The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

  He bleeds out, strung up like the fucking pig he is.

  “Call Dan and get a prospect in here to clean up the mess,” I holler at Poncho, cutting the dead motherfucker down and letting him fall to the floor.

  It takes Dan five minutes before he’s walking, head shaking. “The fuck happened here?”

  “Mexican Mob, the fuckers followin’ Samantha.”

  He eyes go wide, looking between me and the body on the floor. “Mexican Mob? Like the motherfuckers we had a gun deal with? Same deal that fell through when our shit went missin’?”

  “One in the same, brother.”

  His face says it all. He’s fucking shocked. Shocked and livid.

  “So we goin’ to war?” I ask, looking around. Not everyone’s here, but there’s enough of us to make a decision.

  “Not yet,” Dan says, kicking at the dude on the ground, rolling him over. “We wait until after the rally. We can’t afford war right before a charity run.”

  “Fine. But once it’s over, they’re over. They’re all fucking dead.” Even if I have to kill each one of them myself with my goddamn hands.

  “Agreed.”

  “Yo, King?” Poncho shouts, walking into the bay. “Got an issue.” He doesn’t have to tell me. I know who the issue is.

  “Samantha.”

  “Talked the prospect into the taking her home.”

  For fuck’s sake. Should’ve known. “Clean this shit up. I’m outta here.”

  King doesn’t knock, he just walks in. I’ve been home twenty minutes and I knew it wouldn’t take long before King was right behind me.

  “Thought I told you to stay at Buck’s.”

  “I got bored.”

  He shakes his head.

  Getting off the couch, I walk toward him. “You brought me food?” I ask, noting what’s in his hand.

  “Chinese,” he corrects, holding out the white plastic bag.

  His face is blank and serious. He’s mad at me, but not that mad. I’m cautious.

  “You brought me Chinese,” I amend, looking at his face, then looking at the bag. I’m a little surprised. “You’re not mad at me?”

  He gives me a look, dark and dangerous. “Oh, I’m mad.”

  “How mad.”

  “Mad mad.” He growls, eyes narrowed on me.

  Walking around me and into the kitchen, I watch King set down the bag and dig through it. Pulling out the goods and putting them on the counter, there’s at least nine white to-go boxes. It smells heavenly. Spicy. Tangy. Sweet. Garlicy. My mouth waters, and it’s not just because the food smells like heaven. It’s the man holding the bag and boxes.

  “But you bought me Chinese?” I repeat, walking up next to him and peeking inside one of the boxes. Noodles, my kryptonite. A second on the lips ends up a lifetime on the hips and all that bullshit.

  “You don’t like it?” he asks, stopping his task and looking at me, his eyebrow raised, waiting for a response.

  “I like it.”

  “Good.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  He shakes his head. “Because dinner was fucked earlier. Figured you were hungry. So?”

  “So?”

  “You hungry?”

  Nodding, I open another box. House fried rice. Special house fried rice. The rice I order every time I get Chinese. Specifically, the Chinese from Ocean Kingdom. “How’d you know?” I ask him, tearing my chopsticks from their paper pouch and digging into the steaming deliciousness.

  King just shrugs, smirking. “Good guess.”

  “A really good guess.”

  I grab the rice. Whether it’s for me or not is unimportant because I’m eating it. I walk into the living room. “Floor picnic.”

  “The fuck’s a floor picnic?”

  “A picnic on the floor,” I tell him slowly, laughing at his frown. “You know, you eat on the floor.”

  “Could eat at the table or the island. Hell, even the fucking couch. But the floor?”

  “We’re eatin’ on the floor.”

  “I guess we’re eatin’ on the floor,” he grumbles, grabbing the boxes and sitting down next to me. He doesn’t look happy about it.

  Backs leaning against the couch, we dig in, swapping boxes and stuffing our faces. King flips on the TV and finds a movie, some horror flick. Gruesome and bloody.

  “How’d you know about the fried rice?” I ask him when the man on the TV slices the other with a giant knife.

  King looks odd sitting on the floor. Big and bulking, he makes my couch look little. He makes everything look little.

  Wearing a pair of old blue jeans and gray T-shirt, he’s very much the man’s man he’s always been. But his scary badassness has nothing to do with his clothes and everything to do with his attitude, his size, and the look on his hard face. King’s a scary man, and here he is, having a floor picnic with me.

  “Heard you talkin’ about how good it was while you were eatin’ it a while back.”

  His words shock me. King, the man’s man. The asshole in leather. The tattooed, bike riding crazy man. The love ’em and leave ’em man. The angry man. That man that remembered something I ate and liked a while ago. A while ago being over a year, since before this time I hadn’t seen him in a long time.

  He remembered.

  “Yeah?” I ask, looking at it out of the corner of my eye.

  “Yeah, about three years ago. Your hair was different. Darker. You were sittin’ at the bar with El, eatin’ and talkin’. Heard you say it was your favorite.”

  “And you remembered?” I’m touched. Shocked, but touched. He remembered. He listened and he remembered the food I ate and liked. Remembered my damn hair color. Utterly fucking shocked.

  He lifts that big, tattooed shoulder.

  “You think about me,” I tease, leaning into him.

  “Always tryin’ to get me to tell you how much I think about you, yeah?”

  I might be. “Maybe.”

  King just shakes his head and reaches for his phone when it rings. “Yeah,” he answers, getting off the floor and pacing toward the kitchen. “Okay,” I hear him say. “No shit,” he adds, looking back over at me, his eyes narrowed.

  Uh-oh.

  “Thanks, brother.” He ends his call and walks into the living room. He doesn’t look happy.

  “No girl’s night.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No girl’s night. Not after yesterday.”

  Our floor picnic ruined, I get up, leaving the food on the floor, and head toward my stairs.

  “I’m going.”

  “You’re not goin’.” I sound like some asshole lording over his property, but with the way shit’s going, it has to be this way. I don’t like it. The princess sure the fuck doesn’t like it. But this is reality.

  Someone’s out there, looking for her. Lusting after her. Stalking her. And I’ll be damned if something happens to her while I’m around. So, she’s staying because I’m not going to girl’s night and she’s not going without me.

  We’ve been doing this back and forth for about an hour now. Chinese food cold and forgotten on the floor in the living room, we’re now having it out upstairs.

  Standing in her room, hair wet from her shower, she’s in nothing but a lacy bodysuit thing. Cut low in the front and high on her hips, the princess is sexy as fuck and she knows it. Not hiding from my stare, she glares back at me.

  “It’s drinks with the girls.”

  I don’t give a fuck what it is. “It’s not happenin’.”

  Samantha huffs, pulling her hair over her shoulder and toweling off the ends, pretty much telling me she’s going without saying it. “Grab my brush from the bathroom?” she asks me, her eyebrow tipped.

  “You’re not goin’,” I tell her, grabbing her fucking hairbrush because I’m a goddamn sucker.

  I come back into the room and she’s bent over, her lacy thong showing off an ass I’d love to eat, putting lotion or som
e shit on her long ass legs. The bitch is playing games.

  “You can keep gettin’ ready, baby, but you’re not leavin’ this house.”

  “Come with.”

  “To girl’s night?” She’s lost her fucking mind if she thinks I’m going out with her and the females in this club.

  “We’re having drinks.”

  “Not havin’ drinks. Not goin’ to girl’s night.”

  The princess rolls her eyes, looking at me upside down from next to her leg. “I’m getting dressed. I’m going.”

  I watch her stand up slowly, still looking at me, challenge in her blue eyes.

  We’ve never done this shit. We’d spend a day or two together, fucking each other’s brain’s out and not much else, and I knew goddamn well the princess was a challenge from the day I met her, but this shit’s a whole new level of challenging.

  “I’ll be careful,” she tells me in way of a fucking compromise. Batting her eyelashes and smiling at me, the bitch is trying to play me, and in any other fucking instance, it’d work. Half naked and looking at me like that, I’d agree to almost fucking anything when it comes to her, but on this shit, I’m not bending.

  “You’ll be careful, huh?” I ask her, walking up to her and hooking a finger in the lace that dips down low between her tits.

  “Seriously, King, I’m going. All the girls are expecting me.” She steps away from me and grabs her hairbrush. “It’s a weekly thing.”

  “Not this week.”

  She runs her brush through her hair and laughs. “You’re here to help keep me safe and find my stalker, but I can’t stay inside of this house or next to you every second of every day.”

  “The fuck you can’t.”

  “King.”

  “Princess.”

  “I’ll take the gun you got me.” We’re on to the bargaining portion of our fucking evening.

  I chuckle, enjoying this game she’s not gonna win. “Will ya?”

  “Or I could just shoot you with it and go,” she states, giving me a wry look.

  “No,” I tell her, kissing her shoulder, tasting her skin.

  “Please, King,” she pleads softly, her head falling to the side. “I want to go. I need to go.”

  The biggest fucking asshole in the world and I cave for this girl. She says please and here I am, agreeing. “A couple drinks at the club.”

  “Is this you bending.” she asks, running her fingers along the waist of my jeans.

  “This is me givin’ you what you want because I’m a fuckin’ sucker.”

  She smiles, her hand dipping inside, finding me painfully hard.

  “Don’t get used to it,” I tell her, pulling her hand free from my jeans and turning her around. “We do this shit my way.”

  She nods, agreeing. “Your way.”

  “On the bed and on your stomach.” She obeys, leaning on the bed, ass in the air.

  Getting a good long look, I run my hand over her plump fat ass, appreciating her soft, smooth skin. “You move, I stop.”

  She nods, not saying a word.

  Pulling her panties to the side, I slip a hand between her thighs and a finger between her folds. She’s soaking fucking wet and my cock gets harder, pushing against my fly.

  Teasing her a bit, running my finger through her slickness, she moans, pushing her ass back against my hand. “Hold still,” I tell her, slapping her ass with my other hand.

  “Jesus, King,” she groans, head on her hands and her hands on the bed, gripping the comforter, holding on tight.

  The bitch is a sight. In some tight lace bodysuit deal, she’s sexy as fuck with her ass in the air for me. Mouthwateringly sexy.

  “You gonna be good while you’re drinkin’?” I ask her, shoving two fingers into her cunt, thrusting in and out.

  “Yes.” She pushes back against my hand, wanting more.

  My fingers are wet. Her thighs are wet. She’s a mess, and I fucking love it.

  “You gonna listen to me when I tell you something?” I tease. She nods, moaning deep. “Good,” I tell her, working her to the edge and pulling my fingers out of her pussy.

  She gasps. “What the fuck?”

  “Be good tonight and we’ll finish this later.”

  Growling, she stands up, fixing her panties. Glaring at me, she stomps off into the bathroom, muttering “Asshole” as she goes.

  “Goddamn right, and this asshole’s in charge.”

  I won. Kind of.

  At the club, sitting at the bar, we drink, having our girl’s night out at the club. It’s my least favorite place for girl’s night, but at least we’re getting our night.

  “Do you love him?” El asks me, glancing at King and then at me, watching us exchange looks. That question’s like a bomb, explosive and deadly. A landmine I overstep and steer clear of at all costs.

  I look over at King again and he looks at me, nothing on his face. Nothing gives him away.

  I look away.

  Shrugging a shoulder, I sip my drink, hiding my expression.

  El looks at me, a thoughtful gleam in her eyes. “I’ve known you a long time, and it seems your cold and unfriendly heart may have finally fallen in love.”

  I don’t know if what I feel for King is love. It’s something like love—something a little more, something a little less. But I’m not sure it’s love.

  “Cold and unfriendly?” I laugh, avoiding the heart of the topic. Avoiding my feelings.

  “You’re like the ice princess ninety percent of the time.” Not one to mince words or beat around the bush, I appreciate El’s honestly, but also kinda hate her for it sometimes.

  “I love my family,” I point out helpfully, knowing damn well she isn’t wrong, though. I’m not the easiest. Never have been. My love is hard won, even I know it.

  “Not what I mean.”

  “You’re callin’ me jaded, aren’t you?”

  It’s her turn to shrug. “If the shoe fits.”

  Do I love King? I love the things he does to my body. Love the way my heart races when he steps into the same room. Love the way he consumes me. Love the way he touches me. What I don’t love? His cold stare. His indifference. His heartlessness. His inability to stay.

  “I don’t love King,” I tell her, conviction lacking in my voice.

  Ellison gives me a pointed, unbelieving look. “Okay.”

  Looking over at King again, some dark-haired club whore leaning on him, I tell myself I don’t love him, not even a little bit.

  “I need a smoke,” I mutter, getting up and looking away from King, hiding my feelings.

  “You gonna be okay?” El asks, trying to grab my arm and steady me, but instead, she just leans into my side, stumbling herself when I get up from my stool.

  “Good.”

  “You don’t smoke,” Lennon tells me, giving me a weird look from her seat.

  “I do when I’m drunk.” It’s gross and unladylike. It smells awful and tastes worse, but occasionally, I do it anyway because I have issues.

  Walking through the club, around bodies, I make my way outside through the back door, snagging my purse from my dad’s office on the way out.

  Outside in the frigid darkness, I stumble, my hip brushing against the dirty metal siding. “Shit,” I breathe, wiping at my white mini dress. Fucking dirty club.

  I fumble with my bag but manage to pull out a smoke and stick it between my lips while rooting around for the damn lighter I know I have.

  “Need a light, babe?”

  Tags.

  My heart tumbles, falling into my rib cage.

  I’m not in the mood to hate Tags tonight. I have a bigger, badder man to hate tonight. “Sure,” I mutter, shrugging, wanting my smoke now even more than I did before. I need it right now.

  He chuckles, walking closer. “Don’t act too excited about the light or anything.”

  “Just drunk.”

  “Drunk Sam is always fun.”

  “She’s something,” I grumble, leaning my ass back
against the outside of the bar for support.

  Tags leans next to me, crossing his ankles. Casual. Cool. “How ya been? Still hate me? Still want me dead?”

  “Not dead,” I sigh, giving him some serious side-eye.

  He laughs. “But still hatin’ me.”

  I shrug. “Sort of.” I don’t know how I feel anymore now that King’s back. Nothing feels the same.

  Tags touches my hair, pushing the blonde strands off my shoulder. “Sort of? You used to love me I thought.” He leans in closer, smelling of beer and cologne.

  Tags isn’t a bad guy. He’s just not for me. “Tags,” I sigh, moving away from his touch. I don’t tell him it’s King’s hands I want on me, need on me. I don’t even mention King. “You’re drunk.”

  “So are you.” He leans in again.

  “Oh, fuck no,” King growls. I hear him before I see him.

  One minute, Tags is inches from me, and the next thing I know, King’s hitting him, and he hits him fucking hard. Tags stumbles, backing into me, causing me to fall, hard.

  Grabbing Samantha, I pull her off the ground and into me, her face in my chest. It lasts only a moment before she’s shoving me away, her hands hitting my chest.

  “Jesus Christ, King!” Sam shouts, pushing away from me, looking between Tags and me. She looks torn, and I fucking hate that look on her face. The fact that she even gives another man any sort of attention makes me see red.

  “Stay the fuck away from her,” I tell him.

  Tags shakes his head, his face in his hands.

  “Fuck you, man.”

  Tags comes at me and I hit him again. Brother or not, I will fucking kill him.

  “Stop it, King!” Samantha’s shouting, pulling on my cut. “You hit him again!”

  I don’t laugh, but I want to, even though nothing’s fucking funny about this situation. I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind the longer I’m around her. “Yeah, you don’t fuckin’ say,” I deadpan, not fucking around. He’s lucky his jaw is the only thing broken.

  The back door pops open and Rock steps out.

  “Jesus, King,” Tags growls, holding his jaw and coming at me. It doesn’t work. Rocky’s got him, holding him back. “The fuck’s goin’ on?” he snaps, looking at me.