS UNDERWORLD EDITING
FORMATTING: CHAMPAGNE BOOK DESIGN
FIRST EDITION PRINT 2021
Title Page
Copyright
Reading Order—Ruthless World by K.L. Savage
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty−One
Chapter Twenty−Two
Epilogue
Whistler Playlist
Acknowledgements
Also by K.L. Savage
READING ORDER—RUTHLESS WORLD BY K.L. SAVAGE
Reaper’s Rise (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #0.5)
Reaper (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #1)
Boomer (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #2)
Tool (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #3)
Poodle (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #4)
Skirt (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #5)
Pirate (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #6)
A Ruthless Halloween (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #6.5)
Doc (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #7)
Tongue (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #8)
A Ruthless Christmas (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #9)
Knives (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #10)
Lunatic (Ruthless Kings: Asylum Series, Bk #1)
Boomer’s Rise (Ruthless Kings: Atlantic City Series, Bk #1)
Tongue’s Target (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #11)
Thrasher (Royal Bastards Series, Bk #1)
Mateo (Moretti Syndicate Series, Bk #1)
Kansas (Ruthless Kings: Atlantic City Series, Bk #2)
Chaotic (Ruthless Kings: Asylum Series, Bk #2)
Mercy (Ruthless Hellhounds Series, Bk #1)
Bullseye (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #12)
Orbiting Mars (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #13)
Slingshot (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #14)
Cowboy (Ruthless Kings: Baton Rouge Series, Bk #1)
Whistler (Ruthless Hellhounds Series, Bk #2)
Tongue’s Taste (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #15)
Badge (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #16)
One Eye (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #17)
Succession (Ruthless Kings: La Grange Texas, Bk #1)
Savage (Ruthless Kings: La Grange Texas, Bk #2)
Country (Ruthless Kings: La Grange Texas, Bk #3)
Raven (Royal Bastards Series, Bk #2)
Tank (Ruthless Kings: Las Vegas Series, Bk #18)
To Tropical Storm Rachel’s.
3 oz Pineapple juice
1 oz 99 Bananas
1 0z coconut rum
Add some club soda for some fizz.
Sit on the beach, couch, the driveway, on the floor as you cry, wherever you can, and enjoy.
Find your peace in life.
Eighteen years old
The greatest of the greats know that no matter what, you push through the pain. There is no winning without sacrifice and sometimes that means putting your body through hell. Babe Ruth “The Great Bambino” knows what I’m talking about.
In 1924, it was a glorious sunny day. The weather was hot, and the crowd was amped for the game between the Yankees and the Senators. The batter was up to swing and the baseball cracked against the bat, soaring toward the right field.
But it was close to the foul line.
Babe Ruth was sprinting. He wasn’t watching where he was going. His eye was on the ball. All that mattered was winning. All that mattered was catching that damn ball.
He ran smack into the concrete wall of the bleachers, losing the ball indefinitely, and knocking himself unconscious for five whole minutes.
No one knew what to do. It was 1924, after all. Today, an unconscious player would be rushed to the hospital, but Babe Ruth laid there in the field with his coaches and teammates surrounding him. Coach poured water on Babe Ruth’s face and eventually Babe started to come around. When he got up, everyone insisted that he rest and be pulled out of the game.
Not Babe Ruth.
You don’t become known as “The Great Bambino” by sitting a game out. Babe Ruth played the rest of the game and finished strong, gaining two more hits and limping around the bases since he had also hurt his hip.
God, I love that story.
But not all players have the chance to get back up. I made a mistake.
I pushed myself too hard.
I wanted—no—I needed to be great. I needed to push through the pain because scouts were checking me out. Not college scouts either, no, these were from the major leagues. Everything I ever wanted was in sight, but I couldn’t show my pain.
My knee had been killing me for months. Ever since I slid into home plate and collided with the catcher somehow—his foot smashing into my right knee. I had felt fine for a few days after.
And then the had pain set in.
Every practice, every game became harder. So, I loaded up on pain relievers and they worked.
Until they didn’t.
On that fateful day, I was running around the bases after I hit another ball out of the park. The guys said when I swung, they swore they heard a whistle before I connected with the ball. I hit and I hit hard, but my knee had had enough of the hard hits.
Something popped as I ran around third base and I collapsed. The agony was unbearable, but it was the fear that immobilized me. I knew…
I knew I had gone about making my sacrifice the wrong way.
I’ve had two surgeries on my knee, but none will make me play ball again. If only I had gone to the doctor when the catcher’s foot hit me, all of this could have been avoided. I could be playing professionally right now.
Instead, I’m stuck living some third-string dream. I’m an assistant coach for the high school team I used to play with. I got the job
easily, but I’m unhappy and fucking miserable.
“Alright, practice is over. See you boys tomorrow,” Coach Watson announces and all the guys run from the field to the dugout to grab their belongings.
Not me.
I’m going to stay for a minute. I need some time alone. It’s been a year since my injury and ten months since I graduated high school. How is it possible I feel older than this damn dirt beneath my cleats?
“Wesley, you coming?” Coach calls out to me to see if he can turn off the field lights.
“I’m staying a bit Coach.” I pick up all the baseballs and toss them in the pitching machine. I might not be able to run, but I can still hit, and I plan to hit every single one of these mother fuckers out of the park.
“Don’t lose all of our balls with that swing you have. Your talent is expensive.” Coach chuckles and picks up his bag from behind the fence before he leaves.
My talent is as useless as a wet paper bag.
One thing that makes me different is that I like the feel of a wooden bat. I like the weight of it and how it feels in my hand. There is this beautiful sound as the wood connects with the ball. It’s crisper than the ringing of a ball hitting an aluminum bat. It’s a damn song I can put on repeat.
I stand at home plate and hit the bat on my cleats, then get into position. I watch the pitching machine, listen to it whirl and power up. It spits out the first ball and I swing, connecting the ball and the wood like I always do.
The ball soars high, arching as it makes its way over the fence.
Homerun.
If I could run.
I’m not sure how long I’m there for, hitting ball after ball, but eventually the sky turns dark and the gnats are out and sticking to my sweat. I’m batting at them like I do a damn ball, so I call it quits. The field lights are pouring over the diamond, the white lights blinding me if I stare at them for too long.
I miss the cut green grass and the red clay. I miss the moment of my stomach dropping as I step up to the home plate and I miss the look in the pitcher’s eye when he’d feel the pressure of having to strike me out.
Yeah, I never got struck out.
Kissing those memories goodbye, because I need to grow up and move on at some point, I pick up the bucket and make my way around the fence to get the balls.
When I’m done, I walk all the way back to the dugout for my bag, my knee twinging since I’ve overused it today. I need to soak in a nice hot bath. That always makes it feel better, then a cold ice pack.
Exhaling a breath with so much regret, I take one last look at the field, turn off the lights, and head toward the only truck left in the parking lot.
“Fuck,” I curse when my knee gives out and I stumble, slamming my shoulder against the side of my old man’s pickup truck. It’s a Ford, rusted to hell, but hey, the engine works and that’s all that matters.
The bucket of balls crash against the pavement and they roll under the truck.
Instead of getting back up, I stay down for a minute. I get so tired of pushing to my feet. I’m so fucking angry. What’s the point of getting back up? I’ve lost everything at eighteen years old. What the hell can the future ever do for me now?
I think of my sister. She’s two years younger than me, and I know I have to stay strong for her. She’s too gullible and she believes everything that she's told because she’s got a good heart.
People like to take advantage of good hearts and people are the catalysts to how broken hearts are born.
And my sister is at the top of that list.
I can’t let it happen and if I fall and never get back up, I know she’ll get caught in the evil clutches of the world easily.
I reach for the first ball to my left and grab the bucket with my other hand. It’s like I’m eight years old again on an Easter egg hunt but instead of eggs, it’s baseballs. I have to climb under the truck for a few, then walk around to the other side to grab the rest. I don’t even know if I have them all. I don’t care. I want to go home.
Tossing the bucket in the bed of the truck, I limp around to the driver’s side, open the door, and get in, throwing my bag on the passenger seat.
“Fuck yes,” I groan as I sit down.
The engine grumbles to life and I pull out of the parking lot, tapping my fingers against the wheel to a Van Halen song blaring on the radio. I have the windows rolled down since the air conditioning doesn’t work and my elbow is perched out of it as I roll to a stop at a red light.
To my left is the Demon’s Fury clubhouse. They are a motorcycle club that anyone who has a damn brain stays far away from. I’ve always been curious though. It’s hard not to be when the impressive row of bikes out front scream danger.
It’s badass.
I’ve thought about going in there and talking to them. I don’t know how they bring on members. Is there a fee? Is there hazing? What do I need to do?
Maybe with them, I’d find purpose.
“Yeah, right. You? Get a grip, Wesley. Like you’ll ever amount to anything anymore,” I say to myself. I press on the gas pedal when the light turns green and slowly drive by them since the speed limit is twenty miles an hour.
I turn my head and watch the bikers as I pass. A few are outside with women at their sides, which I envy, and a few are smoking. They have on leather cuts which look fucking cool. I want one, but I know I’d be up to no good if I joined them.
Sliding my eyes to the road, I catch sight of movement out of the corner of my eye. A woman is struggling with a man. They are at the corner of the clubhouse, away from everyone and in the dark alleyway. I slow down to get a better look and that’s when I notice it’s my sister.
My sixteen years old sister, Taylor.
“Oh, fuck no,” I growl and whip into the parking lot so fast my tires squeal.
I fucking knew she’d end up with someone that’s trouble because she’s too damn naïve for her own good. She’d take anyone’s hand and follow them through hell if they said she’d be okay.
The guy grips her by the hair, and she cries out, then he yanks her deeper into the alley where I can’t see them anymore. I only know it’s her because of her long, curly brown hair, and the damn red boots she likes to wear so much. I park at the end of the alley and the headlights shine down the darkened path.
Trashcans line the side and wooden pallets are leaned against the wall. He has her pinned on the ground and is slapping her face with the back of his hand. I'm the only one that can hear her screaming for help since the rest of the bikers are down at the front entrance blaring music.
I honk the horn a few times and reach into my bag for my baseball bat. No one fucking touches my sister. I get out of the truck and charge at him with my bat. I don’t even give him time to say anything.
I swing.
The bat slams against his back with a loud thud and a painful groan leaves him. The biker falls off Taylor and rolls to the ground.
I take the split second to take Taylor’s hand and pull her up. Then push her toward the truck. “Go Taylor,” I tell her.
“He didn’t mean it, Wesley! He loves me. He said he loves me. Leave him alone.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I sneer at her. “Get in the fucking truck. Now!” I yell and she flinches, which has guilt stirring in my gut. “He doesn’t love you. He’s just some fucking creep praying on young girls.” I stare at her busted lip and swollen eye; the bruise forming on her cheek and her torn shirt and lift the bat again. “Get in the truck.”
“Wesley don’t hurt him. Please. I love him.”
The biker gets to his feet and chuckles darkly. “Aw, Wesley, we were just having a little fun.”
The headlights disappear for a second and I turn around to see five other Demon’s Fury members standing behind me.
Oh, if I go down, I’m going down swinging.
“You okay, kid?” one of the bikers asks her.
“Hey, don’t you fucking talk to her! She’s sixteen you disgusting fuck.�
� I lift my bat again and he holds up his hands, telling me he is innocent.
Innocent my ass.
“No harm here. I have never seen her before, and I didn’t know she was underage. Spike, what the fuck? You know better than to do that.”
“Prez, look at her. She’s so fucking hot. She’s just a piece of—”
I don’t let the asshole say another word. The bat connects to his face and a few teeth are knocked loose and fly from his mouth. I should stop, but I’m furious. I’m pissed at him, pissed and concerned about my sister, and mad for myself.
Lifting the bat to my shoulder, I swing again and connect it to his knee. A loud crunch sounds and Spike cries out as his knee buckles. The bikers behind me make a painful groan of their own.
“You hear that?” someone asks, but I’m not paying attention. I swing again.
“It’s a whistle from his swing,” another says.
“Look at Whistler go,” the Prez sounds impressed.
Like I care.
I don’t stop hitting him.
I’m sweating. I’m exhausted, but no one is stopping me. They are letting me get my revenge. I take one last swing and I put every ounce of strength I have in it.
The bat cracks in half when I make contact with his head and I know, I just know, that I’ve killed him.
My sister is wailing behind me, her cries are all I can hear through the rage. My chest heaves and I turn around, holding what’s left of the bat. “Who’s next?” I ask, wiping the sweat off the top of my lip.
Prez, which according to his patch means President, takes a step forward. A few guys walk around us, grab the body, and hurry behind the back of the building to dispose of it somehow. I hope. Unless they are turning me in.