The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

  I don’t know who this fucker is. Don’t know if he’s somebody or just some nobody with a connection to people with resources, but that’s what I’m about to find out.

  Out back, we work through some shit, cracking codes and breeching systems until we find a name.

  Juan Diaz.

  “Name ring a bell?” I ask T.

  Tyler shakes his head. “Nah. It’s Mexican, though.” He leans closer to the screen, his eyes going wide. “Oh fuck.”

  “What?”

  “Motherfucker just purchased more roses about fifteen minutes ago.”

  My blood runs cold. “Fuck.” I’m out the door and in my truck in seconds. I can’t get to Samantha fast enough.

  Pushing through my office door, purse in one hand and a box of files balanced in the other, I use my ass to open the door, which isn’t easy in a pencil skirt. My heels click as I hustle my ass into my office. Fucking King, making me late.

  “Good morning, Miss Samantha.”

  “Mornin’.” I smile at Tina, the receptionist, as I make my way toward my office door.

  “You need help?” she calls out, getting up from her seat. The woman is paper thin, shaky and unsure. She couldn’t help me carry a paper sack, let alone a twenty pound box of files.

  “I’m good, but thanks.”

  I juggle my way down the hall, trying not to drop anything.

  Practically falling through my door, I drop the box a few feet into the entryway and toss my purse down with it, the contents spilling out everywhere. “Fuck,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

  I scoop up the contents of my purse and shove it all back inside. “Tina?” I holler, head out the door, bent down on the floor. “Could you please get me a coffee?” I need it. Desperately.

  “Of course,” she answers, and is immediately out of her seat again, scurrying down the hall.

  Leaving my messy boxes on the floor, I put my ass in my seat and stare at the mess on my desk. Papers. Post-its. An old coffee mug. File folders. Hell, there’s just shit everywhere.

  I don’t know how long I stare at my mess, but it’s long enough for Tina to bring me a cup of coffee. “Do you need anything else?” she asks, lingering at my desk. She’s a fabulous receptionist, but she’s weird as hell in all social situations—shifty and jittery. You know, the type of people who are sweet and smart, but uncomfortably odd around other humans. That’s Tina.

  “I’m solid,” I tell her, sipping my coffee, enjoying the rich brew. “Great coffee, Tina. Thank you.”

  She nods and scuttles off, shutting my door on her way out.

  Coffee in hand, I dig in, cleaning up my mess and getting to work.

  A few hours later my door flies open, the handle hitting the wall. “You ready, bitch?” Lilly interrupts, standing in my doorway, a smile on her face, practically scaring the shit out of me.

  “Jesus!” I jerk, almost knocking over my second cup of coffee. “You could knock.”

  “I could, but I didn’t.”

  “No shit,” I mutter, closing out the window I was working on of a new listing a few miles away. “Almost gave me a heart attack.”

  She laughs, looking around my office, head shaking. “Thank God for winter break.”

  “Lucky you.” The bitch has it easy. A teacher with a cake schedule. I’m jealous. “Some of us have to work all year.”

  She rolls her eyes, waving her hand around dismissively. “Bitch, you work whenever and wherever you want.”

  “I’m hungry,” I state, not answering her or bothering to argue with my crazy cousin.

  She laughs. “Then let’s go, working girl.”

  Grabbing my purse, I shake my head. “That makes me sound like a prostitute.”

  “If the shoe fits.”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with your old man.”

  She just keeps laughing as I follow her out the door and into the elevator. The bitch is nuts.

  Lunch with Lilly and Ellison is like being kidnapped and added to the circus’ lineup. The two together are too much. Loud laughter and too much booze, and it’s only noon.

  “So, where’s King?”

  Shrugging my shoulder, I look around half-expecting to see him standing outside across the street, watching me. “I’m not sure.”

  “So, you’re alone?”

  That’s funny. “Hell no. There’s a prospect out there somewhere.”

  Ellison seems surprised by that and looks around. “Really? I didn’t see him.”

  “He’s somewhere out there.”

  We order tacos, nachos, and quesadillas, but we’re here for the margaritas and salsa; the food is just a bonus. The waitress brings us piping hot plates of goodness and our second round of drinks.

  We eat. We bitch. We talk. I don’t see Lilly and the girls as often as I’d like, but we get together every few months, and every time there’s a week’s worth of shit to catch up on.

  “I have to get back to work. I’m showing a house later.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Are you plannin’ to buy it?” I ask Lil, quirking a brow.

  She chuckles. “Nope.”

  “Too bad. We could use some more girls around here,” I tell her, finishing my lunchtime margarita.

  “If Tank ever left Washington, I’d die of shock.”

  “We all would.”

  Walking back through the office doors, Tina smiles at me from her desk. “Nice lunch?”

  “Tacos.” I smile, handing her the to-go order I snagged for her on the way out. “Your favorite.”

  Tina sighs, inhaling into the bag. “Thanks, Samantha. Mr. Lewis wasn’t keen on me takin’ lunch, being in there with his afternoon delight.”

  I roll my eyes, grossed out by the image. “Sherry?”

  “Yep.” The bleach blonde desperate housewife of some city council member he sold the mansion to a few weeks ago. Mr. Lewis, the opportunist. It wasn’t too long ago my dad was setting him straight when he tried to crawl under my skirt when I was a new hire. Sick pervert.

  “Any calls for me?” I inquire, flipping through the mail on the front counter.

  “No, but a man in a suit stopped by and had flowers for you. I let him put them in your office.” She says it so casually, but the moment the words leave her mouth, my head starts to spin and a panic starts to build.

  “O–Oh,” I stutter, turning on my heels and staggering toward my office door. “Thanks, Tina.”

  “You okay?”

  I nod, pushing my door open. Spots dance in my vision, floating across the red roses sitting on my desk.

  Making it through my door, I sit down slowly, sucking in deep breaths.

  He was here. In my office. I was here only an hour ago.

  Pulling out my phone, I call King.

  It rings twice.

  “King?”

  “King?”

  “I’m in the parking lot, baby,” I tell her. “Stay on the phone.”

  I’ve never felt so far away, but so close at the same goddamn time. “You okay?”

  “I think so.” Her voice is quiet and distant.

  “You think so?” I shout, taking the emergency stairs two at a time. I don’t have time for doormen and elevators. “What’s wrong?” She better be okay.

  “I’m fine, King. I’m fine.”

  Walking through the lobby of the third floor, some lady behind a desk looks at me funny. “Sir?”

  Ignoring her, I look for the door with the Princess’s name on it. Takes me only a second to find it.

  Opening it, I find Samantha sitting in a chair, staring at more of those red fucking roses. She jumps when I shut the door behind me. “King! Jesus.”

  I don’t hesitate. I’m not playing these goddamn games anymore. Walking up to her desk, I grab the flowers. Pulling them out of the vase, I drop them into the garbage.

  “You’re done,” I snap, serious as fuck this time.

  She looks sick. She should be.

  “Done?”

>   “No more work.”

  I’m gone for a few hours and this shit happens. Not fucking happening again.

  “I have to work,” she fires back, getting up from the chair, but there’s not much heat in her argument because she’s not going to win this one and she knows it.

  “You don’t have to do shit. Not while that motherfucker’s out there.” He was in her fucking office. In her goddamn space. Again. Right behind her.

  “So, what am I going to do? Stay holed up in my house from now until forever with you?” she fumes, arms spread wide.

  The bitch is hot and cold. From one minute to the next, I never know what I’m getting when dealing this Samantha. She likes me. She fucking hates me. It’s hard as fuck to keep up. But whether she likes me or not is not the goddamn point. I’m here to keep her safe. Everything else is secondary.

  “Until I bury that motherfucker, you are. You’re with me twenty-four seven.”

  Samantha doesn’t say anything, she just turns on her five-inch heels and marches her ass to the garbage, grabs the flowers and marches her ass out the door.

  I follow her, watching her walk up to the bitch at the desk who’s staring at us, her eyes wide. “Take these to the dumpster please?” Samantha asks, handing over the roses.

  “S–Sure,” the woman stutters.

  Samantha walks her ass back into her office, letting the door slam behind her, shutting it in my fucking face.

  I could strangle the bitch, but that’d defeat the whole keeping her alive thing.

  Tossing the door open, I follow her in, not letting this shit go. “You got a problem with how this is gonna go?” I don’t really care what her answer is because we’re doing this shit my way, no matter what comes out of her mouth.

  “Nope,” she huffs, her back to me. “I have to get my shit.”

  The princess is being difficult, taking her time getting her stuff and shuffling papers and putting shit in drawers as slowly as possible. “You wanna hurry it along there, Princess?”

  She snorts. “Got somewhere to be?”

  “Not standin’ here watchin’ you clean.” Then again, I could just stand here and watch her bent over her desk with her ass in that tight dress. Jesus Christ.

  Turning toward me, a shit ton of stuff in her arms, she says, “Then let’s go.” She walks right on by me and down the hall toward the elevator, not waiting on me.

  “’Bout time,” I grumble, following behind her.

  Sam just glares at me, punching the lobby button on the elevator, waiting for it.

  I know she’s irritated with me. She lets her feelings be known, and if she didn’t, her face would give her away. The bitch is expressive, that’s for goddamn sure.

  It takes a second, but the elevator opens and we walk in, Samantha irritated, giving me the cold shoulder.

  Leaning back against the elevator wall, I break it down for her, tired of the shit. Tired of the back and forth. “I get that you don’t think this shit is a big deal, and it might not be, but your dad wants you alive, so does your family, and I sure the fuck want you breathin’. So, as long as this motherfucker’s out there, I’m gonna be here, and we’ll be doin’ this shit my way. You can like it or not,” I tell her, the elevator going down. “But that’s how it’s goin’. Stop acting like a shit. You got me?” I ask her, the doors sliding open.

  I get the princess doesn’t want me in her space, rearranging her life, but I’ll do what I gotta do, and I don’t really give a fuck how she feels.

  “It’s a big deal,” she says, her voice small.

  “Good.”

  The fight drains out of her face and she nods, agreeing. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” That was too easy.

  She sighs. “I don’t really have a choice.”

  “Right. I know you’ve seen a lot, lived through a lot, but when it comes to this shit, I’m not playin’ around, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I want you safe.”

  “Okay,” she says again, firmly.

  We walk out of the elevator and to the parking lot next to the building, Sam quiet until she sees my ride. “You have a truck?” Her head cocks slightly, confused.

  “Looks like it.” Unlocking her door, I open it for her and wait for her to get in. “What?” I ask when she doesn’t get inside.

  Crawling in, she runs her hand over the leather dash, sliding into her seat. “Since when do you have a truck?”

  “Always have.” Had it fifteen years now.

  “Where do you keep it?”

  She’s digging. “Here. In the storage lot.”

  “Oh.” Samantha looks truly surprised. “Do you have a house too?” Jesus, she really is diggin, looking for something. What it is, I don’t know, but she’s not gonna find it.

  “No,” I tell her shortly, staring out the window at the road ahead of us, not interested in getting into this with her.

  She knows more than anyone else, which isn’t saying much. But then again, there isn’t much to me. I am who I am.

  “Then where do you sleep when you’re not here or at a club?”

  “Here and there,” I answer, using her words and giving them back to her.

  Laughing, she shakes her head. “You really don’t have a house? An apartment? A trailer?”

  “A trailer?” I chuckle. Jesus, what does she think I am? A hillbilly? I’m not Buck.

  Sam shrugs, changing the subject. “So, you’d be sad if I died, huh?” Morbid bitch.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be happy about it.”

  My answer makes her smile, and I don’t read much into it because there isn’t much to read. We are what we are. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  We ride for a while in silence, Sam clicking away on her phone and me trying not think about her sitting a few feet away from me. Trying not to think of all the bad shit that could happen to her out there with that crazy fucker a few steps behind her. Suddenly, Sam looks at me and says, “I wouldn’t be happy if you died either.”

  Surprises the hell out of me. “Thought you hated me?” I tease her, lifting a questioning brow.

  “Yeah, I do, but I still don’t want to go to your funeral.”

  “Who says I’m gettin’ a funeral? Maybe they’ll just toss my ass out back and let me rot in the woods.”

  The look she gives me is funny. “Nice picture you painted there. I’ll plan your funeral.”

  Jesus Christ. “There a reason we’re talkin’ about this?”

  “Would you rather talk about clothes?”

  “Fuck no. Keep goin’ with your death talk, Morbid Molly.” That makes her laugh. She laughs hard. I like it too much. Her laugh makes me laugh.

  “Morbid Molly?” she chirps, cracking up.

  “Wednesday Adams better?” I ask her, pulling into her driveway.

  “Much.” She laughs softly, undoing her belt. Twisting in her seat, she looks at me. “King?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for coming today and the other day,” she tells me quietly, seriously. Hits me right in the chest.

  Those eyes. That face. Couldn’t imagine a world without them. “Yeah, baby, anytime.” I’ll be here to keep her safe until she doesn’t need me anymore, so until then… “I’m here.”

  Taking a shower, alone, without King, is little sad and a lot boring. I wouldn’t admit it if he asked me, but I wish he would’ve gotten in with me.

  Pulling open the frosted glass door, I step out and onto the rug, and I almost come out of my damn skin when I see King standing in the bathroom, leaning against my sink. Watching.

  “You cookin’ or am I?” he asks, eyes taking a leisurely trip up my legs and to my face, appreciation in his eyes.

  “You like creepin’ around, don’t you?” I towel off, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

  “You tell me, Morbid Molly.”

  I can’t help but smile when King’s being funny, which is never. “I’ll cook, Creepy Craig.”

  King laughs loudly. �
�You can cook?” He looks truly impressed at the idea.

  I try to look offended, but I can’t muster it. He’s not wrong to be surprised. I’m not great. I can cook enough to sustain life, but I’m not sure how tasty it’ll be. “I can try.”

  “Sounds like food poisoning.”

  Walking out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, King following, I toss my towel in the laundry basket and pull out a tank and shorts from my drawer. “You either eat my food poisoning or you starve, your choice.” I shrug, getting dressed.

  King watches me from the doorway, a smirk on his face. “I die either way?”

  “Exactly.”

  “At least you’re plannin’ my funeral,” he says, smirking. I don’t know why I said that, as weird as it was, but I meant it as much as I wish I didn’t. I care about King. I always have, and that’s where the hate comes from. I hate caring for someone who gives me nothing, promises me nothing, when I feel like I lose a little piece of myself to him every time we’re together. I care. King doesn’t.

  “Color of flowers?” I ask him, bent over at the waist and twisting my hair into a messy bun on top of my head.

  “No goddamn flowers at my funeral. Just toss me into a dirt hole and be done with it.”

  I laugh, slipping on a pair of fuzzy black socks. “Fireworks then,” I muse, looking up. Standing there, six feet plus of solid muscle, tattoos, and hard edges, I feel my stomach flip and my heart split. I don’t want to want King. I don’t want to fall, but I feel myself slipping the longer he’s here, the more time we spend together.

  There’s just something about him. There always has been.

  “No flowers. No fireworks,” he grumbles.

  I make a mental note. “You’re definitely gettin’ flowers.” Walking down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, I look up at King, who doesn’t look happy.

  “I’ll beat your ass,” he grumbles, stomping down my stairs, his boots echoing off the walls.

  I roll my eyes. “You’ll beat my ass?” I question, digging into the fridge and pulling out a pound of ground burger. Bent over, King smacks my ass, laughing.

  “Ass has been beat.”

  Setting the hamburger on the counter, I turn around and lean back against the stove, looking at him.