by K. L. Savage
“Tongue, you’re still my family. That hasn’t changed. You know why I had to leave.”
Daphne’s body sinks into mine as she leans against me. She got new shampoo that reminds me of the beach. Coconut and some type of flower. I love it. I concentrate on her, her curves, her scent, the softness of her hair, and breathe out. “Everyone is actually downstairs to see if Sarah is pregnant. Everyone is excited,” I finally say.
“Why aren’t you?” His misfit market of members come from down the hallway, and the twins look Daphne up and down like she’s candy.
“Mine,” I sneer at them while they bump knuckles.
“Lay off, guys. Daphne is taken, and you do not want to fuck with Tongue, got it?” Boomer says over his shoulder, but he never stops looking me in the eye.
“Got it, Prez.” The one that has the name patch ‘Warden’ on his cut, nods his head and turns into the kitchen across the hall.
Wolf is next to him, a guy I never thought I’d like because of what happened with the Jersey Chapter, but I do. He’s a good guy who was trying to save his sister. Arrow, One-Eye, and Kansas drag the chairs out from the table and get comfortable. Wolf seems bored, so he finds the coffee pot instead of standing here and talking to me. He rinses it out and stares out the window. He slushes the water around in the pot, washing out all the flavor.
Doesn’t he know that’s a cardinal sin?
He tilts his head and pauses what he’s doing, almost as if he’s lost in thought. The faucet runs, and water flows down the sink, gurgling through the pipes. Wolf releases the handle, and the glass pot breaks in the sink, ruining any chance for coffee.
But he has a reason.
He dashes down the hall, toward the main room, and out the front door, leaving it wide open so the dusty air can get in.
Curious, Boomer and his men head out the door, but I don’t follow.
“What the fuck is the racket about, Tongue?” Reaper opens the basement door, which jingles since Maizey put a bell on it. “I’m trying to see if my wife is pregnant.”
“Boomer is here,” I drawl.
His face lights up like our Christmas Cactus in the living room. “Doc! Wait. Sarah, Boomer is here!”
A high-pitched squeal has my ears ringing.
You know what follows Boomer? Explosions. I want a quiet Christmas. Maybe a little blood, a lot of sex, maybe at the same time, but I do not feel like getting blown up.
“Is there a story I’m missing?” Daphne asks me, tugging on my cut.
I shut the bedroom door and grin. “Oh, yeah.”
She jumps on the bed, excited like a teenage girl about to gossip. “Tell me, tell me, tell me,” she begs.
I mock her, jumping on the bed too, but my weight breaks it. One side of the mattress falls to the floor when a metal rod snaps, and I grab onto Daphne to make sure she’s okay.
But she’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe. “You … you … can’t jump on beds. You’re … too big,” she gasps, her face turning red.
I’m getting worried. Do I need to breathe for her? Blow into her mouth? I will.
“I was excited to tell you the story.”
“Tell me. I’m listening, Comet,” she smiles.
Bed broken, books scattered, the remainder of the bed’s frame moaning from having to support the weight.
My arm hurts, but I don’t care. If I can be here with Daphne, what more could I want for Christmas? I have my swamp kitty, my knives, my tongues, and love. The only thing I need to fix is my relationship with Sarah. Boomer asked why I wasn’t excited.
I am.
I just don’t think she wants me there when she gets the news.
Everyone is giving Boomer hugs and pats on the back for his surprise Christmas visit. At this rate, I expect everyone we know to show up, like the NOLA chapter, which I kind of hope happens. I want to see Tool creeped out by Seer.
“Doc, how are you, man?” Boomer comes in for a hug. Damn, I can’t believe this is the same brat who used to set trash can fires at school. He’s really grown up. His hair is longer, and it looks like he has a few more tattoos. His cut is still blank, but that doesn’t seem to matter to the guys who follow him. After what a few members have been through, they’re probably relieved to be able to breathe for a minute.
“I’m alright. It’s good to see you, Boomer. I’m happy you came. Where’s Scarlett?”
“Ah, she stayed back with Homer. He isn’t feeling too well lately, and since he’s older than dirt, she didn’t feel right leaving him alone.”
“Scarlett’s sweet like that,” I say, leaning against the porch beam and casting a glance at Boomer’s VP, Wolf, as he traipses around outside. Right as I was about to tell Sarah and Reaper their results, Boomer interrupted us. “What’s your boy doing, Boomer?”
“I don’t know. He thinks he saw someone up in the tree. He’s going to check it out, but he’s a paranoid motherfucker. I doubt someone is going to climb up that tree to look over the wall. That’s a bit much,” Boomer says. He pulls out a flask, and I snag his wrist, stopping him before he can even think about taking a swig of it. “What?” he asks.
“You better put that shit away. Patrick is around. Have some respect.”
“Fuck, I can’t believe I forgot that. I’m sorry.” Boomer tucks the flask in his cut pocket and catches a glimpse of Wolf headed back to us. “I know that look,” he says, pushing off the wall with his boot. He jumps off the porch instead of taking the steps.
I know that tone of voice he used, and it isn’t a good one.
Not wanting him to walk by himself, I’m at his side, ready to take on the news Wolf is about to deliver. “So is Sarah pregnant? Have you told her?”
“I can’t talk about that with you. You know that.”
“I know. I hope she is. They deserve it after everything that’s happened.” Boomer eyes where Skirt’s house used to be. It’s nothing but flat land now, covered in sand.
“Yeah, I think all of us needs a break, don’t you?”
“You guys should come to Jersey. Clubhouse is being built, no cut-slut drama—”
“Yet,” I finish for him.
“Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. I don’t miss cut-sluts, man.”
“Neither do we. See any of them here? After Candy and Jasmine died, the rest of the sluts skipped town.”
“Becks too? I mean, she isn’t a slut, but she’s usually hanging around.”
“She’s off pursuing her dream or whatever,” I say just as we come face-to-face with Wolf. His nose ring catches the light of the sun, and he holds out a few pieces of glass.
“Someone was here. I know I saw them.”
“Fucking hell, does this shit ever stop?” I flip the glass in my hand, noticing the curve of the lens. It’s thick and has a bit of weight to it.
“You guys have bad omens,” Wolf says, glancing around the clubhouse as if he can see the evil encasing us.
“Not you too! Do not bring that voodoo shit here!” Tool yells from where he’s propped up against his bike.
Nothing ever gets better than hearing Tool get freaked out about the supernatural.
“We need to call a meeting,” Boomer informs me as he lifts a piece of glass toward the sun.
“We call a meeting for everything these days.” I just want to sit on my ass with my pregnant ol’ lady with my hand on her belly as we watch B-rated movies on Netflix. People ask me what I want for the holidays? I say, ‘nothing.’ The truth, though? I want silence.
Quiet.
I want a day where, for once, things aren’t complete chaos here at the clubhouse. I don’t want danger surrounding us. I don’t want another family member showing up out of the blue, and I don’t want to find fucking glass littering the property. I don’t want Poodle’s dog to die of cancer.
One day. All I’m asking is one day for us to fucking be.
No threats. No medical emergencies. No panic.
Just happiness. I want us to sit around o
ur Christmas cactus and open gifts. I want bad Christmas music on, and I want to hear all of us laugh at the dumb gifts we get each other.
There’s always something going on, and I just want there to be nothing. I want our only worry to be cleaning up wrapping paper.
But that would be too easy.
Just like it would be easy to tell Sarah her tests came back, and it’s positive—
she’s pregnant—but that isn’t the Ruthless way, is it?
How do I tell a woman who has been wanting nothing more than to get pregnant, that her tests are inconclusive? What I do know is I’m telling Reaper and Sarah away from knowing eyes. This has to be done in private.
It’s going to be a hopeless Christmas if these pieces of glass have any say in it.
So, what? I almost got caught. No big deal.
I found a new tree. It’s more shaded than the last and bonus, it looks like the electric box to the gate is right below me. “Oh, now what do we have here?” I say to myself, leaning forward when I notice movement coming from the front door. I bring my new binoculars to my eyes
“Oh, the days love blessing me with opportunity, don’t they?” I see the woman of my dreams leaving the house, Sarah, followed by Patrick.
Hmmm, now that is an interesting combination. Neither of them goes anywhere together unless they’re all going somewhere in a big group. She’s wearing a beautiful burgundy sweater dress that highlights her blonde hair with black leggings and boots, but the outfit is ruined with that damn ‘Property of Reaper’ cut. They climb into a new Ford Bronco SUV with Patrick in the front seat.
Tsk. Tsk.
Alcoholics should never be allowed to drive. Even the ones who are ‘on a journey’ to sobriety. Let’s face it. They’re never really sober. They’re a disaster waiting to happen. He’s probably fighting the urge to pour a bottle down his throat. He’d probably eat the glass if given the opportunity.
Pathetic.
And I am not going to let his addiction hurt Sarah.
The bark of the tree bites against my palms as I climb down the trunk. There are a few notches for me to place my feet. When I’m halfway down, I jump, then roll on the ground so I don’t make any noise. A few twigs snap, but I could be an animal for all they know.
Who am I kidding? I am an animal.
I slither through the bare bones of trees, ducking under the long fingers of the branches, and bypassing large rocks. I need to figure out a plan. I only wanted Sarah, but Patrick would be fun to torment. This will be one of the only times I will get her alone. She’s always with Reaper and surrounded by protection.
Why isn’t she now?
I snort and laugh at myself, stretching out my arms, and my hands glide across the body of the tree trunks. Why am I questioning this? This is what I wanted.
Only I’m going to make her see just what kind of people she surrounds herself with and how they aren’t good for her. I thought Daphne was better, but I had made a mistake. She’s just as rotten as Tongue is on the inside.
Can no one see how horrible these bikers are? What do I need to do to take the blinders off their eyes?
One by one, I’ll take them out. It’s only a matter of time.
I finally get to my car that I pulled into the woods and pull out my bolt cutters. I make my way back to the box just in time to see them pull through the gate. I cut the wire coming from the bottom and the buzz of electricity hums to a slow stop.
I smirk.
Good luck getting to us in time, Kings.
Turning, I run for my car again. I have to get there fast if I’m going to get there before Pirate and Sarah drive by. I’m rounding the front when my foot slips on the sand. I catch myself on the hood of the car, and my forehead smacks against the bumper when my foot keeps slipping. “Son of a bitch!” I groan and hold my hand against the aching spot throbbing in the middle of my forehead.
No, I have to hurry, so I still have time. Time to do, what? I have no idea, but I’ll figure it out.
My phone dings, and I see it’s a message from Zain.
We’re going out for supplies. When you get home, don’t be surprised if no one is there. We’ll be back soon.
A catlike grin sweeps over my face as I read the message just as another comes through.
You better not be at the Ruthless compound. Reaper is letting me rent this place for a great deal because it needs work. He doesn’t know I know you, the guy who nearly killed his members. I won’t keep covering for you. Stop with the obsession.
“Stop with the obsession,” I mock him as I open the door to the old Lincoln car that someone’s grandma used to drive. She’s dead. It isn’t like she needs it anymore. I punch the dice hanging on the rearview mirror and start the car. They are pink and fuzzy. Cute.
I bet Sarah would like them.
Inserting the silver key in the car, the 1970s radio plays static through the busted speakers, but then the hint of a Christmas song comes sneaking through the white noise.
Oh, the weather outside is certainly very frightful.
And the fire rushing through my veins is, well…
It’s delightful
Smirking at the convenient tune, I press my foot on the gas and inch forward. I turn the wheel so I’m facing the long stretch of empty road. I whistle, waiting to see the Ford Bronco pass me. I roll down my window and patiently wait. I stay far enough in the woods where they can’t see me, and since I’m less than a half-mile down the road and across the street, they aren’t going to expect me.
The grumble of the Bronco engine comes close as I whistle the tune on the radio. There’s not much in the desert we can do to make it snow, but the melody brightens my spirits anyway. When the Bronco passes, I put the car in drive and creep out of the woods. The tires dip before getting onto the road, burning some of the rubber when I punch the gas too quick as I crank the wheel.
“Oops,” I say when I run over a cactus.
It isn’t like we don’t have plenty of them in Vegas.
I trail behind the Bronco for a couple of minutes before I decide I’m bored. I want to get the show on the road. I hate being incognito. I’ve never been good at it. When I want something, I tend to get it.
Even if it means burying my own brother on Halloween, torturing his lover to see what a big mistake she’s making, or showing Sarah that she’s the sun and the moon, and she deserves the stars. I’ll do whatever it takes to take what’s mine.
I gas the car, putting the pedal to the metal and cackle when the speedometer reaches the red lines. I quickly catch up with the Bronco and slam the front end of the Lincoln into the back. I laugh uncontrollably, bouncing in my seat when I see Patrick look in the rearview mirror.
They’re going to wish that what I have in store for them meant being buried six feet under, but it isn’t.
It’s going to be more self-destructive, more of a lesson I hope they learn from.
I slam against the back end again, and the Bronco fishtails as Patrick loses control of the SUV. Tires burn as the Bronco tries to stay on the ground, but the momentum is too much. They flip in the air twice, then the Bronco lands on its side, slamming against a group of trees with a sickening, thrilling crunch.
I come to a stop and get out of the car, casually. “My goodness, I hope everyone is okay,” I fawn in a pretend caring, southern accent. “Whatever shall we do?”
“Kill them,” the other side of me sneers.
“Not her,” the better part of me pleads.
I watch as smoke comes from the engine and the tires spin, still reeling from the speed they were going on the road. The Christmas song still plays in the Lincoln, and I sing it as I strut over to the passenger side.
“The fire is slowly dying, and my dear…” I whistle the rest of the tune and open the door, seeing Sarah passed out with blood trickling down her forehead. “We’re still goodbying.”
Patrick is out cold too, a piece of glass embedded in his thigh and blood trickling from some part of his hea
d. I can’t tell since I don’t care.
I push a piece of Sarah’s blonde hair behind her ear, so silky and soft. “It really is the most wonderful time of the year,” I say, marveling the beauty in front of me.
She’s going to get the best present of them all.
Me.
I know when I hear it.
The sickening sound of metal grinding against metal. The bang and crash of a vehicle rolling. The smell of burning rubber. Time slows when someone hears something like that. It’s like the brain can’t compute what it heard. It takes a minute to fully understand, to grasp. You have to ask yourself, ‘What did I just hear? Is it what I think it is?’
And then comes the sudden silence.
There’s no more squealing of tires or shattering glass. There isn’t the screech of metal crunching.
Then that’s how you know.
And what’s worse is when you’re running toward the chaos, you don’t think there’s a chance that someone you love is in the accident.
That’s not the case for me.
I know. I know it’s Sarah and Patrick. They’d just left, and that loud sound came all too soon. Time is sluggish as I run. I jump down the stairs, Boomer and Tongue at my side, Tool, Knives, Tank, and everyone else following. I pump my arms, trying to move as fast as I can. Fear and panic grip me. My heart can’t pump. My lungs are freezing with every ragged breath. My skin is clammy and pale. I trip while I’m running, but Tongue catches me by the back of my cut, saving me from eating dirt. I don’t have time to thank him.
My mind is on one thing and one thing only.
Sarah.
We all stop at the gate and grip the iron rods. “Open the fucking gate, Braveheart!” I roar. He presses all sorts of buttons, but it won’t open. “Open it!”
“I’m trying, Prez. I swear, I’m trying. It isn’t opening,” Braveheart explains. He pulls the emergency lever, but even that isn’t working. “I don’t know why it isn’t working! It was fine just a few minutes ago. It opened for them when they left.” He runs his hands over his pale face, completely lost on what to do.
I bang my fist against the iron and growl. “Fucking open the goddamn gate, Braveheart!”
