Tongue (RUTHLESS KINGS MC™ (A RUTHLESS UNDERWORLD NOVEL) Book 8)

by K. L. Savage

  I don’t want to learn how to strut.

  I want to learn how to run.

  With wet cheeks and unsure hands, I grip the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, tossing it on the floor. There, in front of me, is a full-length mirror. It’s wide, tall, and has a thick silver frame around it. I have cigarette burns all over my body, small craters pimpled all over my chest, shoulders, and back. The new one that burned through the shirt a few minutes ago turned my skin pink, swollen, and a bit bloody.

  Holding back puke in my throat, I stand and drop my pants to the floor. I’m never allowed to wear underwear.

  The boy in the mirror is someone meant to be forgotten. I wasn’t born to live. I wasn’t born to make something out of myself. I was a mistake.

  I was only born to die; I’m starting to realize that. I didn’t die with my parents, so I can realize how I’m not meant to be a part of this world. I’m too weak for it. I’m nothing.

  Justine.

  Uncle Jeremy.

  Whatever he wants to call himself, he’s right.

  I’m useless; well not yet, just until I’m used up enough to be useless.

  I sit in the middle of the bed and pull my knees to my chest. I’m his living breathing ashtray, and every scar hurts when I remember this is the man who’s supposed to be my family. The silk sheets rub against my bare bottom, and a drip of spit leaves my bottom lip, falling onto my thigh. It’s then I realize how hard I’m crying because the silk sheets remind me of what is to come.

  Peering around the room, it appears like a wealthy man lives in this house when we barely make rent every month because of his extra lifestyle. It’s the kind of room that makes it appear like someone has their life together.

  It’s cruel how appearances can lead someone to trust, but I have the truth stamped all over my body.

  “Get into position, Wayne,” Justine orders, and the sound of his voice has me tilting my head up and wiping the water from my eyes to see him leaned against the wall. His robe is off, the rollers are out of his hair, and big curls tumble down his shoulder. The slight chub he has around his stomach hangs over the tight panties he wears. I can ignore all of that, but I can’t ignore the cigarette in his mouth. I know what he’s about to do, and I’m sick to my stomach.

  What if I fight him? What chance do I have? I’ve never thought about it before because, for the longest time, I thought it didn’t matter.

  But what if it does? What if I can find a home better than this? Is it possible? Will someone want me? Am I worthy of something other than pain?

  Justine’s smile is anything but nice. He steps into the light, his large feet stuffed in pink high heels, and he stops at the end of the bed. “You really don’t know how to listen, do you? Your parents, my sister, God rest her clueless soul, died probably to get away from you. Who would want a kid like you, Wayne? Hell…” He takes a long drag of the smoke, and the ashes tumble free when the cigarette can’t support how heavy the burnt tobacco is. “You can’t talk to save your life.”

  That’s not my fault. No one has taken their time to teach me. My tongue is damaged because of him too. Everything has been against me. It gets too tiring when I’m the only person in my corner.

  Swaying like snow as it falls, Justine wraps his long skinny fingers around my ankle to make me stay still. I try to get away, but he digs his nails into my skin, and I arch my back, crying out when the ashes land. The smell of burnt leg hair is quick, instant, and as quick as the scent is there, it’s gone.

  “You’re that kid their mother should’ve aborted.” He laughs, and smoke tendrils out of the spaces between his teeth. “I tried to tell her. I tried to tell her that your father had bad seed, but she didn’t listen, and she had you anyway,” he raises his voice as he lectures me and stabs my thigh with the cigarette.

  I cry, shouting how much it hurts into the walls. I gag, and my stomach turns when the scent of burnt flesh fills the room. I don’t bother begging for mercy because I know he won’t give it to me. I bury my face into the pillow, but he grabs ahold of my hair and snaps my head to the right until the muscles are stretched to the point I’m afraid they’re going to tear.

  “Don’t get your tears on my pillow. You’ll ruin the silk,” Justine seethes as his palm settles against my airway.

  I cough and try to slap his hand away, but he’s bigger, stronger, and filled with more fight. I struggle to speak, but the pressure is too much. I gasp, blood rushing to my face. The heat in the back of my eyes water, and a tear falls to my cheek.

  Justine reaches toward the headboard and pulls one of his scarves from the post. I know what these scarves are used for. He likes to tie up his partners. It’s one of the things they pay him to do, strutting around in leather as they lay helplessly, playing the victim.

  I bet none of them have ever been victims.

  Not like me.

  “So weak,” Justine mumbles, trying to tie the scarf around my left wrist to pin me to the bed. I pull against him, yanking my arm so he can’t control me, but he growls, tightening his grip. “Stop fighting me!” He rears his arm back and punches me across the cheek. “Stop!”

  “Un-uncle Jer … emy, please,” I sob.

  He tugs the ends of the material around my wrist so tight, pinpricks tingle the end of my fingers. “What did I tell you about calling me that? Huh? You’re like talking to a fucking wall.” He takes another scarf and ties it around my other wrist. His fingers trace my jaw, and I jerk out of his hand, but it doesn’t do any good.

  Hovering over my face, his cold fingers dig into my cheeks, forcing me to turn my head. “You might be an idiot, but you’re a pretty idiot. I’ll give my sister that much.” He trails the pads of his fingers down the side of my neck, then down my chest, and around my nipple. “So pretty, Wayne,” he purrs, closing his eyes as he maps the scars along my chest. “Shame. All these times that you didn’t listen. Just like you aren’t listening now.” He pauses his touch and struts toward the dresser where the packet of cigarettes is half hanging off the corner. Justine pats the package against the palm of his hand and stares at me.

  I’m shivering. My body is cold. I’m scared. Warm liquid drips down my legs, and that’s when I realize I’ve peed myself.

  “You goddamn incompetent boy! Look what you did! Fucking look! That’s the second time you’ve ruined my mattress. Why are you so weak? Why can’t you be normal?” Justine pours the cigarettes out, and all of them land on the bed next to me. He sighs in frustration, rubbing his tongue over his teeth, then fluffs his hair. A bead of sweat drips down the beak of his nose, and his red lipstick is smeared from how many times he has rubbed his lips together. His foundation is starting to crack within the wrinkles in his face, right along the edges of his mouth and forehead.

  “You make me do this; you know that? You make me be this person,” he says, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it. “You make me hurt you. Why? Why do you make me do it?”

  “I…”

  “Oh, I know. Poor Wayne. The wittle baby. So hopeless.” He pats my cheek and digs the burning cigarette against my thigh.

  I scream, something I’m not allowed to do, but I can’t help it. It hurts so much.

  He lights the cigarette again, even though the stem is wrinkled, and makes the tobacco glow again.

  I’m still screaming, but it isn’t for the pain in my thigh. It’s for everything. I hope someone can hear me. I can’t do this anymore.

  “God, you never shut up, do you?” he reaches into my mouth and pinches my tongue between his fingers, yanking it from my mouth. I shout the best I can through muted, panicked sounds. I kick my legs and bounce on the bed to try to get away, but he throws his leg over my naked waist and straddles me to stop my legs from kicking. “Always so stubborn, never wanting to listen. How many times does this need to happen before you understand?”

  I nod, wanting to do anything and everything to make him stop and get off me. I’ll be good. I swear. I’ll be good. Tears fall from
my eyes, and I can see him clearly now. The hate in his eyes has me laying completely still.

  We lock eyes.

  I’m too afraid to move, to breathe, to make a sound.

  “I hate you,” he says, emotion curling his lip. “You look just like her. That bitch of a sister always thought she was better, prettier. Look at me now! I’m fucking beautiful. Me! I make money off my looks, not her, and I’m going to make sure you never can. You hear me?” He doesn’t give me time to react before pressing the cigarette against my tongue.

  I arch my back and clutch my hands into fists. I can taste the smoke working its way down my throat. The ashes dissolve against the saliva pooling and mixing with blood. The pain is unbearable. He tosses the ruined cigarette aside and picks up another. I watch in horror as he lights it. It could be a still-image with how many times I’ve seen him light the same cigarette, with the same disinterest on his face, and evil promises in his eyes.

  The orange glow sets his face in a sunset hue. I only know of the sunset because he allows me outside once a week to get fresh air, always at night, so fewer people see that he has a kid.

  I might be a kid, but I feel like I’ve lived a hundred lives, and I’m ready to be laid to rest. I lay there entranced by the delicate way the smoke string leaving the cigarette billows up toward the ceiling; it tunnels in an invisible chimney, searching for a way out. Justine’s face disappears as he leans into the cloud, and another gut-wrenching burn crackles along my tongue, adding to the circular scars. Justine is smart.

  He knows exactly where to put the scars so if we do come across someone, no one can see how ugly my body is.

  “Hmm,” he hums, tossing the butt onto the ground and grabbing another, lighting it. He presses it on the underside of my tongue instead.

  I know I’m making some sort of noise, but between the spit and blood clogging my throat, and the sobs, I don’t know if I’m screaming. I think I am.

  Justine finally releases my tongue and rubs his hands down my bare body, kissing the middle of my chest. “I wish you’d just behave, little nephew. It would be better for the both of us.” He reaches around and grabs my ass, and the touch is all I need to wake up. There’s a single moment of the pain lifting. Through the blood dripping down my chin, the swollen tongue, and the burn marks all over, I realize what he’s about to do.

  He’s about to turn me on my side, spread my cheeks, and ruin me in another way. He does that. He’s always done that. Justine has done that for as long as I can remember.

  Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way.

  Something inside of me wakes up, and I lift my foot and smash it between his legs. I’m not sure how effective it is since I hit him from the back, but it has to hurt because he falls to his side, cupping himself in the front with one hand and in the back with the other.

  Scooting my legs up until I’m in a better position, I sit up. The tip of my tongue is sticking out of my mouth since it’s so swollen. Through tears, hate, and disappointment, I roar my agony and kick his face.

  And I keep kicking.

  All the years of being silent, being in the corner, in the darkness, and being forgotten slam against me. All the years of his abuse, the burns, the unwanted touch, the lessons in his fashion, everything has always been unwanted from him.

  His cheekbones crunch, his nose breaks and snaps to the left, and he wheezes a ragged breath. Justine sputters and spits out a pool of blood with a few teeth I knocked free.

  I stretch my neck up and push through the pain, then bite down on the end of the scarf. I yank back, untying one knot around my wrist, then wiggle my hand free. It doesn’t take long before I’m untying my other wrist, and I’m free.

  I’m … free.

  What do I do? I never thought I’d be in this situation.

  I push Uncle Jeremy onto his back and see what I’ve done.

  Something inside me changes when he licks his lips and groans. At that moment, I’m numb. I scurry off the bed and open the bedside drawer where he keeps all of his toys, including a knife.

  Some of his clients like to be cut.

  He moans again, and I turn to see him rolling to his stomach. He’s too weak to get up. The blade gleams against the light, twinkling like a star, hypnotizing me. My reflection is mirrored back at me. My face is swollen, wet, the tip of my tongue pushes between my lips. When I open my mouth, I see the black dots from the cigarettes.

  Something cold settles in my chest. Something dark.

  I grip him by the hair, then turn him on his back. I straddle his waist. I reach into his mouth. I pinch his tongue with my fingers.

  I don’t make a sound as I dig the knife down the smokey hole of his throat and cut. This time, it’s his screams that fill the air. It’s his cries that are telling me to stop.

  Never.

  The knife finishes cutting, and I hold up my prize. It’s dripping with blood, thicker than what I thought it would be, and so satisfying.

  Oddly satisfying.

  Who’s the one who can’t make a noise now?

  Next, I cut his throat without blinking and wonder for a brief second what kind of monster he’s turned me into as he gurgles, drowning in his own blood.

  I’ve only done what I needed to survive. I didn’t want him touching me there again. I wipe my knife on the bed, then walk away. I’m in no hurry, but I need to get dressed. I know better than to dig through his dresser. All I’ll find are women’s clothes.

  I expect to feel different. Lighter, happier, better, something other than nothing, but I don’t.

  In my bedroom, I dig through the plastic bins and pull out some shorts, slide them on, then right as I’m about to head toward the kitchen to get the phone, a loud pounding on the door stops me in the middle of the hallway. I lean against the wall and peek around the corner. Through the crack of the green curtains in the living room, there are red and blue lights.

  That’s impossible.

  No cops are ever out this way.

  I don’t have time to answer the door because someone kicks it in. I cover myself, the courage gone, replaced by the boy who pissed himself in the bed.

  “Houston Police Department!” a cop yells, followed by a stampede of footsteps. The steps come closer until I see a pair of boots in my line of sight. “Hey, I got a kid here!” the police officer shouts over his shoulder to his partners. He squats, and his knees pop. “You okay, kid? Does Jeremy Cooper live here? Can you tell us anything?”

  Don’t make a sound.

  “I know you must be scared. You’re safe now. Look at me. Let us help you.”

  “There’s a dead body back here!” another voice booms from Uncle Jeremy’s room.

  I whimper, shake my head, and start to rock.

  “Do you have something to do with that?” he asks. “Your uncle was involved in some pretty shady things, kid. You aren’t in trouble here. I just need you to talk to me.”

  I can’t.

  I lift my head and meet his eyes.

  “Holy shit,” he hisses and clicks the button on his radio that’s attached to his shoulder. “We need an ambulance to…”

  I tune him out when I see an officer coming out of my room holding my journals. I run toward him and try to yank them from his hold, but the cop that called the ambulance holds me back. All I do is grunt and shake my head, pleading with them not to open the journals.

  They hold all of my secrets.

  “Did Jeremy Cooper do this to you?” the man opens my journal to the middle and flips through page after page, showing images that I drew.

  Pictures of what Jeremy did to me.

  “Did he do this?” the same man asks, waving his hand over my body.

  I nod.

  “Jesus Christ, we knew the guy was fucked up, but we never knew he had a kid.” He seems guilty, like he should have known better.

  Maybe he should have. I don’t know.

  “You’re safe now. We’re going to get you to the hospital. We’re going to find you a g
ood home.” The officer that called the ambulance stands in front of me, taking the place of the cop holding the journals. His name tag says Lionel. I reach for his arm and squeeze it tight, trying to tell him that I don’t want to stay with strange people.

  But I can’t get the message across because I can’t make a sound.

  Present day

  There is nothing like the smell of old books. Flipping the worn, discolored pages sets my soul on fire. I love the ink embedded in the paper. Someone’s mind came up with an idea, and letter by letter was written until the story was complete. It’s fascinating.

  We have a book by Emily Bronte, but it was published under Ellis Bell, and it’s titled ‘Wuthering Heights.’ It’s from 1847, the original publication date. It’s a freaking classic. Everyone needs to read it.

  I’m not allowed to touch the book. No one is. It’s on display, safely guarded in a glass box, flipped to the title page.

  It’s unfair. It’s like my boss enjoys tormenting me. Imagine a kid going through a toy store and their mom says, “Don’t touch that. Keep your hands to yourself.” It’s like that, but much worse.

  One page.

  That’s all I want. I only want to flip one page, and my life will be made.

  And only the manager’s key can open the gosh darn box. I’m only an Assistant Manager.

  “Daphne, step away from the glass box,” Andrew, my boss says from the front desk. He isn’t even looking at me. He’s indexing a new arrival of books.

  “I’m not even near it.” I stretch my leg behind me and take a big step back, nearly running into the bookshelf where all of the non-fiction reads are.

  Blah. Non-fiction is my least favorite. Who in the world wants to read something real? Real life surrounds us every day. If I want to read a book, I want to get lost in magical romance, fantasies, paranormal, realms, shifters; whatever it is, I want to read it.