Reaper

by K. L. Savage

  I may consider letting him live.

  Maybe.

  Depends on how I feel.

  “And you want to know what I love to do?” I take a step back, letting go of his face. I grab a very sharp scalpel from my arsenal of goodies and spin it around in my fingers. “Not many people know this about me, okay?” The light glints off the silver metal as I bring it down to his chest and carve out a shallow shaped heart, right where his heart lies. He screams with every second my blade is against his skin.

  The red beads and drips down his chest, pooling in his navel. Sweat drips from his hair, onto his bare thighs as his head drops. “I like to cut out the beating hearts of the ones who fuck me over, Alex. It’s why they call me Reaper. I like to watch you, watch me, watch your heartbeat in my hand and feel your soul sink into my palm on the very last effort your heart gives to stay alive.”

  “You’re a sick motherfucker!” the man yells and pulls at the restraints on his wrists. It’s no use. He has straps over his shins, thighs, and chest, and that doesn’t include the iron cuffs we have on his wrists. “Let me out of here!”

  And now the screams begin.

  It isn’t often I get to do what I’m named after because everyone thinks what Tongue does is the worst. Only a handful of men know what my poison is in the club, and that’s how it is going to stay.

  “Are you going to tell me what I want to know?” I ask, taking a step back and laying the scalpel down on the cart. Before I ever take out the hearts, I let my guys have their way too. Some pains get more information than others. I only take the heart when I know I won’t get any information, but this man will break. I see it in his eyes.

  “You’ll have to kill me,” he spits again, and it lands on my boots.

  Damn it. I just polished them.

  “Oh, we will have our fun first, though, okay?” I wave at Bullseye, who is known for his impeccable aim. He pulls the sharp metal darts from his pocket. He has a line painted on the floor, ten feet back. Regulations are seven feet and nine inches, but he is so damn good, he steps back another two feet.

  The man glances around frantically, staring at all of us one by one. “Wha—what is he doing? What’s that in his hand?”

  I pat the man’s head and stand directly beside him as Bullseye gets into position. “That is Bullseye. He loves to play darts. The heart I carved into you?” I jerk his head back and snarl, “He is going to aim for it.” I push him forward again, and Tongue chuckles. It’s slow and raspy, just like his voice, and damn if it doesn’t sound maniacal.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

  I sigh, stepping in front of him and place my boots between his legs on the chair. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me…” I shove the chair, and it falls back, slamming against the floor, and the metal vibrates from the force. I walk around him and squat, pressing my boots directly on his face. All it would take is a swift kick or my entire body weight to crush his head in. That’s it.

  Poof.

  He’d be gone.

  “My problem is that you think it’s okay to keep information. You realize you know who almost killed a nineteen-year-old kid, right? You’re okay with that?”

  He sniffles. He fucking sniffles and cries. “Man, I wasn’t directly a part of it. I swear to god. I swear.”

  “Now we are getting somewhere, Alex.” I shove my boot under the back of the chair and push it upward until it lands on its legs. Getting this guy to talk is harder than I expected. When Badge said he had the guy in the back of his car who spoke to the man who shot Boomer, I was stunned, relieved, and ready to get this shit over. I have my hands in many things, and the last thing I need is someone trying to start a war with me.

  They would lose.

  I’m a fucking gladiator, and anyone who comes up against me, I’ll kill without blinking.

  “Talk to me. What do you know?” I cross my arms, and Bullseye throws a dart that whizzes by Alex’s head. The man’s eyes are wide as they shift to the right. He must have felt the wind from the dart passing his head. “He doesn’t miss. He’s just upset that he doesn’t get to play.”

  “Fuck yeah I am. I haven’t had a human dartboard in like, three months. I’m rusty.”

  “I haven’t cut out any tongues in a while. It’s sad.” Tongue sighs longingly at his blade, as if she is a mistress he hasn’t seen and wants to make love to again.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you what I know, but you guys have to protect me. They will kill me if I say anything.”

  “They aren’t here right now threatening your life; we are. I think you better worry about us first. And I’m not protecting you. My son is out there healing from a fucking gunshot wound from your friend. You’re on your own after this.”

  “Please,” he begs. “Please, I’ll do anything.” The smell of piss fills the air, and Alex’s body starts to shake. His urine flows to the middle of the room since the floors are slanted an inch, inverting in the middle.

  “Fuck, that stinks,” Bullseye waves a hand in front of his face. “You need to drink more water.”

  We haven’t been the best hosts. I haven’t given him food or water, and it’s been two days. I like to deprave captives when they’re in my hands. The more desperate they are, the more honest they are.

  And I’m just looking for the truth.

  “You can get water once you tell me what you know. That’s a deal.” I open the fridge in the corner, take a new plastic bottle full of filtered cold water, and set it on the counter where all my weapons of choice are. “Speak, don’t beg. I’m getting impatient.”

  “Okay, okay.” Alex spits more blood out from his mouth and takes a deep breath in since he can’t breathe through his nose. “The man who came here the other night, his name was Sebastian. I hadn’t heard from him, so I assumed he got found.”

  “Damn right he did.” Bullseye throws another dart, harder this time, and the zing it makes as it zips by Alex’s head makes him whimper and cower into himself.

  “Your friend is dead,” I say, keeping my voice even and uncaring.

  “I figured as much.” He swallows and inhales again. “Fabian Trullo hired him.”

  “Fabian Trullo,” Bullseye repeats. “Why do I know that name?”

  “He is the stepson of Mateo Moretti,” Alex mumbles.

  “Holy shit, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Bullseye folds his hands behind his head. “I thought we were good with them, Prez?”

  “You’re sure about that? Moretti is behind this?” I ask the bleeding, begging prisoner. That’s the mafia boss here in Vegas. As far as I know, we are on good terms. We work together, we keep the city clean, do a few favors for each other. We get more done together than we would constantly battling against one another. So we struck a truce. He offers his help when I need it and vice versa.

  “I don’t know if it was Moretti. His stepson is an asshole. Word is he is trying to form his own business to branch away from the Moretti name.”

  “No way would the mafia turn their backs on us.” Bullseye stands in front of me, keeping his voice low so Alex can’t hear him.

  I don’t believe that for a second. Mafia are a dangerous crowd, and when they want change, they implement it. I’m not sure if this is a warning or a threat from Moretti, or a move from his stepson to try to show power. Either way, I need to retaliate. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Bullseye. Trust is something born within families, not truces.” I trust my MC, but people outside of it… Never.

  “You think Moretti would be dumb enough to do that to you?”

  “After what he did to the first club owner to get near us? I don’t think there is anything he wouldn’t do. And let’s not forget what he did to the President of the Vegas Vipers.” When I found the head of the man on my doorstep with a note that said ‘Truce,’ Moretti and I haven’t had one damn problem since.

  “So I can live now, right? I told you everything you needed to know.” Alex nods and gives us a swollen grin fil
led with hope.

  “I did say that, didn’t I?” I say with a click of my tongue. “Bullseye? Do the honors.”

  Bullseye gives me a knowing look before going back to the line he painted across the room.

  “I swear, I won’t tell a soul what happened here.”

  “I know you won’t,” I say and nod toward Bullseye.

  He flicks the small metal dart through the air, making it look as easy as a snap of the finger, and the sharp needle lands directly in the heart I carved in Alex’s chest, no doubt piercing the organ beating underneath it.

  “You—you—said—” Alex can’t finish his sentence, and he struggles to stay alive while his heart furiously pumps around the needle penetrating it.

  I grip the back of his neck and tilt my lips to the side, acting disappointed in myself. “Yeah, I lied.” I don’t carve out his heart while it’s still beating. He did tell me what I needed to know, so I won’t give him too much of a painful death. It’s nice of me. His pupils go from sharp points to large black circles once the life leaves him. I stand, popping my neck and back from the last few hours of stress.

  “Thought you didn’t like liars?” Bullseye plucks the dart from Alex’s chest and wipes his blood on his jeans.

  “Never trust someone who can lie.”

  His brows wrinkle as he ponders what I said, and Tongue steps from the shadows, a place he seems to live these days, and says what Bullseye must be thinking, “But everyone can lie.”

  “Exactly.”

  Never trust a soul. Never trust a tongue. People will make anything they say sound pretty and, more often than not, they pay for the ugly truth that lies underneath.

  9

  Sarah

  “Sarah.”

  My name is whispered in the back of my dreams.

  “Sarah,” the voice croaks. It’s deep and sleepy, almost sounding like a struggle. “Wake up, sis.”

  The voice sounds familiar, feels familiar. It draws me out of my dream, and the closer I get to consciousness, the further away the voice gets. My head drops from the mattress, and I jerk awake, catching myself right before I fall out of the chair and on the floor.

  “Well, hey, sleeping beauty.”

  The sound of my brother’s voice replaces all the caffeine in the world. “Boomer! You’re awake!” I throw my arms around him as much as I can without hurting him. He grunts from the bounce of the bed, but he manages to wrap his hands around my back. Tears roll down my face with pure joy. When Eric told me all the complications of post-surgery, I could hardly sleep. I worried myself to death until finally exhaustion took hold and sucked me under. “I was so scared I was going to lose you.”

  He drops his arms and pulls away from me to lay back down. He looks so tried, and he has only been awake for a few minutes. “It’s going to take more than a bullet to get me down.”

  “I don’t know. That bullet took you down pretty hard. I thought you were dead.”

  “I didn’t say it didn’t hurt.” He winces when he tries to sit up on his own, and little beads of sweat break out over his forehead. He is pale, eyes dark and sunken in, and his lips are a bit chapped. His dark brown eyes usually carry a golden hue, but not today; not while he is in pain and weak. His hair needs a good washing and, to be honest, he kind of stinks.

  I fan my hand in front of my face and grimace. “You smell.”

  His stomach shakes, and something between a laugh and a groan escapes him. “Way to kick a man while he is down. I can’t help that I smell, and it isn’t like I can bathe myself.”

  “I can give you a sponge bath.” He goes to interrupt me, but I shove my hand over his mouth. “Just listen to me. You can keep your boxers on and the blanket over your … you know. I don’t want to see that anyway. Gross. I’m just saying, I can help. Let me, please.” At this point, I want to do anything to help. I have never been in the position to actually care for someone before.

  It’s always just been about me, trying to survive, trying to make it to the next day. I didn’t have the energy to worry about anyone other than me. Bouncing around from foster home to foster home, the parents were either in it for the check or most of the time they were absent. Some of the kids were bullies themselves, and I couldn’t blame them; not when life had been so cruel.

  And then I landed at my last foster home, where the man videotaped my beatings. Not just mine, but other kids before me. He recorded the kill too. The sick fuck liked to re-watch what he did to us over and over again. The least I can do for Boomer is help him bathe, especially when he killed the man who nearly took my life.

  I can see the reluctance in the shadows of his eyes, but eventually he gives a small tilt of his head.

  “I’ll be right back with your stuff, sponge, and a bowl, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” I snort. “Duh, you can’t.”

  “You little bitch.” He smiles and tries to throw a pillow at me, but it falls short since he has no strength, and it hits the foot of the bed. “Go. And can you bring back some water? I’m dying down here. And something to eat?”

  “I’ll bring water and soup, nothing too heavy.”

  “Thanks, Sarah. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” His eyes open and close slowly as he fights sleep. “You’re the only reason—” but he doesn’t finish his sentence. Exhaustion wins, and he falls peacefully asleep. I won’t wake him. I’ll still go upstairs and get the necessary items together, grab a book, and head back down to be with him. I haven’t left his side over the last two days, except when Reaper came down and told me to get upstairs because he had some club business to attend to down here.

  And with the man they had dragging behind him, I assumed club business was nothing good.

  My hand slides up the stainless-steel rail as I climb the steps. When I open the basement door and make my way into the kitchen, I notice all the windows open. A fresh breeze comes through, swaying the red curtains. The smell of the earth, hot and dry, makes me wish for it to rain. It’s the desert for a reason, though, rain isn’t something that comes here often.

  I rummage through the cabinets, looking for the soups and canned good. Even after a year, I haven’t been able to learn where things are yet, and it isn’t because I don’t pay attention. It’s because these men don’t put shit back in the same spot twice. No matter how many times I rearrange it or label it, they just throw shit wherever they want.

  For instance, why is the silverware in the drawer where the potholders are? I made a separate place for it. It drives me bonkers.

  “What are you doing?”

  Reaper’s voice always startles me when he comes out of nowhere. I bang my head on the cabinet and groan, rubbing the spot where the edge of the wood hit me.

  “Shit, are you okay?” His concern makes my heart trip and melt. Reaper pulls my hand away and drags my head out of the cabinet where I was looking for soup. “Let me see it.”

  “I’m fine.” I bat his hand away, hating that even the briefest of touches from him makes my body run wild.

  A stern expression falls over his face. His thick eyebrows furrow a bit, and his lips press into a line. “I’ll be the one to determine that. Let me see. I won’t say it again.”

  I’m not sure why, but it sounds like a threat should come after that. So I run with it. “And if you have to? What will you do? Spank me?”

  His eyes turn to fire and before I can annoy him more, he spins me around and parts my hair. “I’ll spank you again. I’m sure you remember the first time.”

  I do remember the first time, and it was awful. It wasn’t pleasurable—it was meant for punishment. A cold dose of reality drenches me and makes my bones shiver from the memory of the rejection. I was only sixteen, so I understood why he did it.

  “You’re fine. You might have a bump, but you’ll live.”

  I reach into the cabinet and wrap my fingers around the cool can and bring it out. I close the cabinets only to open another one next to it to grab a bowl. “Jeez, don’t sound too disappointed.”
I slam the cabinet harder than I should and get the can opener from another cabinet, slamming that too. I swear, sometimes I wonder if Boomer and I should leave, and then I wouldn’t have to love Reaper and see him every damn day. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so annoyed with me, and his life will be better. That’s how he acts. It’s like I’m this huge burden, and it’s starting to wear me down.

  “Hey, what the fuck? I wouldn’t ever want that. You make me feel like such a bad guy, Sarah.”

  The electronic can opener buzzes as I grab the countertop and hang my head. “You aren’t a bad guy. You’re the best guy I know. I don’t really feel like getting a lecture from you, okay?” It’s the same talk, different day. Any time I hit on him or rub against him, he gives me the ‘you’re too young for me’ talk and honestly, I’m in the mood to dish it, not take it.

  Another gust comes through the window and dries out my eyes, so I glance away and pour the soup in the bowl, throw it in the microwave, and press start. Instead of a glass of water, I pull out a pitcher and fill it full of ice and filtered water. I don’t want Boomer to have to worry about not having anything to drink.

  “You need to grow up, Sarah. Life is full of lectures, and you only get so many because you don’t seem to be taking in anything I’m saying.”

  “Oh, I’m taking it in, Reaper. It’s loud and clear as fucking day. I’m getting food for Boomer; I don’t want to talk about this right now.” I hit my fist against the counter, doing all I can to make sure I don’t punch him across the face. The man is maddening.

  “Well, that’s too fucking bad.” He spins me around by my arm and grips my wrist tight, pinning it to the counter. “Stop throwing yourself at me. I’m too—”

  “Old? I’m too young? I know. I’ve heard it before. I’ve heard it a hundred times, Jesse.”

  “Then why won’t you listen to me?” He takes my other hand in his, trapping me with his body against the sink. A bit of water from where I filled up the pitcher soaks through the back of my shirt since I didn’t wipe it off the counter. “I’m begging you to listen to me. Why must you fight me every chance you get?” His words are soft and a bit broken, as if it hurts for him to speak them. Reaper’s hold loosens around my wrists, but he doesn’t let go. “Stop fighting me,” he pleas, laying his forehead on mine. It’s a tender gesture, one that gives me hope, one that, for the first time, makes me wonder if he does have feelings for me.