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

by K. L. Savage

  That’s not the case.

  I only want to lay her down and be gentle with her. I’ve never been gentle; I wonder if I have it in me to be as soft as she feels. I want to be. I want to try.

  The pothole in the driveway yanks me out of my thoughts as my bike dips. The cool night of autumn turning into winter blows against my cheeks, causing them to be red and raw. At night, the desert gets cold, to the point where every time you breathe, a puff of smoke leaves your lips.

  I pull up to the front of the clubhouse, away from the other bikes, and sit off to the side, alone. I stare at the place that’s been my home for almost as long as I can remember. When I was taken from my uncle’s house, I didn’t get charged with his murder because it was self-defense, but I was put in a rehabilitation center to try to improve my social skills.

  I was hopeless.

  Officer Lionel ended up taking me in and calling in a favor to a friend in Vegas. We upped and moved, he got a job at the police department, and I found the Ruthless Kings as I became a man.

  I haven’t spoken to Lionel in years. I left the moment I could, and I never looked back. I thought I was with my own people, my own brand of fucking crazy, but that is far from the truth. I am the crazy here. I am the outsider. Yearning to belong is something that hasn’t gone away; it’s gotten worse over the years because I’ve noticed just how different I am.

  I can’t control my impulses.

  No one understands.

  I need to cut. Every tongue I remove is another way of defeating my uncle. Every drop of blood is one step closer to ridding the world of rancid human beings. I’m one of those people too, but my time will come when it’s meant to; that’s something I believe whole-heartedly.

  Until then, I’ll ride my bike, want a woman I can’t have, and contemplate my life choices.

  The soot from Skirt’s house can still be smelt if I really concentrate. The maze is still to the right from Halloween, and I don’t see it coming down anytime soon. People are healing, the members need time, and the kids like it.

  I bet that’s enough for Reaper to keep it.

  Leaning my arms against the handlebars, I stare out over the open land and the homes being built. We have really made something out of ourselves.

  “Not wanting to go inside?”

  I turn half my body and see Moretti smoking a cigarette. He looks like hell. He’s been avoiding seeing his brother and his daughter because he can’t remember them. I think he will one day, but he has his process he has to go through. In the meantime, he’s being a prickly asshole.

  “Not really,” I answer simply, wishing I had a flask in my cut pocket.

  “I heard you can’t read and write,” he states, blowing out smoke from between his lips. “That fucking sucks.”

  I grit my teeth together and swing my leg over the bike. If there’s one thing I never want to talk about, it’s my stupidity.

  “How have you gotten through life?”

  I crack my neck and pull out my knife. “Don’t tempt me, Moretti. I’ve had a long few days. If I have to cut your tongue out to make you stop speaking, I will.”

  “Got it. Don’t want to talk about it.” He chuckles, throwing the butt of the cigarette on the ground. He smashes it with his foot. “I don’t know how I got through life if it makes you feel any better. I can’t remember a damn thing.”

  “It doesn’t make me feel better,” I say honestly.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  I sling my knife around before sliding it into my back pocket. “So I’ve heard.” Heat lightning flashes across the sky. The small clouds rolling in might bring rain, but I doubt it. We don’t get much of that around here.

  Walking away, my boots slide against the desert floor, kicking rocks and broken beer bottles.

  “I’m fine; thanks for asking,” Moretti yells behind me.

  My hand grabs the rail of the porch, and I turn to look over my shoulder. “I didn’t ask,” I state, not understanding why people are so damn sensitive about themselves. The steps creak as I pound up them. I stare at the door, wondering what I’m going to do when I enter. I don’t have much time to think about it because the door swings open, and a crying Sarah appears.

  Now this is where I become sensitive. Leaving her will be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, behind leaving Daphne. Sarah’s hair is up on top of her head, wrapped up in one of those messy buns. A few pieces of blonde frame her face, and her brown eyes are dipped in honey right now because of those tears. The tip of her nose is pink, and her bottom lip is swollen from where she chews on it while she cries.

  “Tongue! Where have you been? You left. You can’t leave like that again. Please, you can’t leave.”

  “Sarah…” Maizey’s sweet, high-pitched voice comes from beside Sarah. Maizey wraps her arms around Sarah’s leg, then presses her cheek against Sarah’s thigh. “Hi, Tongue. How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” I say, squatting to meet her big brown eyes. “You’ve grown since the last time I saw you.”

  “I’m a big girl,” she says proudly.

  “Yeah, you are. You’ll be wielding your knife in no time,” I tell her.

  She grins, her front tooth missing as her eyes widen. She starts to bounce with excitement. “Really? Can you make it for me?”

  “That’s up to Sarah,” I say, standing to my full height.

  “Maybe when you’re a little older.” Sarah sniffles, rubbing her cheeks on her shoulders. She opens the door wider, and I make my way in. There aren’t any cut-sluts here right now. Ever since Candy and Jasmine died, they’ve been too scared to come around. I’m alright with it. I think cut-sluts are a damn drain.

  Well, there is Becks. She hasn’t been around in a while because she’s off at some massage retreat. I miss her. She’s good at really getting in the muscle and working out the knots. I hope she’s back before Christmas. I’m making her a knife.

  There isn’t anyone here as I walk through the living room. The TV is off. The dogs are on the couches. Yeti is snuggled up next to Lady. Tyrant is on his back, balls out, and Chaos has his nose buried in Tyrant’s ass. Whatever floats their boats. I don’t think I’d like the smell of ass.

  Well, maybe if it was Daphne’s ass…

  I hear voices coming from the kitchen and keep my feet light, so I don’t make a sound. I give Sarah one last look as she sits on the couch with Maizey. I stop in the hallway and step into one of the corners, so I can listen in like I always do. I take my knife out again and rub my fingers against the silver. My eyes land on the kitchen table where most of the guys are. They all seem to be looking at something, but from here, I can’t tell what they are looking at.

  “What are we going to do?” Poodle asks, flipping another page.

  “Aye, my god, Reaper, this is horrible.” Skirt leans back in his chair, and he has his daughter strapped to his chest. “My God, how does he function?”

  I bend my head forward to listen to them, curious at who they’re talking about.

  “If this was his life, it’s no wonder he can’t read or write. We have to help him, Reaper.” Tool tosses a book on the table and reaches to his left and grabs another.

  “His drawings are in amazing detail. I had no idea he was so talented,” Patrick states, hissing when he flips to a certain page.

  It takes me a few moments to catch on when I realize the books they are looking at and the person they are talking about is me. I watch as they stare at my life’s horrors, judging me. Sweat and panic grip my heart, my lungs, and my brain. I can’t breathe. Fuck, they know. They know!

  “Oh my god,” Slingshot tosses the journal across the table and buries his face in his hands, shaking his head. “This couldn’t have happened to him. We can’t be looking at this. We are invading his privacy.”

  “I need to know what we’re dealing with. Tongue has gone off the deep end. If it’s him cutting those tongues out and scaring that poor girl…”

  “It isn’t. I think
he likes her.”

  “I don’t think he knows how to love,” Badge states, sighing, staring at a page in my journal.

  His words take my breath. It’s been a long time since something has hurt so damn bad. They don’t think I’m capable of love. Am I that much of a monster? A drop of water landing on my hand takes my attention away from them.

  I’m crying … I think. Again.

  I don’t understand why.

  Ever since I’ve met Daphne, there has been this unwinding of pressure in my chest. I’m a lock, and I threw away the key to make sure I never felt a damn thing again.

  But Daphne found the key and slid it into my chest, releasing years of suppressed emotions.

  “A person who went through what he went through has severe psychological issues. I’m not surprised he is the way he is, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to love. Everyone loves differently, in their own way,” Doc inserts what he thinks.

  They went through my things.

  How did they open my file cabinet? They can’t without the key; unless Tool somehow found a way.

  “His uncle was a monster,” Tank says, leaning forward next to Bullseye. I’m surprised Tank cares after what I pulled earlier. Bullseye isn’t doing too well since he got diagnosed with diabetes. He hasn’t been taking care of his sugar, and he has lost a bit of weight and seems sorta out of it. He’s in denial.

  “I say we kill him,” Bullseye says, polishing a dart.

  “Tongue?” Slingshot gasps in horror at what Bullseye just said.

  Like they could. I’d like to see them try.

  Bullseye smacks Slingshot on the head. “His uncle, idiot. Tongue is one of us. I’m worried now. I didn’t know … I didn’t know any of this,” he says sadly, picking up one of the journals. “He must have been so angry.”

  “He is still angry. Can’t you tell?” Tool scoffs.

  “Looks like he beat us to killing his uncle.” Reaper throws down the journal that shows the drawing of what I did to my uncle.

  Tool whistles. “He cut out his tongue.”

  “Good,” Doc agrees, and the guys around the table nod.

  “Oh. Oh! This must be when he met Daphne. Aw, that’s…” Slingshot turns the page and blushes. “Detailed.”

  I step out of the shadows and snatch the journal from his hand, slamming it shut. I have nothing to say to them. I feel betrayed. I’m to the point where I’m about to kill all of them. They want to peek into my past, fine. They want to judge me, feel sorry for me, wonder what to do with me, fine.

  But they will not look at Daphne.

  Daphne is mine. She’s my heaven to look at, my paradise, my escape from my fucked-up reality.

  “Tongue—”

  “Don’t,” I cut Reaper off and gather my journals. I snatch another from Bullseye’s hand, then one out of Doc’s, feeling frustrated and out of my depth. I’ve never been so exposed. “Don’t any of you fucking dare try to talk to me after this.”

  “I needed answers,” Reaper says, a slight regret on his face.

  “Answers? You wanted answers? For what? To understand me. You never had a prob-problem…. You never…”

  “Take your time,” Reaper says kindly, without agitation.

  “Don’t. Don’t you dare fucking do that!” I shout, slamming my knife against the table near his hand. “Don’t condescend me. You didn’t even know… You didn’t….” I try to take a deep breath, to relax, and remind myself I only stutter when I get ahead of myself. It isn’t even a real stutter. I’m thrown back to the past when I had to explain myself to my uncle with a sore tongue. “Don’t you fucking dare act like you give a damn now when both of us know better.”

  “Tongue, I care. I’m … I’m so sorry this happened to you. You’ve detailed your life with extraordinary talent.”

  I scoff, rubbing my fingers over the front of a leather cover. This journal in my hands shows what my uncle did to me. I take my knife out, lay the journal on the table, and puncture it as if it had a heart. The knife slices through effortlessly, sliding to the other end of the journal, and the tip of the blade lodges in the table. “Talent? Are you fucking kidding?”

  Now I’m getting angry.

  “You went through my journals!” I slam my fist on the counter, and Slingshot flinches. “You had no right! None! You just don’t trust me, so you took it upon yourself to invade my privacy. These were my fucking secrets—mine!” I rip the knife away from the journal and charge Reaper, slamming him against the counter. The knife hovers just above his neck, and he doesn’t move; he doesn’t blink.

  “You’re right,” he says.

  “You doubted me.”

  “I know.”

  Tool stands next to Reaper, but the Prez holds up his hand to stop Tool from encroaching on us.

  “You don’t share. The girl, what happened in her apartment, I needed to make sure.”

  “You should have trusted me. Instead you went through my journals,” my voice cracks, knowing what they saw. A tear slips down my cheek, and my chest feels … open. It’s new to me. “You have no idea how out of place you are. I should kill you!”

  “You would do that to Sarah?” he asks, leaning his neck into the blade.

  Would I do it?

  I’d think about it for a minute.

  I know at the end of the day; I wouldn’t do it.

  “Melissa, Joanna, Dawn, not now,” Skirt says to the girls who enter the kitchen from the hallway.

  “What’s going on? What are these?” Melissa asks, picking up a journal without thinking and opens it. “Oh, wow, she’s really pretty. Who drew these? They are so talented.”

  I snatch the journal away from her, but as soon as I do, Dawn picks one up, then Joanna. I can’t stop them all.

  “You drew because you couldn’t write,” Reaper states to me.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “You drew because you didn’t know how to read,” Slingshot says next.

  “Shut up! You don’t know anything! You don’t fucking know!” I scream, slamming my fist on the table again. The journals bounce in the air from the force, but the men are blurry.

  Reaper takes the journal that I took from Melissa and opens it to the first picture of Daphne. She’s asleep, tangled in blankets, with a slight smile on her face. Her hair is cascading across the other pillow, where I deserve to be.

  “You follow her. You watch her because you don’t know how else to be.”

  “You don’t fucking know anything!” I slam my fist against Reaper’s face, unable to hold back my rage. “No one knows anything!”

  “Tongue, you crazy fucking bastard. Get off him,” Tool bellows, wrapping his arms around my torso, but he’s nowhere near strong enough to take me down. I rip the knife from the journal on the table and rear it back, slamming Tool in the bicep with it.

  “Fuck!” he cries, stumbling back and cradling his injured arm.

  Bullseye tackles me next, then Slingshot holds me down, along with Knives. Tool stands over me, a stream of blood staining his flesh. “That’s what you get for going through my shit,” I snarl at him as three men hold me down.

  “We aren’t your enemy,” Reaper tells me, kneeling by my head. I turn it back and forth, feeling crowded. Slingshot’s face comes closer to mine, and it morphs into my uncle’s. He’s laughing at me. I can feel the cigarette ashes falling and searing my skin.

  “You’re a fucking idiot, aren’t you? Always so dumb. You make it easy; you know that?”

  “Get off me! Get off!” I shout, kicking and bucking.

  “Tongue, you’re okay.”

  “You need to step away from him, Reaper, Slingshot, Knives, Bullseye. Step away,” Doc warns, slowly inching away from me.

  “I can’t wait to get my hands on that filthy little ass of yours, Wayne. If you’d listen. That is all it takes. You can’t even call me by Justine, no matter how many times I’ve told you. Roll over.”

  “Get off.” I tug against his hands, nervous
and afraid. “Please, stop,” I croak, breaking like I did when I was twelve.

  “God, are you people deaf? Get off him!”

  “Bend over and spread your cheeks.”

  No.

  With one last effort, I roar, slinging my uncle off me. Everything is blurry. I see faces. They form into my uncle, laughing at me, curlers in his hair, and a silk robe hanging off his shoulders.

  “Get on your knees. Suck my cock, Wayne.”

  “No!” I take my knife and bury it in his stomach, killing him once and for all. “You fucking bastard.” A satisfied grin takes over my face, and the haze around my eyes starts to fade.

  “No! What did you do? What did you do?” Reaper yells in my ear, and the flurry of chaos whips me back into reality.

  I blink, the sweat stinging my eyes, and when I come back to real life, I see Sarah in front of me, hands cupped over her stomach, and blood spilling from her mouth. “No,” I whisper. “No!” I shout and lurch for her, but Reaper pushes me away as he catches Sarah as her knees buckle.

  “Sarah, I’m… I’m-I’m so sorry. I didn’t …. know it was you.” I fall to the ground, and Reaper holds his hand over the knife, surrounding the wound, but blood flows in thick streams over his hand. “Is she going to be okay?” The tears that leak from my eyes make sense now. “Doc! Doc, please, help her.”

  Everyone is screaming. The ol’ ladies are crying, and Reaper is crooning to Sarah, telling her to hang on. Maizey is screaming, the dogs are barking, but all I can see is Sarah’s eyes as they grow glassier and more vacant.

  “You can’t die, okay? You can’t die, Doll. I need you here. I need you more than fucking anything, please,” Reaper begs her, holding her limp body.

  “Reaper,” she gasps. “Don’t—” Sarah wheezes. “Don’t blame—”

  “Shhh, it’s okay. Don’t talk. Just focus on breathing for me, okay? That’s all I need you to do.”

  Doc swings open the basement door, and a few of the kids from NOLA run up the steps, chuckling until they see Sarah. She’s the only real mother here, and they immediately burst into tears.

  “Get them out of here! Get them out!” Reaper orders, slinging a bloody hand in the air.