The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

  He chuckles darkly into the phone. “It’s the motherfuckin’ King.”

  I don’t smile or laugh often, but his words pull at the corners of my mouth. “What do you want?”

  “Got a little situation.”

  “Yeah? Give me a few hours.” Danny doesn’t have to ask and he doesn’t have to lure me in with details. For family, I’ll be there. “See you soon, brother.”

  Pulling off the dark and desolate two-lane mountain highway in the middle of nowhere, I turn into a gravel lot full of bikes. The weathered wood and corrugated metal shack—pretending to be a bar—sits in between miles of evergreens and dense underbrush, the perfect place to lay low and hide out. It’s been about a year and a half, and not much has changed. It’s still a shithole, but it’s the closest thing to a home I’ve got in this fucked up world.

  Parking my bike at the end of the row, I cut the engine and get off. Pulling my gloves from my hands, I toss them on the seat and head toward the big metal front door, the one with the porthole styled window cut into the frame and the wide-eyed prospect staring out of it at me.

  When I’m not more than a few feet away, the door swings open and a tall shadow stands inside of it. “Been a long goddamn time, asshole,” Rock greets me at the door, pulling me into a quick, backslapping hug.

  I nod, shaking off my wet cut when he lets me go. “Been a while,” I acknowledge. I don’t stay in one place long. I’m a fucking nomad in every sense of the word. Always have been, and I figure I always will be.

  “Here,” Rock says, gesturing at my cut, the leather wet and nearly soaked through. “El,” he turns and shouts into the club.

  A little blonde with a lot of hair and big tits waltzes up, frowning. “What?” she barks out, sassy as shit with her hip cocked. The bitch is pretty, but mouthy. Not worth the trouble.

  “Hang this up, yeah?” he tells her, shoving my cut at her.

  She takes it and looks at him, glaring for a solid minute before her frown melts into something like a sly smile. She brushes past him and wraps her arms around my middle, hugging me while ignoring Rocky. “How’s it hangin’, King?” she asks, laughing softly. “Cut your hair and no more of that blond? I like it better this way.”

  Physical affection isn’t my thing, but for Ellison I return the gesture, not interested in offending the sassy little thing. “No more blond. Ya know, undercover shit. But I’ve been good. You doin’ okay? This motherfucker treatin’ you good?” I ask her, looking at Rock over the top of her head.

  El chuckles. “He’s an asshole, but I love him.”

  “Yo,” Rock growls, “I’m right fucking here, woman.”

  “And?” she fires back, walking off with my cut, Rock hot on her heels.

  Relationships, something I don’t fucking understand. Especially not these two. Been weird for years.

  “You want a beer?” Rock gestures toward the bar from over his shoulder as I walk into the room.

  “And a hot meal,” I tell him, claiming a stool next to another asshole grinning at me like he missed me or something.

  Buck, another brother I haven’t seen in a while. “Figured you were dead since we haven’t heard shit from your sorry ass in over a year.” He laughs, taking the beer from the hand of some dark-haired woman I don’t know. “Which wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he adds, looking me over.

  “Fuck you,” I grumble, pulling the plate of piping hot fries from in front of him. “You’d miss me.”

  “’Bout as much as I’d miss herpes.”

  “Herpes to go with your clap,” I add.

  He laughs.

  “Why the fuck is everybody here?” I change the subject, looking around behind me at the crush of people milling around. The goddamn bar is packed, and that shit makes me itchy. Too many goddamn bodies in one space.

  “Yearly charity run.”

  “Fun.”

  “Fuckloads of it,” he deadpans, annoyed. And that is why I’m a nomad. I can do brothers and I can do runs, but the whole goddamn family is too much.

  Eating my fries and drinking my beer, I wait for Dan, the reason I’m here. “Your old lady?” I ask Buck, looking at the bitch he’s staring at all goofy like and shit. Little hippie chick with tats and a long skirt; she’s all flowerchild and shit.

  “Yeah.”

  “Grew a vagina since I’ve been gone, yeah?”

  He frowns, eyes cutting to me. “You’re an asshole. Maybe if you settled down you’d be less of one, yeah?”

  Stuffing a fry in my mouth, I shrug. I’m not going to argue with that. Asshole, born and raised. An old lady is the last goddamn thing I need or want.

  Rock grabs the seat next to me and we bullshit a while, catch up on all the shit I’ve missed while I wait, which doesn’t last long.

  “My office, King,” Dan yells out, standing in the back hall, arms crossed.

  “Well fuckin’ hi to you too,” I grumble, getting off the stool and following him to the back.

  In Dan’s office—an old ass storeroom in the back of the club—I sit across from his ancient beat up desk. The room is fucking drafty and dusty, with piles of boxes in the corner covered in stacks of paper. The asshole needs a secretary or something, the fucking hoarder.

  “You ever throw shit away?” I ask him, eyeing a stack of papers sitting on his desk, about sixty coffee rings all over ’em.

  “You here to help me get organized or talk, asshole?”

  Waving my hand, I urge him on. “Why am I here then, Captain Clean?” I settle back in my seat, which is about as old as this damn bar, and a spring stabs me in the lower back.

  Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, he brings his eyes up to mine, worry in his brow. “Samantha’s got a stalker.”

  I think I fucking heard him wrong. “A what?” I ask him, leaning in, confused.

  “A goddamn stalker.” That surprises the hell out of me. When I’m called to handle business, it’s almost always club business. This shit isn’t my normal. And a stalker? People still do that shit? “Some motherfucker’s been following her, showing up at her work and leaving shit on her car.”

  “And you need me why?”

  “Best tracker I know.” He’s not wrong. I am good as fuck at my job.

  “Does she know him?” Because that’d make this shit a fuck of a lot easier if she did. Some cut and dry shit, quick and easy. But shit with Samantha is never fucking quick and easy. Why would this shit be any different?

  He shakes his head, looking genuinely fucking concerned. “No. She thinks she showed him a house a few months ago, but she doesn’t know him. Hardly knows his face.”

  “Showed him a house?” I don’t know much about the Princess, her job or her life. When I’m with her, I couldn’t care less about anything other than what’s between her thighs. “She in real estate or somethin’?”

  Nodding his head, he sighs, leaning back in his own seat. I can tell this shit is stressing him out. I don’t blame him, but what I don’t understand is, “You haven’t figured out who he is and put him down?” Because the Disciples handle their business ninety-nine percent of the time. They take care of their own, and this shit shouldn’t be any damn different.

  “I don’t think he’s your average motherfucking Joe, or at least he’s not working alone. Can’t find him to put a stop to it, and she only told me five fucking days ago. Not much time to do shit.”

  “Is he MC?” This is taking a fucking twist I didn’t expect.

  “Not sure. Maybe some sorta organized crime. The phone he’s been calling from isn’t just a burner, it’s untraceable. He’s under the fucking radar. Deep under. Or at least whoever he works for is.”

  “Well fuck.” Grabbing my beer from the floor by my feet, I take a hearty pull, thinkin’. This asshole is someone or working for someone who is. Low-level organized crime? Mexican mafia maybe? Some stupid bullshit.

  “Has he hurt her?” The idea makes me fucking mad. He better pray that this is a romantic kind of stalking and not a vi
olent one, or when I catch him, it’s gonna be fucking painful.

  “No, but she’s scared. He’s gettin’ a little more interested.”

  “Yeah.” I don’t like that shit. The idea of her being scared of anything makes me even fucking madder. “How much more interested?”

  “He’s been showin’ up more, gettin’ ballsy.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me anymore. I’ll get the job done. “I’ll handle it.”

  He nods, looking relieved. “Good. Knew you would.”

  “Does she know I’m here?”

  “No.”

  Even better. “Good. Let’s keep it that way for a bit.”

  I should’ve just stayed home.

  “Another shot,” Lil insists. It’s not a question. She knows I’m going to take it. I’m a sucker.

  At the club, the last place I need to be, I’m drinking because what the hell else would I be doing here? I drink because I have zero self-control, nor do I have much self-respect anymore. I’m spying. My morbid curiosity piqued and my martyr complex flared up. I came the second Lil’s text came through. ‘We’re at the club and Tags is here with us.’ I left work early and everything. I hopped in my car, my prospect bodyguard hot on my heels, and hauled ass here.

  Stupid, Samantha.

  Grabbing the offered glass, I down the amber liquid in one quick swallow and slam the shot glass down on the bar top. Gin smacks me on the back as I cough, the burn stinging the back of my throat. My eyes water and my chest aches. “Good girl.” He applauds me, laughing as he sits down next to me. He’s the worst influence. If he were a sobriety buddy, we’d both be off the wagon.

  I promised myself I wouldn’t drink as soon as I got here. After my first drink, I told myself no more. I’m four shots in now, and there’s no stopping me once I get going. There was no going back once I saw Tags here, happy and in love, with someone else. I should’ve known better. I should’ve never come here.

  I fucking hate him and I shouldn’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was the one who ended my two and a half year on-again, off-again thing with him. I was the one who told him he no longer did it for me. I told him to lose my number. So why does it fucking hurt to see him hugged up on some dark-haired chick with a nice rack and curvy ass? The only reason I can surmise? I’ve got fucking issues. I don’t want him, but no one else can have him. Makes sense, right?

  Jesus. I’m a mess.

  “Another shot,” Lil says, putting a small shooter in my hand. “You need it.” Her eyes dart to where mine linger.

  “I need a long nap and a big dick,” I mutter, dipping my finger into the thick brown liquid and popping it into my mouth. I feel stupid for even caring. I’m so over him. Have been for a while, but still …

  She laughs. “We all do, honey.”

  “Need a nap or a big dick?” One or the other would be nice.

  “Both. Preferably at the same time,” Peaches adds, a shit-eating grin on her face. Gin grabs her, pulls her onto his lap and grinds against her ass, which makes me both nauseous and jealous. I wonder what the sex between those two is like? My guess? Rough.

  Everyone’s here—my Washington and my Oregon family—for some giant Disciples meet up over something I couldn’t care less about. I should care, it affects me in a roundabout way, but I don’t. Not right now anyway. I only care about my drink.

  Lilly and I drink while I repeatedly glance at Tags and his bitch at the other end of the room. The way his arm is draped over her shoulder, her body pulled into his. How she laughs at his jokes and smiles as he talks. When he kisses her neck, I’ve had enough.

  Finishing my sixth shot, I slide the glass down the bar and get up. Walking off, drunk and uncoordinated, I leave the bunch to their drinking with a wave of my hand. “I’ll see ya later.”

  I’ve had all I can take.

  Stumbling around like a newborn deer on my six-inch heels, I bump into Buck on my way by.

  “Okay?” he asks, steadying me. He smells like cologne and gasoline. His hands are big and his beard is bushy. The guy is a true mountain man in every sense of the word, and I don’t like him much right now either. He’s a traitor, being friends with Tags.

  “Fine,” I grumble. Irritated, I brush his hands off my arms. He means well, but… “I’m good.”

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me, why I feel so angry. I want to punch Tags in his stupid face. I want to drop kick him across the room and boot him in the nuts. And before I know what I’m doing, I’m heading toward him, a smirk on my lips. I don’t even know what the smirk is for or about. I have nothing to be happy about. No reason to smile. I blame the bravado on the booze.

  “Tags,” I growl, shoulder checking him on my way by. Even though I don’t want him, I don’t want him with someone else. The asshole didn’t have to run out and fall dick first into the first willing vagina he stumbled across. The nasty bastard.

  I grumble, “asshole,” as I walk off.

  “Jesus, Sam,” he growls, grabbing my wrist. “What’s your problem?”

  I snort. “Oh, I don’t know.” I look at the bimbo on his arm, sizing her up. “Maybe how quickly you moved on.”

  “You told me to kick rocks, remember?” Oh, I remember.

  “I did, and I really don’t care what you or your dick do, but don’t bring it here and rub it in my face.”

  His grip on my arm tightens. “Don’t do this shit. Don’t act wounded.”

  Jerking away, I make a noise in the back of my throat. A noise that resembles a disbelieving snort and a gag of resentment. “Fuck you, Tags,” I say as parting words, only feeling the tiniest bit better. His balls in my back pocket would make me feel even better.

  The only thing about the guy I like is his daughter.

  Stumbling down the long hall at the back of the club, I damn near fall through my Dad’s office door. It’s long since been established that I might walk in on any sort of mayhem and debauchery at any given time. I’ve grown accustomed to it, but what I walk in on stops me in my uncoordinated tracks.

  I feel like I’ve walked into a wall, my breath knocked out of my lungs.

  Fuck.

  “King?” My voice falters, his name like a razorblade on my tongue—sharp and painful.

  Kingston “King” Toretto looks at me, his face giving nothing away. Blank. Emotionless. Ruthless. There’s that cold, detached look in his eyes that I’m used to when he greets me with “Princess” in return. It’s the only way I know he knows me, recognizes me, by the name that leaves his firmly pressed lips.

  I say nothing. I do nothing. I can hardly breathe.

  Sitting across from my dad, legs wide and arms crossed over his chest, he doesn’t utter another word, but he stares hard. His eyes linger on my mouth, watching me lick my suddenly dry lips. He doesn’t ask me how I’ve been or what I’ve been up to. I suspect he doesn’t care because King cares about nothing. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way, over and over again.

  He doesn’t look the same. His shoulder-length hair is gone and is now cut short, almost buzzed. He’s also got a messy beard.

  I think I hate the man sitting in front of me more than I hate Tags.

  “Samantha?” my dad barks, garnering my attention. “Why you hangin’ off my door like a drunk fuckin’ monkey?”

  “I’m leaving,” I tell him, hand flapping around. “Call you in the morning.”

  Cocking a brow, he leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “Where’s your brother?” I know where this is going, and as much as I love my dad and brothers, their overprotective need to micromanage everything I do is fucking annoying. My dad and T are always in my business here, and Trace always in it from afar. I’m a big girl. Well, most of the time anyway. Stalker or not, I need to get the fuck out of this club as soon as possible. I’ll gladly take the prospect with me if I don’t have to look at Tags or King.

  Shrugging, I lean myself against the doorjamb, needing the support. “Don’t know. But I’ll talk to
you later.”

  I turn to leave.

  “Since your brother’s doing fuck knows what, I’ll get you a ride back to your place.”

  Nope. Not gonna happen.

  Looking from me to King, my dad nods. “We done here?”

  King jerks his chin in acknowledgment, with something secret passing between them. Something that doesn’t sit well with me.

  “I’m good,” I tell them both, not interested in being around King. My heart can’t take the pain. King makes me feel more than Tags ever did, and I can’t take that shit right now. It’ll crush me.

  Turning on my heels, I march out of the room and down the hall. “Samantha, bring your ass back here,” my dad hollers at my retreating back.

  “I’m good.” I toss a thumb up above my head, still walking toward the door, a drunken stagger to my steps.

  “Knock your shit off,” my dad growls, his voice tired. “Take her home, King.”

  “Nope. I’m solid,” I advise, still walking. I’m through the side door and halfway across the wet gravel lot before King catches up to me.

  He doesn’t run. He doesn’t sprint. He doesn’t chase. But he catches me. He catches me quickly and efficiently.

  “Let’s go.” Grabbing my arm, he jerks me in the opposite direction my feet are going and I stumble back into him, my side connecting with solid chest and stomach. “On the back of my bike, Princess.” He steers me toward the large matte black Harley at the end of the row of bikes.

  If he thinks I’m going willingly then he’s lost his fucking mind.

  I want nothing to do with him.

  “No.”

  I don’t put up with much. My fuse is short and my tolerance for bullshit is nil. Standing in the middle of the parking lot, in the rain, isn’t going to last long. She either gets on my damn bike herself or I’ll fucking put her on it. I’m good with either.

  Grabbing her arm, I pull her toward me, not letting her go. “Not gonna tell you again, Princess,” I tell her, my voice even. We’re not playing her games tonight.