by K. L. Savage
Reaper turns around, hope on his face as he stares at the firefighter. “It’s empty. You’re sure?”
“Positive. There are no crispy skeletons in there,” the guy says casually as he walks to the firetruck.
“Guys, they might be alive.” Reaper grins, tears shining in his eyes. “Alive.”
This is my chance. I step forward, cutting through the men in leather until Reaper can see me. “They’re alive, and I know where they are.”
In a second, Reaper has his hand wrapped around my throat. I expect the cops to do something, to aim their guns and to order Reaper to stop choking me, but no one does anything. Reaper has Vegas in his pocket for good reason.
I don’t want to be the outsider.
“Tell me,” he sneers. “Uncle or not, I’ll fucking kill you.”
I gasp, my face heating from the trapped blood. “They’re at the asylum. It’s Porter. He did it.”
Reaper lets go, and I gasp, clawing at my throat and coughing to try to breathe. He holds a hand against his heart, and the medics come to his side again, but he pushes them away. “Get the fucking point. I am refusing medical treatment.”
“Your funeral, dude,” a small man with a feminine voice says to Reaper as he shuts the doors to the back of the ambulance.
“You need us, Reaper?” a cop asks, just as another member, Badge, hands him a stack of cash.
“No, this is club business,” Reaper growls, his eyes like slits as he stares at me.
If I don’t make this right, I’m a dead man.
“Okay. Call if you need us.” The cop whistles and rounds up his officers. They climb in their patrol cars, turn off their sirens, and drive away. Badge hands over a stack of cash to the firefighters too and then to the medics.
“Are you buying my silence?” The gay medic sounds insulted; at least, I’m assuming he’s gay.
“You can pay with your life if you want?” Badge suggests, slapping the cash against the guy’s chest.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
“It means you’re who we call. You work for us now,” Badge says.
“Honey, I work for the hospital. Until my paycheck says big bad bikers on it in the left-hand corner, I do not work for you.” The guy struts toward the driver’s side door, hops in, and waves goodbye as he drives off.
Little man has big balls. Good for him. I think.
You can kill him. Release it and you can kill all of them.
I scratch my fingers against the bumpy road, letting the skin peel and blood drip. Inflicting pain reminds me that I’m just as human as anyone else. I can control me. I am the control.
“Who the fuck is Porter?” Reaper snarls, his boots blocking my line of sight as I lay on the ground.
“You know him as The Groundskeeper. He has an identity disorder—” I don’t get to finish my explanation because my tongue is being pulled from my mouth, and a knife is threatening to cut it off.
“Tongue, don’t. He has answers, and he won’t be able to give us information if he has no tongue.”
The metallic taste of blood bursts across my taste buds. I can tell the man isn’t happy with his Prez’s order, but I’m appreciative because it causes him to pull away. “That man buried me, nearly killed Knives, kidnapped Daphne, and now Patrick and Sarah? We’ve killed for less.”
“You knew? About Porter, you know him?”
I swallow, the cut on my tongue stinging with pain. “I’ve known him since we broke out of the mental institution we were in. He’s a good guy on the right meds. We’re all fucked up, Reaper.”
“I want retribution,” Reaper growls. “No one takes Sarah and lives to tell the tale.”
“He’s sick, Reaper. He’s sick.”
“Once I rip his heart out, he won’t have to worry about it anymore. Take me to the asylum. Now.”
“Reaper, I need to make sure your heart is okay,” a blond guy with looks that tell me he isn’t meant to be here warns Reaper.
“Later Doc. If Sarah isn’t okay, then you’ll have your answer.”
Porter better hope he hasn’t harmed a hair on their heads. The only way I can save Porter is if Sarah and Patrick are okay.
“Reaper, I don’t know if she’s pregnant. The test came back inconclusive.”
The blood drains from my face when I hear that bit of news. Sarah could be pregnant.
“Let’s hope she isn’t, or this stress will cause another miscarriage,” Reaper mutters. A few trucks pull out of the compound’s driveway, coming to pick us up to go to the asylum. Tongue grips me by my shirt and lifts me to my feet.
Another?
Porter, what did you do?
The whiskey smells so good. I can almost feel it sliding down my throat. I can almost feel the burn, feel it pool like a puddle of gasoline in my stomach. I’m shaking, trembling, and my mouth won’t stop watering. I really thought I was stronger than this, but I haven’t been tested since I got out of rehab. Everyone has been so supportive by keeping the alcohol away from me that my will hasn’t been tried.
Well, it is now.
And it feels like my skin is burning, crawling with need. There’s a voice inside my head, encouraging me to take one sip. Only one. The last one ever. The chance to say goodbye. I can do that. There’s no harm in one more taste. If I think about it, I never really got to have one last drink because I didn’t know it would be ‘the last’ one.
“Patrick, talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling. Don’t give in,” Sarah says, placing her hand against the glass.
I bury my head between my knees and my fingers along the cold cement I’m sitting on. I need Sunnie. I need her so bad right now. “I forgot how good it smells,” I admit, unable to look Sarah in the eye after saying the words. “I wish Sunnie was here.” I tilt my head back until I hit the wall, closing my eyes so I don’t have a constant view of the bottle sitting in the middle of the room outside my door.
Grabbing the bottom of my shirt, I lift it and wipe the sweat off my face. I almost feel like I’m in rehab again, only this time I’m not detoxing; I’m holding myself back from relapsing.
“Think about her. Think about how worried she is about you, Patrick. Think about rehab and everything you’ve been through, okay? You’re stronger than the temptation. You’re stronger than the whiskey.”
I try to listen to Sarah and take a few deep breaths in, but that backfires because I can nearly taste the whiskey in the air. I hit my knuckles against the ground, over and over until I feel the skin split. With every slam, the pain becomes worse.
The pain might be the only thing stopping me from giving in and chugging the entire bottle.
So much for having a nice Christmas with everyone. I should have known. It’s always something.
Right about now, when I’m craving a shot and the high only alcohol can give me, Sunnie reads that ridiculous romance novel to me. Samuel and Elizabeth. I almost know the damn thing by heart, word for word, but it’s my safety net. A symbol of faith, love, and hope. Sunnie read that to me when I was at my lowest. When I hated everything in the world, even her.
She never gave up on me. She read that damn novel to me, and honestly, it wasn’t the story that calmed me but the sound of Sunnie’s voice. It was the way she read, her tone, and how effortless she spoke. She’s my sun on a fucking stormy day, and I need her now more than ever.
The need to drink is clawing at my gut.
“What would Sunnie do?” Sarah asks.
For some reason it makes me laugh because I think of the ‘What would Jesus do?’ slogan.
WWSD.
I need that tattooed on my damn body.
“She’d read to me,” I say.
“I don’t have a book.”
“It’s okay. There’s only one that will work anyway, and Sunnie has it. She takes it everywhere. I know the first few chapters by heart.”
“Stop hitting the ground and tell me the story, Patrick.”
I open my eyes
and stare at her like she’s crazy, but she has fear written all over her face. Her mouth is pinched, her brows are furrowed, and she plasters herself against the glass to try to get as close as possible to me.
“Tell me the story,” she says again.
My cheeks flame with embarrassment. It’s my secret with Sunnie. I suppose secrets don’t matter anymore. Not when it comes to health. I tighten the sobriety chip in my palm and nod. I can do this. I can win.
“Elizabeth hated wearing a corset under her dress. The last thing she believed women should do was hurt themselves for beauty. Making a smaller waistline was not for her; it was for them—for men. Her lungs protested all day. Her breasts were pushed so high she was surprised they didn’t touch her chin, but she had to deal with the fashions of a lady. Even if she didn’t consider herself one.”
Sarah giggles. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to laugh. I never thought you were the type to read regency romance.”
“I don’t read it. Only one story is read to me. It’s different.” Plus, it helps curb the urge, and isn’t that all that matters? Thinking about reciting the next few sentences already has me calming down, the thirst dissipating. I think about rehab and laying in bed, hallucinating that I saw my sister Macy. I screamed, I begged, I cried. I constantly asked for a drink, and all Sunnie did was hold my hand and read me the silly novel she stole from Patricia, an evil bitch I later killed.
I stand on my feet, staggering because of the piece of glass in my thigh. I yank it out. “Fuck, that hurts.”
“Where are you going? Stop, Patrick.” Sarah bangs her hands against the wall to stop me, but I have a goal. “Patrick, tell me more of the story. Skip to your favorite part!”
I limp through the whiskey spilled on the floor, staring at the bottle standing all alone in the middle of the room. Light shines through the hole in the roof. The glass and liquid amber glimmers beautifully, casting a kaleidoscope of colors along the floor.
If no one thought whiskey in a bottle could be pretty, they were wrong.
“Patrick, please, tell me your favorite part. Do not pick up that whiskey.” Sarah is at her door now, staring at me with glassy eyes.
I think about the book, and there was always one part I really liked more than the others. “Samuel is lost in her love and in Elizabeth’s fierce independence. She takes on the world with strength he had never seen before with any other woman. She’s a rebel, the kind of woman others would deem ‘unworthy’ of marriage, but Samuel couldn’t disagree more. Elizabeth hasn’t found a man who is strong enough to match her strength. Until now.” I bend over and pick up the open bottle, watching the liquid swish on the inside like an angry sea.
I need to match Sunnie’s strength, the kind she’s placed in me. She counts on me. I bring the bottle to my nose and inhale. Clutching onto the chip, thinking about Samuel and Elizabeth, and Sunnie’s love, I launch the bottle across the room. The glass hits the wall, shattering with the impact, and the whiskey is a tsunami after being released. The wave tries to get to me, but I’m too far away.
I’m safe.
The door kicks in right as I collapse. A pair of arms wrap around me to hold me up. “I got you, Patrick. Sunnie is waiting for you at home,” comes Doc’s voice. I am still a little lightheaded. But I did it. I didn’t drink the whiskey. “Did you—”
“No,” I say with a smile. “No.”
“So fucking proud of you,” Doc informs me and carries me out of the alcohol-infused space. “Sunnie will be too.”
“I think I need a meeting, Doc.”
“You don’t say?” He tilts his lips in a smile as he leans me against the broken desk that’s been here since the place was built.
I lean all of my weight on my other leg and watch as Reaper carries Sarah out of the room. When he feels like he has her in a safe space, he falls to his knees and cups the back of her head. He buries his face in her neck, and I know he’s either crying or fighting the tears.
“I thought you died. I thought you were fucking dead,” he says, wrapping his arms around her so tight, I worry he may cut off her air supply. “I love you. You can’t do that to me. You can’t… You just can’t.” Reaper slams his lips against hers, and all the guys look at me to give Reaper and Sarah their moment.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Boomer says.
“Thanks, Boomer. Glad to see you.” All of his members are here too, which means he has come for Christmas.
Hell of a ride that’s been. I can’t wait for the holiday to be over.
“You can’t keep me here!” I hear from down the hallway, followed by loud bangs.
“It’s the only way your life can be spared, Porter. You have to stay in here until you’re better.” I limp down the hallway, but an arm helps support my weight.
It’s Tongue.
We stand next to Zain, and another bang sounds as Porter keeps smashing his shoulder against the glass. He sees Tongue and becomes angrier. “You! I fucking hate you. I’m going to kill you; you hear me? I’m going to kill you. My dad might have fucked your mom, but we are far from family.”
Holy shit.
Tongue’s brother is this psychopath?
Christmas gifts keeping flying at us, don’t they?
Tongue doesn’t seem too surprised. “What are you doing?” Zain asks as Tongue enters the room his brother is in. Now that I see them side by side, there are a few similarities physically, but mentally, both of them are fucked up.
“You know what?” Tongue’s voice is slow with gravel and a Southern accent. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re my blood because all my life you’ve been nothing to me.” Tongue punches Porter across the face, then pulls out his brother’s tongue. “You hurt my Comet.” Porter tries to get away, but Tongue holds on tighter and grabs his homemade knife.
He places it against the pink appendage and right as he’s about to cut, Reaper stops him. “Tongue, don’t! He’s your family.”
“He’s no family of mine.”
“That’s an order.”
Tongue slides the knife across the wet muscle until he gets to the middle. “I’ve never really cared for orders,” Tongue snarls and stabs through the middle of his brother’s tongue. Blood spills, and Porter screams. He’ll still be able to talk, but it will be awhile. Tongue listened to Prez, technically.
He bends over and wipes his knife clean on Porter’s pants. Porter spits blood, yelling in agony, but Tongue isn’t fazed. “Merry Christmas. Don’t say I never gave you anything.” Tongue slams the door as he exits the room, then slides the lock bar in place.
“Let’s go home,” Reaper announces to all of us.
“Yeah, I need to check on your heart.”
“Your heart?!” Sarah screeches. “Why? What happened?”
“I thought you died. My heart couldn’t handle it. I had a heart attack.”
That’s the thing about falling in love while you’re a Ruthless King. When we fall, we fall fucking hard. And if we ever lose the one thing that gives our dark, fucked up lives meaning, we fall too.
“Promise you’ll let Doc check you out?” Sarah begs, worry etched on her young face.
“I’m not coughing.”
“That isn’t how I check your heart, Reaper.”
Tongue and Boomer help me walk out of this hellhole asylum, a psychotic estate I hope to never find myself in again, and everyone laughs at Doc and Reaper’s banter. It lightens the mood.
There’s still a grey cloud hanging over us, and Christmas won’t be what it needs to be until it’s gone.
Christmas Eve
“No glitter, Maizey. You know the rules.”
“Badge! Come on; it’s Christmas. Glitter will make you look like a snowflake.”
I cross my arms over my chest and glare at her. “I don’t want to look like a snowflake.”
“Putting glitter on you is on my Christmas wish list. See!” She shoves the paper so far in my face that I can’t even read it.
Kids are so annoying,
but Maizey is okay. I can deal with her. I never want kids of my own, though. Hell no. “I don’t want glitter. That’s just a wish you’re never going to be able to get.”
“I’m telling Reaper,” Maizey huffs.
“Telling Reaper, what?” Slingshot asks, shoving a taco in his mouth as he stands in the doorway.
“Did you take your pill?” Maizey and I ask in unison as we watch him unwrap another taco from his bag.
“Yes, I took my pill. God, get off my back.”
“Ew, Uncle Slingshot. Your back is stinky, ’member?” Maizey curls her nose in disgust, and I can’t stop laughing at how serious she looks.
“It is not. You two are mean. I was going to let you put glitter on my face, but forget it. Be that way,” Slingshot sharply spins on his heel and walks away, head held high.
Maizey lets out this scream that has my toes curling as my ear drums rumble. She throws her makeup brush down and runs after Slingshot in her princess gown. “Come back, come back, Uncle Slingshot. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did!” Slingshot argues with a seven-year-old girl.
I shake my head and grab the pink bedazzled mirror to see what Maizey has done to me this time. “Oh God,” I groan when I see bright blue eye shadow, pink lipstick, and my hair in small piggy-tails on top of my head.
“You look so pretty,” Sarah compliments me, chuckling when she sees my appearance.
She has a bandage on the side of her head still from the accident, but other than that, she looks great. “Do not,” I grumble and stand, stretching my arms over my head.
“You’re good with her, you know. I know you say you don’t like kids but, Badge, you’re a natural at it.”
“Where’s Reaper?” I ask her, wanting to change the subject. I don’t like talking about kids. It makes me feel awful, like something is wrong with me when I say I don’t want to have a baby. It’s just how I feel. Maizey is cute and fun, but at the end of the day, I can give her back when I’m sick of her.
Not that I’m ever sick of her, but if I ever was, I could give her back.
Sarah’s blonde hair falls in her face as she straightens her body from being perched against the wall. “He went to go pick up the rest of the gifts since Patrick and I were interrupted.”
