The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Thank you

  Playlist

  Ten Years Ago

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  The Ruthless © 2018 Jaci J

  All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below

  jaclinjean@gmail.com

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, any place, event, occurrence, or incident is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created and thought up from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any clubs, names, organizations, or groups of people are one hundred perfect fictitious and made up by the author and in no way, represent or reflect any actual real person or group of persons.

  Editing – Dana Hook; Rebel Edit & Design

  Cover Design – Freya Barker; Rebel Edit & Design

  Formatting – Silla Webb; Masque of the Red Pen

  Cover Art – bigstockphotos.com

  Model Photo – MINICH_Sibas (202948372)

  This book is for me, because King is MINE. ;)

  Thank you to my support system, Dana, Freya, Chris, Silla, Marki, Mom, Ty, Baby Daddy.

  These books are possible because of you.

  Post Malone – “I Fall Apart”

  Black Atlass – “Blonde”

  Kendrick Lamar ft. Zacari – “Love”

  Billie Eilish – “Ocean Eyes”

  Roy Woods – “Love You”

  Fall Out Boy – “Heaven’s Gate”

  X Ambassadors – “Ahead of Myself”

  Alabama Shakes – “This Feeling”

  Childish Gambino – “Redbone”

  Hall & Oates – “She’s Gone”

  Brutal. Heartless. Ruthless.

  Kingston “King” Toretto breaks everything he touches. Ruining lives and crushing souls, he’s ruthless to his core and heartless. With a body made for fighting and fucking, he’s trouble, bad for your health, and he’s been bad for mine for years. Cold, detached ocean blue eyes and broken past, he’s everything I didn’t need, but everything I wanted—if only he’d stay.

  Complicated. Sassy. The Princess.

  Samantha has always been my problem, my goddamn addiction. The body of an angel with the eyes of the devil, she’s got me wrapped around her manicured finger. A tight fucking hold on me. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her, aside from staying. Leaving is what I do, but I just didn’t realize leaving her this time around would be so fucking hard. Leaving her for the last time may just kill me.

  Standing by the fire, I watch him walk up toward the flames, my eyes following his every move over the rim of my cup. The man is intimidating. Brutal. Dark.

  Kingston “King” Toretto is larger-than-life, but at the same time, so shrouded in shadows and secrets, it’s hard to believe he’s real. Always around, but never actually here, he’s someone I’ve heard stories about, yet have never met. He’s a mystery. A ghost.

  Through the flames, I watch the way he moves. His muscles are so tight, they’re ready to snap. His eyes take in everyone around him. His tattoo covered arms are crossed over his chest and his legs are wide, like he’s ready for a fight.

  Broad and muscular, covered in tattoos and scars from head to toe, he’s as brutal looking as he is beautiful. His presence commands respect.

  For years, I’ve had a sick fascination with him, even though I hardly know him. There’s something wrong with me because there’s something wrong with him.

  “He’s trouble,” Lilly whispers, leaning into my side.

  Pulling my gaze from King, I shoot her a quick look. “Says who?” I know she’s right. King’s the worst kind of man.

  “Tiny told me shit about him. Bad shit.” Tiny says all sorts of shit, most of it bullshit. But even if he’s right, I don’t care, I want the man. I’ve always wanted King.

  “There’s just something about him,” I counter. I want to take a walk on the wild side, and King is that wild side. He represents freedom, excitement, life, in a way I can’t describe.

  Lil laughs. It’s tight, and a little concerned. “Yeah, his tattoos and muscles, those are somethin’.”

  There’s something more. Something so real and raw, powerful and dangerous. “I’m gonna go say ‘hi’,” I tell her, finishing off my cup. I’m feeling brave today. It’s taken me years to become this brave, and today I’m cashing in. I don’t know what I’m thinking and it’s probably a good thing I don’t. I’ve spent my life around dangerous men, but none quite like King.

  “Sam, that’s probably not a good idea,” Lil tells me, grabbing for my arm when I turn to go. “I know we like trouble, but he’s trouble trouble.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? You’re fuckin’ nuts and you’re drunk.”

  I don’t care how bad of an idea this is, how bad it’ll hurt, or how stupid this makes me. I want King.

  Making my way through the crowd of family and friends, I walk up next to him, swallowing roughly, my hands shaking. “I’m—” I start to say before he cuts me off.

  “The princess.” His voice is rough, like sandpaper. He’s taller up close, at least a half a foot over my five-seven frame. He’s wider and bigger, and scarier. Meaner. Ruder. Nastier.

  I laugh, my voice breathy, because the nickname is childish and not me. “I’m not.” It’s something my dad has always called me, something I loathe as much as I like. It’s become a label, like a warning.

  He doesn’t look at me, and he doesn’t argue when he asks, “What do you want?”

  Being raised in a family full of the most rude and crude humans alive, his shortness does nothing to detour me. I’ve made up my mind.

  “I, uh…” I stumble over my words. There’s a moment, a brief flash of uncertainty, but I shove it down. “You,” I tell him, my voice shaky, betraying me.

  He chuckles humorlessly. “I know.”

  He kno
ws? My pulse races and my stomach knots. “You know?” I practically choke on the words, embarrassment clogging my throat.

  “Been eye fuckin’ me since I walked over here,” he deadpans, and I almost die.

  Feeling lame, my cheeks turn a bright red, I’m sure.

  “Oh.”

  “All you gotta say is ‘oh’?” he sneers, eyes narrowed on me, expecting more. “Did the princess lose her liquid courage?” he goads me.

  “No,” I huff, squaring up my shoulders and holding my head high. I’m determined. “I still want you.”

  King finally looks at me—his eyes traveling slowly up the length of my body, landing on my lips. “You sure? Once you say yes, there’s no goin’ back, baby.”

  I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  Through the crowd, past familiar and unfamiliar faces, he takes me toward room six, my hand in his.

  His rough hands are on my body, fingers digging into my hips, holding me down. On my back, my legs wrapped around his head, King runs the tip of his tongue between my pussy lips, stopping to tease my clit.

  I’ve never felt anything like it.

  I try not to squirm, but the way he devours me makes my body shake with need.

  “Fuck, you taste as good as you look,” he breathes against my pussy, his tongue teasing. My virgin brain twists and turns with every growled compliment as he eats me alive. King’s got game. “Can’t wait to get my cock inside this tight cunt.” He shoves two thick fingers deep inside of me and curls them, hitting something that makes me come off the bed.

  “Shit!” I cry out, shaking.

  He chuckles. “Just the King, baby.”

  I feel like I’m high, floating and spiraling out of control.

  King sucks on me until I’m so overcome, my back bows and my thighs clench as I’m hit with an orgasm I’ve never experienced. My world explodes, my body tightening and tingling. “That’s right, baby, ride it out,” he growls against my wet flesh as I ride his face. Any embarrassment I had is all but gone.

  Biting at the inside of my thigh, he stands up as I come down from my high, wiping his mouth with his hand. Between my thighs, my pussy on full display, he looks down at me and stares. There’s something warm in his cold brown eyes, a touch of heat in their depths. I feel special, even if I know I shouldn’t. I tell myself not to be that girl, but it’s not easy. He won’t remember my name in an hour and my face will be forgotten in a day or two, but in this moment, I feel like I’m somebody to King.

  Tugging on his jeans, he pops the button and jerks them down enough to free himself. I watch in utter fascination as he palms his dick. It’s big and thick. I want it in my mouth, but I want it inside of me even more.

  “King,” I whisper, desperate. Desperate for what, I don’t know.

  The corner of his mouth tips up. “Princess,” he growls. “Keep lookin’ at me like that and it might go to my fuckin’ head.” His free hand runs up my leg from my ankle to my thigh, pushing them farther apart.

  He doesn’t ask for permission—he takes what he wants.

  Swallowing roughly, I ask, “How am I lookin’ at you?”

  “Like you want me and only me inside you, forever.” He gives me a cocky grin. His shoulder length hair is messy, his whiskey colored eyes are dangerous and his body rough, yet he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.

  A single word slips from my lips, the one word holding so much weight. “King.”

  One hand on the inside of my thigh, he pushes my legs farther apart and steps in even closer to my body. Running the tip of his massive cock through my wetness, I shiver. He chuckles darkly as I scoot closer to the edge of the bed, needing him inside of me. It’s almost an instinct, my body looking for his—seeking him.

  “Your pussy’s greedy, baby,” he hisses, pushing inside of me slowly, savoring it. “And fuckin’ tight.” His eyes are pinched shut and his full bottom lip is between his teeth. “Jesus, Christ.”

  It’s hurts, but in the best way possible.

  “King,” I whisper, locking my ankles and pulling him into me. I want him to move, to go harder, deeper. To do something.

  “I got you, baby,” he tells me, pulling out of me slowly. “I’ll give you what you want.”

  “Harder,” I pant, urging him on.

  And just like that, slow and soft is gone. The King is unleashed.

  Slamming back into me, King grinds down, hitting my clit just right and tearing through my virginity. The hand on my hip squeezes while the other jerks my shirt up, exposing my boobs. He stops, deep inside of me, and looks me over. “You’re fucking beautiful, Princess,” he says breathlessly, and I believe him. His soulless eyes betray him. He doesn’t want to care, but he does, just the tiniest bit, and it’s the scariest and most heady moment in my life.

  He cares while he’s fucking me, taking the virginity I so easily and willingly offered up to him. He cares until he doesn’t anymore. He cares until he’s pulling out of me and zipping up his jeans. He only cares until he’s done helping me fix my jean shorts and righting my tank. He only cares until he’s done with me, walking away without a single word.

  That’s how I lost my virginity and my sanity.

  And it wouldn’t be the first or last time. King would walk in and out my life over the years, fucking me in more ways than one and walk out. And every time, I promised myself it would be the last.

  Shutting the door behind me, I drag my bloodied hands down the denim on my legs as I lean back against the cool steel, exhaling deeply. It’s been a long goddamn night. Long and messy.

  I’ve been here over twenty-four hours. Longer than I like to stay in any one fucking place.

  From the dark hallway, I can hear the party out in the main room. There’s laughter and cheers, and the bass from some overplayed rap song beating off the walls and floor. Most of the partygoers have their heads shoved so far up their own asses, they don’t know what’s happening just feet away from their awesome party. Self-centered motherfuckers. Not that I need a group of overenthusiastic college whores poking around in my work.

  The bass from the beat drowns out the cries from the weak—exactly how I like it.

  “How’d it go, King?”

  Turning my head slowly, I look at the president of the Lone Wolves, his cut proudly displaying his one percent patch and his name—Arrow. He’s a bad motherfucker I guess. A couple of his cut wearing brothers stand behind him, watching, studying me. They’re all a bunch of fucking pussies.

  I just cock a shoulder, indifferent. “Got your shit,” I tell him, if that’s what he’s askin’ me. That’s why I’m here, to get what he can’t.

  He looks around me at the closed door. “They breathin’?”

  My shoulder just keeps rising. “Think so.” One might be out cold or he might be dead. Either way. “Got what you asked for.”

  Not my job to keep ’em alive. I get the information by any means.

  Running a hand over his bald head, he sighs, then chuckles. “Sometimes you’re too good at your job.”

  “You get what you pay for,” I tell him, holding out a piece of paper, the one with the little blue lines and the blood stains. Fifty grand for a piece of paper. Might’ve handed me his firstborn for this shit, but the fifty is more my style.

  He hands me a fat envelope in exchange.

  “Thanks, man. We really needed this,” he says, the paper shaking in his tattooed hand. He’s scared of me, or at least uneasy. He won’t look me in the eye and he’s keeping his voice light. Fucking pussy. “This’ll help us so fuckin’ much.” This motherfucker is a bitch and not fit to run an MC, that’s for goddamn sure. I only just met the asshole, but his brothers will figure it out soon and they’ll have to decide if they want to follow this idiot into the abyss or buck up and make a change. Either way, not my fucking problem. “We’ve been trying to track down their supplier for years,” he adds, telling me information he should be keeping to himself.

  I just grunt in response, walking down the h
all toward the exit sign, tucking the envelope into my pocket.

  He just keeps talking, telling me shit I could care less about as he follows me. I don’t want your goddamn life story, I don’t even want your fucking name, just tell me my job and then get the fuck out of my way.

  But he just keeps following behind me, yapping. I hate talking, and I especially hate chitchat.

  “Got another job?” he asks, giving a nervous chuckle. “Gonna go bash in some more skulls?” He looks at his brothers who all grin and laugh back at him. They’re not an MC, they’re a frat. “Smashin’ heads and pussies.” He laughs. “That’s the life, man.”

  He thinks he knows me, understands my lifestyle. He’s dead wrong.

  Stopping, I turn to look at the dude. Short and stocky, tattooed, and with about fifty holes in his fucking head full of rings and studs, I figure he’s probably a bad dude in his neck of the woods, but to me he’s jack shit. Nothing but a goddamn roach.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I tell him, done hearing his voice.

  He looks shocked at my words. Maybe it’s because it’s the most he’s heard me speak, or maybe because no one talks to his stupid ass this way around here. But his knee-jerk reaction is to hit me with a comeback or maybe his fist because he jerks back and his hands ball into fists, but he looks up at me and thinks better of it. You hit me and you die.

  He says nothing. He does nothing. And it’s because I’m the motherfucking King. No one swings on me and lives to tell about it.

  Shoving the exit door open, I walk out into the cold night and toward my bike without another word. The only lights in the lot are coming from the signs hanging above my bike—beer signs and The Swing illuminated in neon. Some bullshit club in some bullshit college town. It’s sorority night according to the reader board under the big sign, for half-priced drinks and a costume contest. I could hang out, have a couple beers, and end my night between the creamy thighs of some naïve as fuck college bitch, but I like my pussy earned, not given. At least make a motherfucker work for it. So, I opt for the open road, not open thighs.

  Standing next to my bike, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  Pulling it out, I take a quick look at the screen before answering it, something I don’t usually do. You leave me a message and I may or may not return it. But for the Disciples, I answer. “Danny Boy.”