by K. L. Savage
“Sorry, Tool. I have back to back massages today. You bikers keep me busy.” She’d really be busy if she opened her legs for the members, but she isn’t that kind of woman, and I respect that. I don’t even dip my dick in the cut-sluts these days. After Reaper found Sarah, and Boomer is off in Atlantic City being in love and shit, the hit it and quit it life got kind of old.
Not that I’m taking any notes from Boomer. I’m still mad at him for ditching us, but things aren’t as strained as they used to be all those months ago.
“Fine,” I pout and hand her a hundred-dollar bill. She racks up here. I swear, I’m in the wrong damn business. “Think I could be a massage therapist?” I ask her, thinking I really should change my ways.
She snorts and stuffs the money in her pocket. “Hell no. You aren’t cute enough.”
“Hey! I’m cute!” I defend myself and instantly cover my nipples with my palms, feeling a bit vulnerable and used. It’s all in good fun, especially when Becks throws her head back and laughs.
See? Fun.
“If you call a shark cute,” she mumbles.
I gasp, putting my hand to my chest. “Now that’s crossing the line, Becks.” She’s right. I’ll scare off clientele being six-foot-three and two-hundred and forty pounds of solid muscle. I’m tattooed pretty much all over my body. Getting ink makes me relax, so I’ve had a lot of stressed out times in my life considering the only place I have blank is my left ring finger.
Even if I have a jaded aspect of love, part of me thinks I’ll find it one day. It’s dumb.
“Bye, Tool,” she sings, waving as she leaves my room to go on to her next client.
I fall back on the bed and sink into the mattress. I could fall asleep right now I’m so relaxed, but Reaper wants me to go see him, and no one ever denies the President what he wants. With a groan, I roll out of bed and rub my hands over my face. It’s time to get the day started. I make my way toward the dresser and grab a soft black T-shirt that’s been washed one too many times, causing it to be the most comfortable damn thing I own.
Next, I slide on a pair of grease-stained jeans and my cut, followed by my boots. A loud whoop comes from the main room, and I sigh. I never thought I’d ever come to this decision, but I want my own place. I’m tired of living here. Tired of the loud music and constant partying. Like Reaper, I’m ready to be out on my own. Reaper and Sarah moved out of the clubhouse last week and built a house on the property.
It’s something I want to talk to him about. I also want to bring up an idea I’ve been considering for a while, since the Prez is trying to get us on the more legal side of things. I’m not sure how the meeting will go since I also manage Kings’ Garage. It’s also on the property. It’s kind of like we have our own town on the outskirts of Vegas. Our property is gated, safe and secure, and it’s getting larger by the day, but I want us to branch out more.
I want the Ruthless Kings on the Vegas strip.
I come out of my room and shut the door to find Poodle leaning against the bar talking to Skirt. Poodle has his damn sissy ass dog with him, and I always give him shit for it. While I walk, I tuck my handy dandy screwdriver behind my ear and make my way up to the two idiots.
“She won first place, Skirt. You should have seen her. She did perfect. Look at this big blue ribbon! She’s so damn pretty; isn’t that right, Lady? Who’s a good girl? Who’s the best girl?” He makes his voice all high-pitched as if he’s talking to a baby and then makes kissy noises at her.
She returns his affection with a kiss of her own, licking him on the cheek. For a sissy dog, she is adorable. She’s a standard poodle with groomed fluffy white hair and has one bow placed on both ears. Poodle lavishes that dog with anything and everything. He even takes her to this doggy spa, for her to relax after one of her shows.
Are you fucking kidding me? A spa for dogs to relax.
“Aye, I bet she looked like a white fluffy cloud trottin’ about. Ain’t that right, Lady?” Skirt scratches under Lady’s chin, and she leans into it, adoring the attention.
Poodle sees me and his eyes harden as he stands up straighter, stepping in front of Lady to protect her. I would never hurt an animal, they’re too damn cute, but a human?
I’ll hurt a human and won’t even blink doing it.
“Tool.”
“Poodle,” I greet, trying to peek around his body to get a look at the little prissy dog he loves so much. “Heard your Lady won a beauty contest.” His face goes from white to red with anger. I love calling them beauty contests. Poodle is so damn serious about these dog shows that I can’t help but give him shit for it. I mean, he runs around in a circle, with his cut on in biker boots, with a dog that makes more money than he does. Lady is the kind of dog a governor or a lawyer would have, not a biker.
“They are AKC registered dog shows, Tool! And if you knew how hard Lady trained—”
“Oh, give me a break.” I roll my eyes as he tries to tell me how much Lady has put into this show business. As if it’s actually blood, sweat, and tears.
Well, maybe for Poodle because … he’s a bitch.
I love ’em for it, though.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about getting a dog,” I tell him and watch as his facial expression changes.
Poodle gasps, looking offended. “Why on earth would you do that to a dog?”
Skirt tosses his head back and laughs; it’s hearty and loud. It’s the kind of laugh people can’t help but smile at. He almost laughs like Santa Clause. Oh, now there’s an idea. I’ll have to bring it up with Reaper about Skirt being Santa at the children’s hospital this year. I refuse to do it. The outfit makes my balls itch.
“Tool!” Reaper’s voice bellows from down the hall, and I curse. How can I forget about a meeting I just reminded myself about?
“This conversation isn’t over,” I tell Poodle. “I’ll see you around, Lady.”
“You’ll do no such thing! You’ll stay away from my award-winning dog, Tool.”
I let out an evil chuckle as I walk down the hall to the kitchen. Once I’m out of Poodle’s sight, I put on my game face for Prez, but first, I need coffee. I stop in front of the huge coffee pot—the kind found in restaurants—and grab the one without the orange handle.
“Orange means decaf. Orange means decaf,” I chant to remind myself what Sarah told me a few weeks ago. We only have decaf because Reaper wants to make sure he has it on hand for when Sarah gets pregnant. We don’t ever talk about babies with her. It’s a touchy subject. Everyone knows a few months ago she had a miscarriage, and now she and Reaper have been trying ever since. It will happen, that I believe, but it isn’t easy for her at all.
I pour myself a mug of the black java and inhale the rich goodness.
“Hi.”
I jump, spill the burning hot coffee all over my hands when I see Tongue standing in the doorway, picking his nails with his blade. “Fucking hell, Tongue. You have to stop creeping up on people.” I put the mug down on the counter and get a paper towel to clean myself up.
“I’ve been here the entire time,” he drawls slowly and leans against the wall, a boot propped up on the trim.
“You have not. No one was in here when I came in.”
“Maybe you should be more aware of your surroundings, Tool. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the upper hand on you,” he says all too casually.
“Don’t you have blades to sharpen or something? I need to meet with Reaper.” I pour another cup of coffee since I’m wearing the first cup and walk out of the kitchen and down another hall. The wall is lined with pictures from the previous generation of Ruthless Kings, from worn black and white photos to recent colored ones; it shows history. Reaper’s dad was the President when my mom and I arrived all those years ago, and that man saved our life.
I owe everything to this club. No matter how much time has gone by, I’ll never be able to fully repay what the Ruthless Kings have done for me.
The last picture is all of us on Sarah’s prom
night. “Damn, I fucking look good in a suit,” I say out loud when my eyes land on myself. “I clean up good. I don’t give a fuck what Poodle says.” That little shit. He’s becoming the bane of my existence. He’s like the little brother I never always wanted.
Yes, never always because sometimes I do and other times I don’t.
“They say talking to yourself is a form of insanity.” Reaper’s low voice makes me stand up a bit straighter. He’s my best friend, but he’s still in charge, and he deserves respect.
“Have you met Tongue?” I retort, snorting before taking a sip of my coffee.
A sudden brush of something breezes by my hair and pierces wall in front of me. “I heard that.” Tongue’s voice slithers like a snake in the dark hallway from … somewhere that it isn’t anywhere near me.
I glance down to the floor to see a piece of my black hair by my boot. My heart pounds. No. Not the hair. Not my fucking hair. I tilt my head up to see his knife sticking out of the wall then back down at my hair.
“Remember, I don’t miss, I got what I wanted.” Tongue cackles with what sounds like hysteria.
“He cut my hair!” My voice cracks. “Shit, Reaper. Does it look bad? No, don’t tell me. I can’t take it.” I pat the side and see if I can feel the missing piece. I hope it isn’t noticeable.
Reaper grabs me by the cut and throws me into his office. I’m barely able to keep the coffee from spilling again as the door slams. “Grow a pair. It’s hair. Not the end of the world. It will grow back.”
I stick out my bottom lip and sit in the leather chair. “It might not.”
He gives me a look that dares me to say something else, but I keep my mouth shut. I bring the mug to my lips and slurp the coffee down my throat as Reaper leans back in his chair, puts his boots up on the table, and laces his fingers behind his head. “You wanted to talk? I have fifteen minutes before Sarah and I need to leave for the specialist.”
“How’s she doing?” I ask quietly, worried for Sarah. She’s a little sister to most of us, and knowing how much she’s hurting sucks because we can’t do anything about it.
“She’s good.”
I’ll have to ask Tongue what’s really going on. He and Sarah are thick as thieves somehow. “How’s Moretti?” He's been in a coma since the hotel explosion, and for his protection, he’s been recovering in the basement. I haven’t been down there in a few days to check on him, but it’s hard to see him like that; laying there with burns all over his body.
“No change. Doc says he has great brain activity. He doesn’t know why Moretti won’t wake up.”
“He will when he’s ready,” I say, confident that Moretti, our new friend, will wake up ready to take on the mob world again. I know his men aren’t liking it here. It’s “too dirty” for their liking.
So they say.
“You gonna to get to the point, Tool? Or do you want to ask about everyone in the club? You’re the VP; you should know these things.”
I lift my brows, a bit shocked with the annoyance and clipped tone in his voice.
He blows out a breath, puffing out his cheeks. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Tool. It’s been a long few months.” He runs a hand down his face, and that’s when I notice just how tired he is. He looks like he has aged ten years with more silver decorating his hair and beard.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, thanks for asking. Just worn out. What can I help you with?” He changes the subject from himself to the matters at hand. Typical Reaper. He doesn’t like to talk about himself.
“Well, I was wondering if I could build my own place on the property? I’m tired of clubhouse living.”
“Hell yeah, you know it. Skirt is great at construction. He built our house. I’ll tell him to meet with you.”
“Does he work in a kilt too? Knowing I can see a big, white ass with red hair at any time makes me a little sick.”
Reaper chuckles. “He does. You’ll see ass too. My house is solid, though, so if the man wants to wear his kilt, I don’t care. I want quality work.”
“Fine,” I grumble. I’ll need to make sure I never put myself in the position to see his ass.
“That it?” Reaper slams his heavy boots on the floor and takes his pen in hand, getting ready to cross our meeting off his calendar.
I scratch the side of my shaved scalp and hum. “Ah, um, no. I …want to open up a business on the strip. I think it will be good for the club to get back out there. Like a live music type bar, no shady shit. Just good music and booze. I’m thinking it can be called ‘Kings Club’.” I stretch my hand through the air to make it look like I’m painting a vivid picture. He doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “I have the money to buy the place already, but since it will be club owned, whatever revenue comes in will be the club’s. It’s a good way to make legal money, Reap.” He remains quiet, so I continue. “I know we have the garage and a few other things, but it’s Vegas. We would—”
He holds up a hand to stop me from saying any more, and I take a big swallow of hot coffee, scalding the back of my throat. My pulse jumps on the side of my neck as I wait for the Prez to answer me.
“It sounds like a fucking fantastic idea. Are you going to have a kitchen in the club?”
“Just bar food,” I tell him, and he doesn’t look impressed by the frown that immediately takes over his mouth.
“I think bar food for lunch is good, but for dinner, we should keep it a little classy; show Vegas we aren’t all that bad, you know?”
I nod, letting his words roll around in my head a bit. “Yeah, that can work. I just need to pick out the space.”
“Take Bullseye with you to look. He’s healed enough now to go out, plus he’s getting grumpy. He’s been threatening to kill everyone with a dart,” Reaper snickers, but I don’t doubt Bullseye. That guy is too talented when it comes to darts, and I’m not going to be the guy to piss him off.
“Good idea. This project will keep him busy, get him out of the clubhouse. He can’t ride yet, right?”
“No, not yet. You should…” Reaper can’t even get the words out because he starts laughing so hard. “You should get one of those little carts that you attach to your bike.” His laugh gets all pitchy, and his eyes start to water. “Can you imagine that big fucker in that side cart?”
Both of us are hollering now, slapping our knees at the thought of Bullseye sitting there with a helmet and big goggles.
“Alright, alright. I need to get going. Ah, I needed that.” He takes a few deep breaths, and I stand, getting ready to go. “Keep me updated, alright? I’m excited for you, Tool. You deserve this.”
I tilt my mouth in a half smile and knock my knuckles on the trim as I make my way out and down the hallway. I take a right when I get to the kitchen and go down the hall to enter the main room when I’m blinded by Skirt’s ass.
He’s bent over, petting Lady, and his ass and balls are on display for the entire world to see. “My eyes! Oh god! Bleach, somebody!” I cover my eyes and stumble as I walk to figure out my way without looking.
“Ye just jealous yer balls aren’t as big as mine, Tool.”
I’ll never be able to make sure I don’t see his ass. Skirt is too unexpected. One minute it’s deep laughs, the next we get flashed with ginger roots. “You’ve stolen my soul,” I say painfully, clutching my chest.
“What soul?” Poodle mutters.
“How do ye think I get all this sexy hair, lad? I’ve gained plenty of souls,” he tells me as-a-matter-of-factly with a cheeky grin.
He might be a hairy fucker, but he’s trusted, and that’s all that matters to me.
2
JULIETTE
“Dad, you have to let me go.” I place my hands on my hips and glare at him. I understand I’m his only daughter, his only child, but I can’t live in the same house as my dad for the rest of my life. I’m twenty-five-years-old. It’s time for me to spread my wings, or whatever the hell women do who are my age.
“Pumpkin, I don’t wa
nt you to go. You’re safe here. Don’t you like it?”
“Oh no!” I shake my finger at him when I see him giving me the sad dad eyes. They’re real, and they affect me way too much. It’s how he got me to stay here all through college. And I’m not going to fall for it anymore. “You don’t get to pull that on me. I’ve done everything you’ve asked, and I want my own life. I love you, you know that, but it’s time for me to move out, Dad. You know it. Plus, it isn’t like you aren’t going to have my apartment patrolled every second of every day,” I accuse him with a small smile.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbles under a breath, adjusting the belt that carries his gun, cuffs, and a few other things that I don’t want to know about. My father is the sheriff of Las Vegas. There are things he does that are dangerous and life-threatening, and the less I know the better.
It sounds naïve, and maybe I want it that way. I like being blissfully unaware when it comes to his job unless I absolutely have to be. I worry about him every single day. The worry never goes away. It never fades. Every time he puts on that uniform and walks out the door, I wonder if it will be the last time I’ll see him.
My dad is my best friend and without him… I rub the ache that starts to form in my chest; I don’t even want to think about it. It hurts too much. I’ve been hoping he will retire in the next few years and relax, and then maybe I’ll stop worrying all the time.
“Dad.” I take two strides until I’m standing in front of him, placing my hands on his shoulders. “I know you’re going to worry, but I want to make my own life. I love you. This has nothing to do with you.” It does. I’m twenty-five and a virgin. Not because I want to be, but because boys aren’t allowed in the house. Somehow, every time I go out on a date with a man, right when it gets hot and heavy, one of my dad’s deputies knocks on the window of the car and ruins it.
I need to be out on my own because my dad is the biggest cockblock there is. I want to grow up. I want to feel like a real woman, and having my virginity doesn’t make me feel like that.