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

by K. L. Savage

  And he’s constantly nervous.

  Usually what I do when I’m nervous is cut tongues, but things haven’t exactly been a revolving door of people who deserve to die, so I need to do something with my time. It’s better than being here, in that damn Church room, or even near it, reminding me that I was buried alive. I only lived because Sarah heard me punching through the floor.

  And then there was another attack on the compound. Doc was a busy guy that day. A lot of people were injured, and we lost two cut-sluts. I don’t give a fuck about the club whores, but some do, and I guess it’s sad. If you can find it in yourself to care.

  Because of all the action lately, Reaper has been running a tight ship. Walls are going up around the property line since people keep getting in and fucking with what’s ours. We haven’t had time to rebuild Skirt’s house after it burned down in the attack that Joanna’s ex-whatever he was hired college kids to take us out.

  I know people expect me to be afraid of the dark now, but it isn’t the case. I’m not afraid. Someone got the upper hand on me and somehow buried me. Every time I enter Church, I get angry, and I’m barely able to contain myself from blowing the fuck up and cutting out the person’s tongue who is sitting next to me when I’m triggered.

  It’s usually Slingshot, and considering how much he loves tacos, I don’t think he’d appreciate that very much.

  “Now, since everyone is here, we have cleanup to do from the attack that we still haven’t gotten around to—” Reaper pinches the bridge of his nose, and I slam the front door shut, hoping what he said to me is forgotten. I don’t care what I have to do to see her. I’ll do it. “Things have been hectic. Between the attack, Doc’s mom’s funeral, and what happened on Halloween, there hasn’t been a lot of time to think about anything else, but now is the time. We need to regroup. We need to prepare. We need plans in place. The Groundskeeper has not revealed himself; he’s been silent. I don’t know if he’s still in the area, but if he is, I doubt he’s going to leave us alone. I don’t want anyone leaving the compound unless it is for work purposes. I don’t give a fuck how inconvenient it is. If you disobey an order, I’ll carve my signature heart in your chest. Don’t fucking test me on this. We have women and children here. We have kids here that we still have no idea what to do with. No one has come forward about them. We need to focus.” Reaper gives me the evil eye, and I scoff, then make my way to my damn room.

  I don’t need this shit.

  Are you fucking kidding me? I always stay in line. I do what’s needed. I’m the one who inflicts the twisted, sick pain our enemies need to feel, and I’m the bad guy right now?

  I guess that’s the thing with guys like me.

  I’m always the bad guy; I’m never the knight.

  I’m always focused. I’m always here. Half the time, they don’t even notice me. They forget about me in the corner, saying I lurk, but they don’t go out of their way to get to know me, do they? They don’t know why I’m the way I am. They don’t question it because what I am is good enough for them, but it isn’t good enough for me, not anymore.

  I have a dangerous void inside me, and it’s growing by the day. I’m afraid I’ll lose myself to it and get lost in a darkness that I can’t find my way out of.

  Now that scares me.

  I’ve always known when to pull back, to stop my mind from getting too far gone.

  Maybe that’s my problem.

  I need to realize that I’m already too far gone, and there is no hope for me. I’m a killer. I am death. I’m who Reaper calls to entice fear and pain. I cut.

  And I’m the guy who gets the job done when no one else can stomach it.

  Reaper is right. I have no business going after a woman like Daphne, but a mess like me needs a mental break too. Even with all the crazy going on in my dumb head, I still need peace.

  “Where are you going?” Reaper barks at me, but I keep my back to him, anger rushing through my veins.

  I’ve never felt more like a child than I do right now. I stop in the middle of the hallway, and the heaviness in my tongue tells me if I speak, nothing I say will come out right. They treat me like I’m incompetent, and it’s starting to grind my damn patience.

  There’s a difference between being uneducated and incompetent. I’m perfectly capable of understanding conversations and what is being said to me. Just because I don’t know how to read or write doesn’t mean I’m fucking stupid.

  “I’m not fucking stupid!” I roar, almost throwing the bottle of wine across the room at Reaper. “I’ve done everything that has ever been asked of me. I’m allowed to have some goddamn privacy. Stop acting like I’m … I’m incapable of being able to do things that don’t involve you or the club. Stop treating me like … like….” I feel my stutter coming back, and in the back of my mind, I can hear my uncle’s voice.

  You goddamn idiot. You can’t listen, can you? Like talking to a wall. You’ll always be stupid.

  “Woah, Tongue, no. That isn’t what it’s about,” Reaper tries to argue with me, and his expression is bunched up as if I’ve slapped him in the face.

  Maizey walks out of the hallway and rubs her sleepy eyes and gives me a wave. “Hi, Tongue. How are you?” she asks.

  She’s the only one to ever ask how I’m doing, and this time, I’m going to be honest. I stare at Reaper for a long moment before I look at her again. “I-I’m … I’m not do-doing too go-good.” Fuck, there I go again, sounding stupid. It isn’t good; it is well. I’m not doing well. Sarah taught me that.

  I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe.

  “Tongue, you need to calm down.” Tool inches his way forward, and Skirt is right next to him, ready to take me down if he needs to.

  Please, what a joke.

  It would take four Ruthless Kings to take me down.

  I spin on my heel and hurry to my bedroom, then slam the door behind me. I lock the door and sit on my bed. My heart is pounding. I lay my hand against my chest and feel it flutter against my palm, racing. Sweat drips down my back, and the material of my shirt sticks to me. The walls are closing in, and my head swims.

  Everyone thinks I’m this emotionless monster, but I feel just as deep, if not more, than others. It takes its toll on my mind, my soul, and not being able to understand them only fucks with my head further.

  It’s why I am the way I am.

  Madness created me.

  Abuse broke me.

  And then madness stitched me back together again.

  I’m insane with moments of being lucid, and I was created from something hopeless, which means there isn’t much room for improvement.

  I’m starting to wonder if my soul is lost, or if I’m soulless and chasing a life that’s never meant to be mine.

  The book falls from my hand, and I set the bottle on the ground, then let out a heavy exhale. Pressing the palms of my hands against my eyes, I breathe. I’ve never been like this before. I’ve always known my place in the club. I’m the crazy one, the one who’s obsessed with knives and loves getting bloody. I don’t think there’s something wrong with that, but one glimpse of Daphne and I want something else for the first time since I killed my uncle.

  I always do for others, but what about me?

  I want something for me.

  I want something that’s mine.

  I want Daphne, my comet. Seeing her, she ignites hope in that meaningless void in my chest, and the feeling is addicting.

  Standing, I open the closet and reach into my pocket for the key to the filing cabinet that holds all the journals I’ve drawn in since I was a kid. I grab a new one, close it, and lock it back up. The charcoal pencils are in a cup next to my bed already. I kick off my boots and whip off my shirt, getting more comfortable. Opening my journal to the first page, I take a pencil in hand. Black dust transfers to my fingers instantly, and besides blood, it’s the only thing that ever coats my skin.

  I glance down to draw, but the scars across my chest get my attention. N
o one knows that I’m covered in cigarette burns. No one knows I was constantly raped as a child by my uncle. No one knows that I’ve never had sex before because the idea of sex scares the hell out of me. If people knew what made me tic, they wouldn’t respect me like they do now.

  Everyone is scared of me, and I’d rather them fear me than pity me.

  I stick out my tongue and rub my clean hand across it, the bumps reminding me of the pain and torture. They’re everywhere, and no matter how many people I kill or mute, I’ll never be able to get them off me. I’m a disease. I infect.

  The first thing I did when I turned eighteen was cover eighty percent of my body in beautiful tattoos so no one would have to see how hideous I look. It was awful being stared at like I’m some sort of freak. On top of not being able to speak properly, I was the person that everyone stopped and pointed at, laughing. I was always the joke.

  And I guess in a way, I still am.

  I’m the one-stop-shop for a circus.

  It would have been better if my uncle had found a way to kill me because the person I’ve turned into is the horror story people tell their kids they will become if they don’t do their homework.

  My stomach rises as I inhale, and then I place the pencil against the paper and draw my favorite moment from tonight. Of course, I draw Daphne lying in bed, asleep. She tossed and turned for a few minutes, groaning in her sleep. She felt me. My presence. Not once has she been afraid of me. Is that because she doesn’t know me? What if she got to know me and, like everyone else, looked at me like I don’t belong?

  There’s more to me than people see, and it’s my fault I don’t let them in. The truth is too ugly; the realization that I’m not who people thought I was would confuse them.

  A soft line appears as I draw the outline of her body. A grumble of pleasure vibrates my chest as I swoop the pencil to create the curves of her small tits. Fuck, she’s perfect. I let the nightgown pool around her waist, shadowing the necessary angles and curves. When she said she felt me, I thought I was going to combust and tackle her on the bed. I wanted to ravish her, but I stopped myself.

  I’m not good enough to touch her, not when my hands have seen more blood than a butcher.

  My cock grows hard in my jeans when I draw her wet pussy. She has a small tuft of hair between her legs, and I sketch her hand over the spot that made her body jerk. When she came, I came in my jeans, and when she shoved the pillow over her face, I had to get close for a second. I had to smell her body. I wanted her scent tattooed on my lungs.

  I want her branded on me.

  And then she removed the pillow, and I ran.

  I draw the entire scene, taking up a few pages of the journal by detailing my day. On another page, I decide to draw a close-up of her gorgeous face. So innocent. So pure. Daphne looks like darkness hasn’t touched her, and I want to keep it that way. If my shadows get anywhere near Daphne, I’m afraid the horrors that hide in the darkness surrounding me will cast around her, damning her light to my hell.

  My brows pinch together when a smudge appears on the paper, right where I start to draw her eyes. Another one appears, then another, and I reach out to see what the hell it is, and it’s wet. I look up to see if the ceiling is leaking and then I look out my bedroom window to see if it’s raining, but it isn’t. We are in a drought.

  I stare down at the paper again, knowing I’ll never be the man she’ll need. She’ll grow old with someone else, love them, make love to him, and have his kids. She’ll forget all about the freak in the bookstore holding a box of tongues to priority mail to his swamp kitties. Daphne will make a future because that’s what happens when you deserve greatness.

  A man like me, I don’t have a future. I’ll die a biker, probably someday soon, and I’ll die alone. My future was carved in stone the moment my uncle touched me.

  I’m a machine. I’m programmed to be heartless.

  Bad omens fill my blood.

  I’m doomed.

  Another droplet smears the charcoal on the paper, and I get frustrated because I have no idea where the water is coming from. I snap the pencil in half and throw it across the room. I’m angry that my drawing of Daphne is ruined. I need to find where the water is coming from. I refuse to have her face anything less than perfect because it would be an injustice to her true beauty.

  A knock at the door stops me from standing on my bed and inspecting the ceiling for any weak spots. “What?” I grunt, annoyed to hell. I’m mad at Reaper. I’m mad at this stupid water that only seems to drip whenever the fuck it wants. I’m mad at who I am as a man. I won’t ever be able to change.

  Blood, death, and killing are too much a part of what makes me, me. I’ll always need violence as an escape. My uncle needed it too. Maybe it’s my blood that’s wrong. I’ll need to make sure I don’t have kids, so I don’t risk infecting the innocence in them. What if they come out like me? I can’t do that. I can’t make their lives a living hell because I decided to be selfish.

  “Tongue, it’s me.” Sarah’s voice is muted behind the door, but hearing it makes me smile. I jump off the bed and run to the door, unlocking it to see my favorite person. Well, one of my favorite people. Daphne is number one now.

  Reaper is behind her, and immediately I feel betrayed.

  His eyes soften when he sees me, and Sarah gasps, covering her mouth in shock. “Tongue, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I drawl. “I’m just…” I almost give away my secret. Sarah doesn’t know about my journals. She knows about everything else, but the journals are mine. “I’m trying to figure out where a leak is in the ceiling. It’s ruining what I’m working on. It’s pissing me off, and I can’t kill it, so it’s frustrating,” I huff, scratching the back of my head as Reaper stares at me in concern. “What?” I ask as my fingers get tangled in my hair, which reminds me that I need to cut it. Daphne likes short hair.

  Sarah lays her hand in the middle of my chest, and her eyes well as she pushes me further into the bedroom. Reaper follows behind her and shuts the doors.

  “Sa-Sarah,” I stutter, then hit the side of my head with my fist when I hear it. I’m becoming weaker by the second. I’m useless. I’m worthless. I’m a fucking idiot.

  “Stop it. Don’t.” She takes my hands, knowing what I’m thinking about myself. “You aren’t any of those things, Tongue.”

  I’m nervous with Reaper here. He doesn’t see me as weak like Sarah does. I’m his enforcer. A droplet of water drips on my hand, and I point to it. “See, look. It’s coming from somewhere.”

  “Tongue, look at me,” Sarah says, cupping my face in her hands. She wipes her thumbs across my cheeks and pulls her hands away, showing me water. “It isn’t a leak. The water is coming from you. You’re crying.” A single tear drips down her cheek. “Tongue, what’s wrong? You never cry. I’ve never seen you cry.”

  “I’m not crying,” I say. “I don’t cry. I haven’t cried since…” Since the night I killed Uncle Jeremy.

  “Tongue, you are.” Reaper slaps a hand on my shoulder, and I yank away from him.

  “I’m not. I don’t cry. I’m an enforcer. I kill.” I lift my fingers to my face and stumble away from Sarah when I feel the droplets. The back of my knees hit the bed, and I sit down, staring at my hands as if they belong to someone else.

  I don’t understand why I’m crying. I don’t feel any different. Maybe it’s a mistake. A fluke.

  “You’re human,” Reaper says. “Tongue, you’re human. I think it’s time to talk about what’s going on. You haven’t been yourself.”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I say darkly. “The only person who gives a real damn about me is Sarah.”

  “That isn’t true. How can you say that?” Reaper asks, hooking his fingers through his belt loops as he stands like a stranger near the bedroom door. He’s in a place that’s out of his comfort zone. He’s in my space, and that leaves people more uncomfortable than not.

  “Please, leave.”
I rub my temples when my head starts to hurt. “The both of you.”

  “Tongue, I’m here for you. Reaper came to find me when he said you came in and seemed upset.”

  “I’m getting treated like a child. Everyone thinks less of me. Just please … get out.”

  “Tongue—”

  “I said get out!” I roar, standing to my feet. I’m tired. My insides are shredded apart, and even the best of killers need a damn break. “Get me when you need me like you usually do.” I open the door to show them the way out, and Sarah’s bottom lip trembles. I hate that I hurt her. Sarah means the world to me, but I have so much going on in my mind that I need time by myself.

  “I always need you,” she whispers, her voice broken and weak. “You’re my best friend. I don’t know why Reaper is here, but he isn’t here with me. I came to check on you; he followed.”

  “Then you can leave,” I tell Prez, not caring if it earns me a scar. I have plenty of them. I can add his to the collection.

  Reaper glances away and crosses his arm before rubbing a hand over his mouth.

  I shake my head and stare at him in disbelief. “You came in here because you do need me.” An ironic laugh leaves my chest. “Fucking knew it.”

  “Mercy is here. We have problems. I need my best enforcer. I’m sorry I’m asking at a bad time.”

  No one ever needs me for anything else.

  What if I say no?

  “He can go after he talks to me. Even the best, even the strongest, most savage men need to talk. Can’t you see he needs me, Reaper? I can’t believe you right now. You have plenty of other members you can use,” Sarah argues in my defense.

  “None like Tongue.”

  Yeah, there never is.

  “You’re sleeping on the couch, Jesse,” Sarah hisses as she stomps out of my room, vanishing down the hall where Maizey is.

  “You’re worth it,” Reaper chuckles, slapping me on the shoulder.

  I wouldn’t be too sure about that.

  The rotten core inside me always boils over to purge, but right now, it’s barely simmering.