by K. L. Savage
“Nothing I don’t deserve. I’ll be back.” He walks out of my hold, leaving me to grab nothing but a ghost and the fleeting stare of the skull on his back.
13
TOOL
“Are you fucking kidding me!” Reaper’s roar is directed at me while I kneel on the ground in the chapel. The long desk that we all sit around is pushed against the wall, and my brothers surround me. Reaper rips off my cut and tosses it against Bullseye’s chest, and he flinches, not expecting to have to catch it.
I’m in so much fucking trouble.
Reaper grips my neck and jerks my head back. “One rule, Tool. One. Don’t fuck the sheriff’s daughter. You couldn’t keep your dick away, could you? Do you know how bad this can get for us? We have a war on our hands, Tool. A war, and you’re fucking the enemy!” he screams in my left ear, causing it to ring. His breath is warm puffing against my cheek as he debates how he’s going to attack. “Come on, Tool!” he hisses, and spits flies and lands on my face, wet and hot, almost like it’s a toxin trying to burn flesh skin off.
“I’m sorry, Prez.” It’s all I say because again I’ve fucked up beyond belief. He doesn’t need to know that I haven’t fucked her because I’ve done other things. I want to fuck her. I want more with her than I’ve ever had, but I know I need to let her go.
I just don’t think I can.
“Take your shirt off,” Reaper orders, taking a blade from Tongue’s hands.
Tongue usually looks happy when he gets to see someone cut up and bleeding, but right now, he can’t even look at me.
I reach behind my head and grab the collar of my shirt, yanking it off to give him what he wants. “Is the kid okay?” I ask about the deputy who was left at the entrance of our driveway just like Ghost was, then I toss my shirt on the ground. I know what everyone sees; not even all the tattoos can cover the cigarette burns my father left all over my body. Numerous scars on my torso and back. The tattoos make me feel more confident since the scars can’t be directly seen, but puffy circles of scar tissue are raised, and tattoos can’t hide that.
“Doc is looking him over,” Bullseye says, and Reaper glares at him for speaking out of turn.
“Don’t,” Reaper snarls through tight teeth. He bends down and keeps his voice so low that only I can hear him. “I have to make an example. I can’t look weak in front of my men, and you’ve made me look weak more than once, Tool. I’ve put off the punishment for Sarah because I knew it was an accident. This, me telling you to say away from the sheriff’s daughter; I thought that would be easy for you. You could have any piece of ass, any cut-slut, so why; what’s so special about her?”
My eyes land on a few of my brothers that are around me, Tongue, Knives, and Pirate. I notice Pirate doesn’t have a bottle of rum in his hand like usual, and his typically pale skin is a normal color.
“We’ve been through a lot together, Tool. You’re still the guy who holds my trust, but I need to know what the hell I have to get ready for if you don’t plan on letting her go.” Reaper waits for my answer, and I honestly have no idea what to tell him.
I want to keep seeing her, but I also don’t want her to be burdened with a man like me. Having her is a huge gain for me, but her having me? I’ll only and will forever be someone dimming her light. I’m nothing but a loss for her.
“I’m not going to let her go,” I say, daring to meet his flaming brown eyes. “She’s ol’ lady material for me, Reaper.”
A few murmurs of surprise roll around me from my brothers. They don’t see me with many women, and it’s because I keep my dick out of the public eye. It’s why I don’t fuck sluts in the clubhouse and bring a woman into my room.
Usually.
Juliette is in there right now.
“You’re an idiot, Tool. The sheriff’s daughter?”
“Coming from the man married to someone who’s nineteen.” I close my eyes when I realize my slip up. I may have just signed my death sentence. “Reap—” Before I can finish saying his name, his fist connects to my jaw with so much force, my back hits the hardwood, and my elbow snaps one of the floorboards in half. I groan, and Reaper’s boot lands on my chest, keeping pinned me to the ground. “I deserved that. I’m sorry.”
“For disobedience and not following my command, you’re going to be marked with a warning.”
Oh fuck. No, no, no, not this.
“Reaper,” I choke, begging him with my eyes to reconsider this. I know that I have to do this because I deserve it. I’m lucky he didn’t strip me of my patch when I punched Sarah in the face. It was a complete accident. I still can’t believe she jumped in front of Boomer and took that hit. For months, Reaper has been waiting for the perfect punishment because he didn’t want to punish me in front of everyone.
“Once this is done, we move forward.” Reaper places the tip of the blade over my heart, and I take a few deep breaths trying to mentally prepare myself for the pain. Reaper has a three-strike rule before he cuts out a member’s heart.
He engraves a heart on the chest.
Next, if the member disobeys again, he carves an arrow through it.
The third time, that’s when someone takes their last breath and he holds someone’s bloody soul in his palm.
“Give me a lighter.”
Oh, yeah, he heats the blade too making sure that it scars. It’s a reminder I have to look at every day for the rest of my life of how I failed my best friend.
He stares at me like this hurts him more than it will me. Yeah, I highly doubt that. Reaper’s hair is hanging in his face, and when Bullseye flicks the light on, an iridescent glow flickers in his pupil. Reaper places the blade over the fire, letting it heat until the metal turns black from the fumes. He flips the knife over making sure the metal gets nice and scalding to ruin my flesh with, and a scold sweat breaks over my body.
Instead of Reaper, it’s my father standing over me after beating me until I can’t move, relighting the cigarette every time he hits my skin. I can already smell my burning flesh. I can’t bitch out. I have to do this.
I don’t struggle.
I don’t beg for mercy.
I lay there, waiting for my punishment like I always have.
Reaper bends down and removes his boot, his brows pinch together, and we share a look, one that’s full of apology and acceptance. Without warning, he presses the knife above my heart and starts to cut. I keep my screams inside, not wanting the members to see their VP bitch and moan over pain when I’ve experienced worse.
Still, hot metal searing my skin isn’t the greatest feeling.
I tense, squeezing my eyes shut and take deep, gasping breaths, almost like I’m hyperventilating, but breathing so fast and hard helps with the pain. The tip of the blade curves up then down, and sweat drips off me in puddles as my body reacts to the fire being placed on my skin. Reaper twists the knife, bringing it up to another curve before bringing it to the starting point.
It’s done.
He removes the knife from my skin, my aching, burning flesh and the smell makes me want to vomit. The bile works its way up my throat, but I swallow it down and roll over onto my hands and knees, shaking my head to try to clear the dizziness.
“Don’t make me put that arrow on you, Tool. Don’t fucking make me.” Reaper hauls me up to my feet, and my nostrils flare with the intensity of my breathing as I look my President in the eye.
“You won’t have to.” Blood drips down my chest and the ridges of my abs. My shoulders rise and fall, my skin is trembling from the shock. Reaper stretches out his hand, telling me he’s ready to put it all behind us.
A flash of my father takes Reaper’s place, and I close my eyes and try to pull my sanity together.
It isn’t him. Reaper isn’t him. This was a different punishment. You’re fine. You’ve proved yourself. That’s the difference.
“Tool?” Reaper barks my name to bring me out of my daze, and when I open my eyes, expecting to see an image of my drunk father, I see Reaper an
d his scowl.
It’s hard to believe, but what a relief. My father is dead. He can’t hurt me anymore. I made sure of that.
“I’m fine,” I say, walking over to where my shirt is on laying on the floor and pick it up. “My cut? Do I get to keep my patch?” The words are rough as they leave my parched throat. If Reaper takes my VP status, I’ll be fucking devastated. This MC is everything to me; being Reaper’s right-hand man means everything to me.
Reaper rips my cut from Bullseye’s hands and throws it to me. “Tool, you’ll be my VP until your last fucking breath or mine. You don’t have to worry about that. Go rest for the night, all of you.” He slowly circles to look at everyone. “We will have a long day tomorrow. The sheriff picked a fight with the wrong people. Badge? Stay behind. I want to talk to you.”
Everyone heads toward the door, a languid thunder of boots ready for their freedom. I’m the first one to pass Badge. I don’t think he knows what’s going on with the Sheriff, and I should have given him slack, but I stand by what I said.
Either be a cop or be in an MC.
He can’t have both, and he can’t be both. For this purpose right here. The water is too fucking mucky, and whatever Reaper is about to talk to him about, it can’t be worse than having a heart carved in your chest; warning you that any more mistakes is one step closer to having your soul reaped.
I pat Badge on the back, and a few guys do the same to me, including Poodle. The biggest pain in the ass that I have here.
“Took balls to lay there while he had that knife to your chest and not scream or say a peep. I can still smell your flesh, and I think your chest is smoking,” Poodle coughs and waves at it. I look down to see what he’s talking about, and I snort. Damn, it fucking is. No wonder it hurts so bad. My skin is cooking.
“Balls, aye, but not bigger than mine!” Skirt slams his hand on my shoulder and shakes me. Since my chest is so damn sensitive, my heart feels like it’s about to fall out of my sternum and onto the floor.
“Thanks, guys.” I don’t have the energy to give them shit. I just want to get cleaned up and lay down. When I enter the main room, all the cut-sluts are there waiting, and Becks is just chilling on the couch, watching TV.
“I can make you feel better, Tool,” Millie purrs, sliding her hands up my arms. “I can kiss it better.” She puckers her lips, and I cringe internally thinking about where those lips have been. For instance, around half of the MC’s cocks, and I’m not about sloppy one hundredth, or whatever the hell it’s called.
“No thanks, Millie. You know my rules.” I have a woman waiting on me in my room who I’ll risk my life for. I’m not giving that up for a used-up piece of ass. No offense to Millie, but that’s exactly what she is. She throws herself for anyone hoping to gain that property patch, but I don’t know when the cut-sluts will get it through their minds that they’re just time passers for us until the right woman comes along.
“Fine, but it would be so good.” She winks and sashays her flat ass back behind the bar.
I curl my lip and pivot on my heel to enter the hallway that leads to my room when Poodle stands in my way. “Poodle, not now, man,” I groan.
“Poodle? Where are… Oh, hi, Tool,” Melissa, one of the girls we saved from the sex trafficking incident in Jersey comes out of Poodle’s room.
“You okay?” Poodle’s fun tone is gone, the one he constantly uses when he speaks to her. “Bad dream?” he asks, and she gives me a quick look before her cheeks turn red, and she hurries back in the room.
“Poodle, if you got something to say, say it. I got shit I still need to take care of tonight.” I start the journey down the hall, staring at my bedroom door at the end of it.
“Keep your mutt away from my Lady; you hear me? Both of your mutts,” he warns. There’s the Poodle I know and love. “She has a big show coming up, and I won’t have your dogs ruining her big break.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ, Poodle. Again with the damn shows? And if Yeti wants to get it on with Lady, and she’s willing, who am I to stop love?”
“You better! I swear, Tool. I’ll—”
I open my bedroom door and slam it in his face, not wanting to deal with him. I lay my head against the wood and take a few deep breaths, locking the deadbolt in place.
“This isn’t over!” he shouts, causing me to smile a bit. The bickering is never over between us. I take a moment to catch my breath before turning around, hoping to find Juliette when I see my bed is empty.
Fuck, did she leave? “Juliette? Juliette!” I hurry to the restroom to see her drying her face with a towel, dressed in one of my shirts. It’s a Ruthless Kings shirt, black, a bit newer than a lot of my other shirts, and it’s way too big on her, but damn, a shirt has never looked better. “You’re still here,” I say with relief.
She smiles, but it fades fast when her eyes land on my chest. “Oh my god, Logan!” She runs to me and reaches out to touch my chest, but she doesn’t because she’s afraid she’ll hurt me.
Her touch could never hurt me.
It’s the only thing that reminds me I’m able to feel something other than hate.
“Sit on the bed. I saw a first-aid kit under your sink; let me take care of you,” she says and shoos me toward the bed. I sit, and she’s satisfied that I don’t argue with her, as she opens the cabinet door under the sink and rummages through whatever goodies are down there.
Let me take care of you.
But how do I take care of you, Juliette?
14
JULIETTE
The silence is a bit awkward as I clean his wound. I’m not good with silence. I always have to be the one who fills it with something, anything. I wet a bandage with rubbing alcohol and gently start to clean away the dead, burnt skin. My eyes water, but not from the fumes of the alcohol, but from the idea that someone would do this to Logan. I want to know why, but I don’t know how to ask because I have a feeling it’s my fault.
So I do what I always do when I’m upset or nervous. I sing. I keep the Nora Jones song quiet and soft, careful not to be too loud. I don’t want to annoy anyone, and as I clean the perfectly carved heart on Logan’s beautiful chest, I realize how carnal the people must be to live day to day in an organization like this.
“You have a beautiful voice,” Logan says after a few minutes of me poking at his chest.
“Sorry, I’ll be quiet. I sing to fill the silence.” I turn away and drop the bandage in the trash can. My hair falls over my face and hides my embarrassment. I dig through the red box of the first-aid kit and pluck out another piece of gauze.
His hand lands on top of mine when I reach for the hydrogen peroxide, completely covering my small finger with his wide palm. “I never want you to stop singing. I could listen to you for the rest of my life. Continue, please.”
Logan doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to say please. It almost sounds foreign coming from a man who looks like him. Logan strikes me as the kind of guy who demands what he wants. The kind of man who would make me sing, not simply ask me to.
“I-I don’t know.” My face is as hot as freaking hot sauce. “I don’t sing in front of people.”
“I’m not people, little sparrow.”
“Why do you call me that?” I finally ask. “Is it because of my nose or something? Do I have a beak nose?” I cover my nose with my hand and gasp, blocking it so he can’t see it.
He tosses his head back and laughs until he’s wincing, holding his chest from the pull and tug of the skin. “You have a beautiful nose. When I first met you, I thought you were a princess, but the more I heard your voice, the more I thought you sounded like a song and song sparrows always have the prettiest tune. And now I know you can sing like that; it just proves that I’m right. Come on. Sing for me.”
“Logan—”
“My heart is in your hands. Let me hear that voice.” His knuckles brush against my chin, and when I glance up from the black seared edges of the new mark on his chest, I see the warmth shining in his ey
es.
My resolve breaks. it always does when it comes to Logan. I start disinfecting his wound again. “You won’t make fun of me?”
“Baby, you could sound like a damn crow, and I’d still think it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”
I giggle with a shake of my head, causing my hair to fall over my shoulders. “Why? That’s terrible.”
“Because it’s coming from you, Juliette.”
I let out a shaky breath and toss the used gauze in the trash can. My nerves are fluttering around in my stomach like a swarm of freaking bats. Forget the bees; my nerves have upgraded. I clear my throat and reach for the tube of bacitracin. I decide to go with another Nora Jones song, my favorite artist in the entire world. My mom always put on Nora Jones’ album for me when I went to sleep, and her music is the best to sing when I need to be soothed, so I hope it’s the same for Logan.
While I’m singing, Logan closes his eyes as I pick and prod at his chest. Before I cover it, I want to make sure that I get all of the burnt skin off. It looks so painful and raw. I want to punch Reaper in the face for doing this to him, but I don’t want to make things worse than I already have.
The song comes to an end while I’m laying a square bandage on his impressive pectoral. How is a man this muscular? If I wanted to, I could wash my clothes against his stomach because he has washboard abs.
Washboard. Abs.
I’m going to have to take a picture so I can look at his body whenever I want.
“There. All done,” I say on a sigh. As I step away, Logan’s fingers snag around my wrist and stop me from taking another step.
“I like your hands on me.” He pulls me to him again, and I’m closer than I was before when I bandaged his chest. Logan controls my hand and places them on his pecs again, and his chest rises and falls while a low hum runs through his body. “Yeah, like that. I love your touch, and I love this—” He strokes the middle of my throat, telling me he likes my voice. “You sound like a mixture of Janis Joplin and Nora Jones. It’s beautiful. You are beautiful. I don’t want to touch you because I’m afraid I’ll ruin you. That’s what I do, Juliette. I ruin.”