The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what happened, but I follow King without a fight. I don’t ask where or why. I just go, trusting him when I probably shouldn’t.

  Stopping outside of a small shed, King looks at me, and it’s then I notice blood on his shirt and his arm. “That’s not your blood, is it?” It’s not really a question, because I know the answer.

  “You gonna be brave for me, baby?” His eyes narrow, watching for weakness. The man is a predator—he can smell fear.

  Taking a deep breath, the air damp and mossy, I nod, exhaling into the cold night air. I can see my breath. “Yes.”

  Throwing open the door and standing to the side, King nods me in. “You recognize him?” he asks, watching me watch the man.

  Bloody. So bloody and bruised, some man in a chair groans, trying to lift his head to look at me. Instantly, I recognize his face.

  My stomach starts to twist, hurting. “I showed him and his boss a house a few months ago.” Things start to click, everything falling into place. “He’d been calling for weeks trying to book a showing with me.” I’d brushed him off, not liking the sound of his voice and the way he pushed, so I tried to give him to my coworker Dave, but he’d insisted, and my boss agreed. Anything for a sale. “He kept calling.” My voice starts to rise, franticly. “Your boss just kept calling!” I shout at the man, mad. “I finally told him no, I couldn’t help him, and a few weeks later, this shit started!” I scream, throwing my phone at him.

  I try to advance, but King catches me, wrapping his arms around my middle. “Let me go.” I fight. I don’t even know what I’m going to do, but I’m mad, so mad. Sick and tired of living in fear, always looking over my shoulder, and this asshole and his boss are the reason. I want to kill him and his boss.

  King carries me out of the shed and around the corner as I fight to be put down. “Set me down, King.”

  “Not settin’ you down, baby.”

  “That asshole,” I choke on a sob, my emotions finally spilling out. Everything that’s been pent-up starts breaking free. “He’s the reason I’ve been stuck in my house and at the club, scared.”

  “I know,” he whispers, pinning me against the shed wall. “I fucking know. You want him dead, baby, I’ll kill him. You’re not gonna do it.”

  It might be cold and it might seem ruthless, but this is my life. “Kill him, King.” I can’t live my life with someone out there watching me, waiting to get me. I can’t. “Kill him now.”

  Kissing my lips, he smirks. “Yeah.”

  Standing outside of the shed, my back against the rough wood, I hold my breath, my fingers in my ears as I wait.

  In the doorway, a foot away from me, King pulls a gun from the waist of jeans. He lifts it, cocks it, and fires it.

  I jerk, the noise still penetrating my plugged ears. I can feel the bullet, feel the shot.

  “Done,” he tells me, stuffing the gun back in his waistband and pulling my hands away from my head. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever you wanna go.”

  “Home.”

  Taking my hand, he agrees. “Then we go home.”

  Sam’s on me, her head on my chest and her leg twisted around mine like a fucking anaconda. Couldn’t move her if I fucking tried. “You okay?” I ask her, tugging on a strand of her blonde hair, already knowing the answer to the question but asking it anyway.

  It’s raining sideways, hitting the house like a fucking hurricane. The wind’s howling, trees are swaying, and she’s clinging to me, holding on tight, refusing to let me go. I’m okay with it.

  She nods her head, her cheek rubbing against the skin on my chest. “I think so.”

  Think so? I call bullshit. Her voice gives her away—hesitant, distant. “Don’t think I believe that shit.”

  Scoffing, she sits up and gives me a sassy look down her nose, hiding her uncertainty. “You don’t believe me?” The princess is gearing up for a fight. Even with a wobble in her voice, she’s down for a go with me. The bitch is nuts.

  Fuck no, I don’t believe her. Seeing a bloodied and beat guy, even for the toughest female, can’t be easy. As much as she wanted that fucker dead and buried, I know that shit bothered her. I know she’s seen a lot, know damn well she’s a tough bitch, but I don’t believe for a second that tonight didn’t shake her up a little.

  “No. I know you’re tough as hell, but also know tonight didn’t sit well.”

  She rolls her eyes, leaning back against her headboard. “I mean, I didn’t enjoy it,” she huffs, staring at her nails, picking at the polish.

  “No shit.”

  I watch her. Watch the way she takes deep breaths, steadying herself. She’s beautiful, and broken.

  “I just feel bad,” she tells me, finally looking back at me. “What if he had a family? I don’t care about him, but I care about the people that might’ve cared about him.” She traces the tattoo on my arm, the one I threw over her lap now that she’s sitting and not laying damn near on top of me anymore.

  “Can’t think like that.” You can’t care. Can’t think too much about shit like this. In this life, caring will get you killed. Vulnerability is sign of weakness, and weakness won’t get you very far. If I cared about every motherfucker I dealt with or ran across, I would’ve ended up in jail or buried in Buck’s back yard years ago. I don’t give a fuck, and it’s not just because I don’t have much to care about, it’s because I’d rather survive than care.

  “I can’t help it. Don’t you think about?”

  She’s fishin’, wanting to know more about me and the shit I do. “Think about what?” I ask, wanting to hear where her heads at, what she’s thinking.

  “The people you take care of.” Take care of? Makes me sound like a goddamn fifties gangster or something. I suppress a laugh.

  “The only people I think about are lyin’ in this fucking bed and wearin’ a Disciples patch.” And that’s the truth. Couldn’t give a fuck less about anyone outside of this room or one of the Disciple clubs. Like I said, caring is for the weak.

  Sam smirks, her face changing, morphing into something a little more blissed out. “You thinkin’ about me?” she teases, leaning down and kissing my lips. She tastes sweet, something like strawberry.

  “Not often,” I joke, grabbing her around the back of her neck and keeping those soft lips on mine. Jesus, I could devour the bitch.

  Honestly, I think about her more than I’d fucking like to. Think about her more than it’s healthy, that’s for goddamn sure.

  “Not often?” She pouts. “You’re cold-hearted,” she accuses, pulling those plump fucking lips away from mine, and that’s got me growling.

  “Honest,” I correct her. The princess doesn’t like my answer, even though I’m lying through my fucking teeth because she pulls away, frowning at me.

  “Too honest,” she snaps back.

  “Want me to tell you I think about you every day? Every fucking second of those days?”

  Now she’s rolling her eyes, scooting her lace covered ass away from me. “No, but you don’t have to be so blunt.”

  Blunt is who I am. I’m a dick. A cold-hearted asshole. I am who I fucking am, and I make no bones about it. She knows it. “Want me to lie to you?” I ask her instead. I can lie to her if she’d rather, tell her all the shit she wants to hear, true or not.

  “No.” She’s mad at me, sitting halfway across the bed in her little bra and panty set, arms crossed, poutin’. Difficult little shit. Beautiful, but difficult.

  “You know goddamn well I think about you. I fucking must if I keep coming back here to see you.”

  That makes her smile, the crazy woman. The bitch is beautiful when she smiles. Looks like a goddamn model. Long legs, nice tits, tan, smooth skin and perfect face, she knows she’s everything. She’s more than I fucking deserve, but she’s self-centered and fucking mouthy, and that shit just makes me like her even more. Don’t know what that says about me, but I couldn’t give
a fuck less.

  “You’re the hardest man in the world to read.”

  “Good,” I tell her, getting out of bed and grabbing her ass from the opposite side. “Now get your ass back in the bed.”

  Sam laughs, hitting the bed with a bounce. “How did this go from working through my night to arguing over how much you think about me?”

  “Fuck if I know. The ins and outs of your female mind aren’t my thing. I’m good with your body, but your mind eludes me, baby,” I tell her, crawling between her thick thighs. “I’m done talkin’.”

  She sighs, her eyes closing when I peel her panties down her legs and bury my face in her cunt. “I wanna fuck you, baby. Fuck you and get some sleep.”

  Licking her pussy, she nods, agreeing. “Okay.”

  “Good.” The princess’s pussy and sleep, two of my favorite goddamn things.

  “I have to go to work,” I tell King, untangling myself from him. Or at least trying to untangle myself from him. He’s got a strong hold of me, with a hand snaked up my back and tangled in my hair, holding my head to his chest. His knee’s wedged between my thighs. “Don’t make me fight you off.” I laugh, wiggling away, trying to free myself.

  With his free hand, he grabs my ass cheek and squeezes, jerking my hips into his. “Like to see you try to fight me off.”

  “I’m going to be late,” I moan, enjoying the friction he’s creating between us. The man is bad. The worst.

  He spent hours inside of me last night, so you would think he’d be satisfied, but he’s not. King wants more of me.

  “Good. Once you’re late, there’s no point in goin’, yeah?” Impossible.

  I sigh, laughing softly. “Seriously, King, I can’t stay holed up in this house with you.”

  He smirks. “You can’t?” He’s challenging me.

  “If I suck your dick, will you let me go?” I ask, laughing when he laughs, his body shaking.

  “You put my cock in your mouth, we’re never getting out of here.”

  Leaning up and back, King leans against the headboard, taking me with him, one leg on each side of his hips. “So, go ahead, baby. Put my dick in your mouth.”

  “I really do have to work today.” He thrusts against me, teasing. Bouncing me.

  “Work my cock,” he smirks, and it’s epic. Crooked and soft. Almost friendly. It’s an expression I don’t see often from the guy.

  “You’re impossible.”

  Wrapping a handful of hair around his hand, King tips my head back and kisses me roughly. Passionately. Possessively. His lips claiming mine, owning me. I melt.

  “That’s comical comin’ from the queen of impossible,” he teases against my mouth. “You taste like strawberries,” he growls against my lips.

  “Is it good?” I ask, licking his bottom lip.

  He grabs my ass, squeezing tightly. “You always taste good.”

  Hand full of ass, King jerks me closer, grinding me against his cock. “You’re a tease,” I moan.

  Chuckling, he sucks on my bottom lip, biting down softly. “You want some dick, baby?”

  “Tongue, and then dick.” I won’t lie, I want both. His tongue is magic. His dick is magic.

  And he delivers, hard and rough. I get tongue and then dick, and it’s perfect.

  Leaning back against the doorframe in my bathroom, King watches me put on my makeup and fix my hair. “This gonna take long?” he asks me, looking at the mascara wand in my hand, a brow tipped up in question.

  Jesus, he’s good looking. No shirt. No shoes. Just a pair of faded blue jeans, some skin, muscles, and a lot of tattoos. Perfect hardness.

  “Depends how many times you interrupt me,” I answer, pointing the wand at him, but staring at his chest.

  He shakes his head as he pushes himself off the wall, walking up to my bathroom counter. “What the hell is all this shit?” He flicks my bronzer compact. My eyes leave his body and look at the twenty-five-dollar bronzer he’s about to chuck to the floor.

  “Makeup,” I deadpan, blinking slowly while scooting the compact away from his offending hand.

  “No shit, smartass,” he chuckles, smacking my ass and winking. Swoon. He just winked and God, it was sexy.

  “It all for your face?”

  I laugh. “Well I don’t wear it on my body.”

  “Know that shit, baby, but all this crap,” he says, motioning at the counter full of product, “you use daily?” King looks shocked. Maybe a little disgusted.

  I’m feeling slightly judged.

  Looking at him through the mirror, watching him thumb through my stuff, I shrug. “Yeah.” Not getting where he’s going with this conversation other than he’s about to tell me I have too much of it, which I know. I spend about as much a month on makeup as I do on food, and I love food. It’s an addiction. A problem. It’s also none of his business.

  “You don’t need this shit on your face,” he informs me sternly, tugging on my ponytail.

  “Is this the ‘you’re too pretty to need makeup’ speech?” I tease, now knowing exactly where he’s going with this conversation.

  I don’t wear makeup because I feel ugly or think my face is lacking. I wear makeup because I love it. It’s a passion. It’s a hobby. I enjoy trying out new products and new looks. Makeup and hair are my thing.

  “That, and you could probably put your future kids through college with what I’m sure your ass spends on this shit.”

  “Are you judging me?”

  “Fuck yeah I am.”

  “I like makeup.”

  “I like you naked,” he counters, tugging at the cup of my bra.

  “You’re impossible.” I push his hand away, grumbling. The guy is a fucking pain in the ass.

  King chuckles, kissing me. “Put that shit on you face, baby, then I’m takin’ you to work. The prospect will be with you.” I nod, hearing him. “You keep your ass at work until I come get you, yeah?”

  Rolling my eyes, I just keep nodding. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Where’s my sister?” Is the first thing out of T’s goddamn mouth when I open the door at the club after dropping Samantha off at work.

  Jesus. “Uh, I think I left her at a grocery store,” I deadpan, walking into his room out back and shutting the door behind me.

  Opening his mouth to say something, I cut him off. “At fucking work. Calm the fuck down, yeah. She’s good.” He may not know the shit that happens between me and his sister, but he knows goddamn well I wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Even if I wasn’t fucking her, I’d give my life to keep her safe.

  “Good.”

  There’s some naked blonde bitch passed out on his bed, on her stomach, spread eagle. I swear to fuck, I see some internal organs the way the bitch lets her legs drop open, her loose cunt on full display.

  “You fuck that bitch?” I ask him, kicking the leg of the bed.

  T chuckles, looking down at his friend, with a bit of disgust on his face. “Can’t remember.”

  “Hope you wrapped your shit. The bitch looks like she’s carryin’ around a little extra baggage.”

  “Always, man.”

  Grabbing the bitch’s foot, he shakes it. “Yo, sweetheart, wake the fuck up.”

  She groans, rolling over, and I get an eyeful of a used and abused body. Bitch has been rode hard and put away wet. Christ. “Up!” he shouts, slapping her thigh. “Get the fuck outta here.”

  It takes her a second, but she gets up and staggers toward the door, still naked. “See you later?” she asks him, hanging off the door, smiling. There’s makeup all over her face, lipstick on her snaggled teeth.

  Looking at her, I thank my lucky stars the princess is the bitch I’m fucking and not this whore. Samantha’s a goddamn dream compared to this chick. I’m the luckiest asshole alive.

  T doesn’t answer her, just tosses a tiny piece of dress at her, telling her, “Just get the fuck outta here,” as she frowns at him.

  “Fuck you.”

&n
bsp; “Pass.”

  She grumbles something before storming through the door, slamming it behind her.

  “Later, bitch,” he shouts at the door, laughing.

  I don’t know how T does it. Finds the craziest, nastiest bitch at the party and brings her home. Sick fucker.

  “You done?” I ask, grabbing a chair from the small dinette and sitting down, ready to get down to business.

  Pulling on a tee, he nods. “Yep.”

  “The flowers came from Blooms, a town over. Tapped their security camera.”

  Fingers steepled and head nodding, he’s not telling me shit I don’t already know. As much as I appreciate the help, this is all shit I’ve covered. “The fat fucker we had in the shed two nights ago walks in, spends about ten minutes in there ordering and leaves, right?”

  Tyler narrows his eyes. “Why you wastin’ my time then if you know this shit already?”

  “You see him pay with a credit card?” I toss back, arms crossed, staring at the laptop screen on the table in front of us.

  “Yeah?” he answers slowly, the lightbulb striking. “You want me to hack their credit card transactions?” he asks, but he’s already on it.

  “I would, but that technology isn’t my shit. I’m good at old-school trackin’, not this internet shit.”

  “Could take a bit.”

  “Fine. Just want it done.”

  The name the fat fucker gave us provided nothing. Either made up or some sort of nickname, so the digging on the name was all for fucking nothing because I’m back to square fucking one.

  T grabs the computer and starts banging on the keyboard, blowing through websites and shit. “I’m gonna assume you saw the car in the background, through the store window?” he asks, staring at the screen.

  “Dark color. Some old four-door piece of shit.” It was black and white, grainy, so make and model weren’t decipherable, but also not that damn important. Could be the one the prospect saw outside of Samantha’s place the other night. His name is what’s important. Finding this motherfucker is what’s important.

  He nods. “That’d be the one.”