The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

  It hits me like a wave, how strange this is—me and King. How this time feels different. It scares the hell out of me how comfortable I’ve become in a matter of days. How easily I fall, and how quickly I know it can all change.

  In the years we’ve been doing this, I’ve never let him in, never giving too much of myself. Never fell too hard. But here I am, letting him in and starting to fall, and fall fast. It’s scary. Scary in the best and worst way possible because I can’t trust King.

  “You okay there, Princess?” King asks, stepping into me, wrapping an arm around my back and jerking me into him.

  Am I okay? That’s a loaded question.

  Nodding, I melt into him. “I’m gonna make tacos,” I mumble into his chest, inhaling his scent. He smells like man—woodsy, Earthy, King. I commit his smell to memory, storing it for later because I know this time is the last time. The next time he leaves he won’t be coming back. I can feel it. Things have changed as much as I don’t want to believe it.

  “I’m good.”

  “How good?” he taunts, grinding into me.

  My choice in men is questionable, King being the glaringly prime example. I choose the ones living with one foot here and the other on the move. Men who are unavailable, and not just emotionally, but physically. Men who can’t be here. Hell, won’t be here. King is that man.

  I blame my mother, the one who left for greener pastures and a deep pocket. The woman who left her three kids for something more, something better, and didn’t look back. She’s around, always has been, but never like I wished she would have been.

  First it was my mother.

  Then it was my first boyfriend, my high school sweetheart, moving away and trying the long-distance thing that never actually works. And even back then, I knew it was dumb and fruitless, but I was stupid. I was young and thought I was in love.

  After that, I had Tags, a man who was all-in while I was all out. Couldn’t commit.

  And then there’s King, my biggest mistake. So no, I’m not okay, and I blame Kingston “King” Toretto. He’s ruined me.

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “You’re worried.” He’s not wrong. But what he doesn’t know is that I’m worried for a whole other reason than what he’s thinking. A stalker is scary, worrisome, but what’s scarier, more dangerous, is the way I feel when I’m with the King.

  “Let’s go.” She jerks, driving home what I already know. This shit’s gettin’ to her. She’s scared.

  Samantha blinks slowly, staring at me when I let her go and step away. “Go where?” she finally asks, head cocked to the side as she stands at the stove, burning something.

  “You’re scared. Jumpy.” Coming up behind her, I turn off the burner. I’m not sure what the hell she’s cooking because it can’t be tacos, and I’m not interested in finding out.

  In an instant, her demeanor changes. Defensive. “I’m fine.” She waves me off, her body going rigid as she walks away from me. “You would be a little jumpy if someone was followin’ you around.”

  “No fucking doubt.” I’m not blaming her for the way she’s feeling. I’m trying to fix it.

  “So?”

  “I got you somethin’,” I tell her, slipping on my boots, waiting for her by the door.

  “Is it dinner?” she smarts, looking at me and then the pan full of burnt shit on the stove.

  “Buy you whatever you fuckin’ want if I don’t have to eat that.”

  She narrows her eyes as she leans against her kitchen island, watching me closely. “You got me something?”

  “Don’t be so fucking surprised.”

  “We’ve been fucking for years, and the only thing you’ve given me is an orgasm,” she quips, a wry, goading smile on her pretty face.

  Smart-mouthed little shit. “You’re lucky you got those,” I joke, giving her a pointed look.

  “You’re very romantic,” she mutters, taking a drink of her wine, a smirk on her face behind her glass.

  Swear to fucking Christ, any other bitch gave me this much shit, I’d be out that door, stalker be damned. But here I am, eating shit and fucking enjoying it.

  Grabbing my cut, it hits me how fucking comfortable I’ve become with Samantha. Taking my cut off, sleeping in her bed, taking care of her. This shit’s not me, but then I hear myself say, “I’ll show you romantic,” meaning it more than I wish I did.

  “Well then, I’ll take flowers and a candlelit dinner,” she tells me, walking toward the stairs. “If we’re goin’ somewhere, let me get ready.”

  Not fucking happening. “No, bring your ass back over here and get your shoes.”

  She flicks at her hair. “I look like shit.”

  That’s laughable. The bitch is sexy, made up or not. “You look fucking perfect. Put your damn shoes on.”

  She walks toward me, muttering, “I better get flowers if I’m goin’ out lookin’ like this.”

  “Flowers are bullshit. I got you something better.”

  “If it’s your dick, I’m gonna be pissed,” she tells me, looking up from slipping her shoes on.

  I laugh. I can’t fucking help it. “You weren’t pissed last time I gave it to you.”

  “But it’s not a surprise. I know what I’m getting when I get your dick.”

  Holding the door open for her, I follow her out, smacking her ass hard. Blonde hair piled up on her head in a mess, wearing some tight legging things with a sweatshirt, she dressed down and I fucking like it. None of the fancy bullshit I’m used to. The makeup, the hair, the nines. She’s fucking beautiful either way, but I like her barefaced best. Looks like the girl I met eleven years ago.

  “Where we goin’?” she asks, standing in her driveway.

  “Just get on the back of my bike, baby.”

  “Don’t fuckin’ shoot me,” I tell her, putting up another target on the tree about fifty yards away.

  Samantha smirks, eyeing me over the barrel of her new little nine-mil Ruger. “Right between the eyes,” she taunts, pointing that motherfucker right at me.

  Chuckling, I step out of her way. “As long as it’s not in my back.” I’ve been shot twice and it fuckin’ hurts, but not sure how I’d feel taking a bullet from the princess.

  We’re in the woods behind the club. A gun in her hand and a makeshift range in front of her, she’s practicing her aim and perfecting her shot.

  I watch her fire off a round, missing the target by a few inches. “Your dad never taught you to shoot?” Which surprises the fuck outta me. Lily can shoot like a dude, and I know damn well El, Peaches, Lala, Cali, and even Buck’s chick can shoot, but the princess can’t?

  She looks down at herself and back up at me. Wearing some tight ass leggings, her sweatshirt, and a pair of pink Nikes, I get the point she’s making. “Guns aren’t my thing, never were. My dad would push, but, you know. He’d cave after I’d pout. He’d offer every once in a while, but I would have rather gotten my nails done.”

  “Because nails are fucking important.”

  “They are,” she smarts back, holding up the gun again, some serious concentration on her face. “But this is kinda fun.” She fires off another shot, this time hitting the edge of the target, tearing a hole in the paper. “I’m gettin’ better.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell her she fucking sucks. She’s trying, and that’s all that matters. “Doin’ good, baby.”

  “Do I look badass?” She turns toward me, bringing the gun with her.

  Jesus, I can just see it now. Samantha putting a slug in my gut on accident. “Careful.” I push the gun down, pointing it at the ground.

  “Here.” Walking up behind her, I grab both her arms and bring them up level with her eyes. “Make sure it’s eye level. Steady. Even.” I hold her hand, the one she’s got gripped around the gun, her finger on the trigger. “Don’t shoot until you’re ready, until you’re sure. Shoot to kill or don’t shoot at all.”

  “Shoot to kill,” she repeats, sounding sure. “You’re good at this
,” she whispers, concentrating.

  I wanna thank her for that, but I don’t. I tell her to shoot instead, and she does, blowing a hole through the target, right near the center.

  Samantha squeals, jumping up and down, gun flying around in her hand. “I fucking did it! I nailed it!”

  She’s damn proud of herself. I’m damn proud of her. “You fucking did, baby, but be fucking careful.”

  “Kiss me,” she demands, handing over the gun.

  She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I kiss her. Kiss her like I fucking missed her.

  Sitting at a corner booth in the back of a little diner, I watch King watch me. Watch his ocean blue eyes. Watch the way he rubs at his beard thoughtfully with his tattooed hand, listening. Watch the way he licks his bottom lip before he speaks. The way he looks into my eyes and then at my mouth when I talk, listening to me intently.

  “Why’d you buy me a gun and want to me to learn to shoot?” It’s a normal, basic question. But there’s more to it and I know King gets it.

  “So when I’m gone, you can take care of yourself.”

  That right there is what I knew he’d say but didn’t want to hear. So instead of acknowledging it, I say, “Maybe we’ll never catch my stalker.” Which is a scary fucking thought, and one I know won’t happen. King will catch him. King will die trying.

  He chuckles. “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “But it might.” What I’m saying, without saying it, is that I don’t want King to leave. Even though I know he will, I don’t want him to, and it scares me.

  “Then you shoot him in the ass and then the head.”

  I laugh, not knowing what else to do. “You didn’t teach me to shoot someone in the ass.”

  King smirks, crooked and cocky. “Next lesson.”

  I agree. “Next lesson.”

  A sixty-something waitress brings us our food—piles and piles of food. “I think you ordered everything on the menu.”

  King lifts a shoulder. “That’s what you get when you go to the bathroom and tell me to order you ‘whatever.’”

  Smiling, I steal a fry and tell him, “Burgers. Salad of any kind. Breakfast. My favorite diner foods.” In case we ever do this again.

  He nods, taking in my words. “Noted.”

  “Your favorites? Ya know, in case you’re ever in the bathroom when it’s time to order.”

  “Meat.”

  “Meat. Should’ve guessed.”

  He takes a giant bite of his burger and nods. “Meat.”

  But like always, his phone rings, ruining it.

  King climbs out of the booth and walks away, his phone to his ear. Back straight and jaw set, I watch him nod and bark something into the phone before hanging up and stuffing it into the inside pocket of his cut.

  “We gotta go.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Takin’ you to Buck’s place. Buck’s old lady’s there with Poncho and two prospects.”

  “I’d rather go home.”

  King rubs at his beard, his jaw ticking. “And I’d rather be balls deep inside of you, but we don’t always get what we want.”

  I blink a couple times, shocked and not shocked by his words at the same time. Jesus. “You’re crude.”

  “And you’re tellin’ me shit I already know.” He tosses a couple twenties on the table. “We’ve gotta go. We can talk about my bad mouth later.”

  “Fine.” I follow him, knowing I can stand here and fight with him, or go and get this over with.

  King drops me off at Buck’s place. We walk in and he kisses me roughly before he tells me, “Be good. I’ll be back in a while.” And then he leaves.

  Lennon chuckles, walking in from the little kitchen off to the left, a bottle of wine and two glasses in her hands. “That was hasty.”

  “He’s always like that.”

  “We can drink to that. Hasty, rough men.”

  “Amen.”

  Sitting on Lennon’s couch, we drink and eat, catching up and laughing over stupid shit.

  “We should go the bar tonight,” Lennon muses, refilling my glass.

  A night out. A good excuse to blow off some steam. An even better excuse to get white girl wasted. “I’m down.”

  “And King? He gonna let you?”

  Scoffing, I roll my eyes. “He doesn’t have a say.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re not true, as much as I want them to be.

  Lennon laughs, giving me a mocking thumbs up. “Sure, girl, just like Buck doesn’t have a say.”

  Grabbing the pillow next to me on the couch, I chuck it at her. “King’s not my old man.”

  “You keep tellin’ yourself that.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  Lennon laughs loudly, hiding behind her hand. “I’m a teller of truths.”

  “A gypsy asshole.”

  She’s weird. Weirder than the rest of us, but I love her like a sister.

  “So, you goin’ dressed like that?” Lennon asks, eying my shooting range outfit of leggings and a sweatshirt.

  “Hell no.”

  “Good. Have a prospect take your ass home, get changed, and we’ll go.”

  Getting off the couch, I walk to the front door and open it. “Hey,” I say sweetly to the new guy.

  He nods, acknowledging me.

  “Take me home please?”

  He looks hesitant. “King told me to watch you here.”

  “Is King the president?” I ask, knowing I have one shot at this. I use my dad and my place in the club.

  He shakes his head. “Exactly. I’d like to go home.”

  “This looks like the motherfucker from the video?” T asks, jerking his chin at the guy strung up like a piece filleted meat.

  Arms tied, hanging from the rafters of a garage bay at the club, he’s a little bloody, but not worse for wear. Not until I get my hands on him.

  “Looks like it,” I answer him, walking around the guy.

  Some Mexican gangbanger asshole with a skull tattooed on his back and the words ‘Mexican Mob’ stamped under it, bleeding all over the concrete. And believe it or not, the motherfucker isn’t even Mexican.

  “Claims he doesn’t know Sammy. Claims,” T growls, hitting the guy in the face with his fist. “He’s not Mexican Mob, but his ink says something different.”

  Buck chuckles from his spot against the tool bench. “Either real stupid or real smart, playin’ dumb.”

  “Maybe a little bit of both,” T suggests, shrugging. “Either way, he’s not walkin’ out of here.”

  The fucker hanging isn’t making any noise. His chin’s dropped to his chest and his eyes are closed. “He already dead?” I ask Rock.

  “Nah, just takin’ a nap.”

  “You sing him to sleep?” I ask him, chuckling when I get a look at Rock’s face. “Rock him to sleep? Give him a hot bath?”

  Rock just gives me the one finger salute. “Time for you to change his diaper, asshole.”

  “Nah, you’re good with kids. Go ahead.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Hard or soft, take your pick.”

  Rock just shakes his head, walking around the guy and hitting him in the kidney, waking him up. “Wakey wakey, fucker.”

  The asshole groans, his head lulling to one side. He makes a couple gurgling noises, his eyes popping open when Rocky jerks on his ropes. I watch him watch us, trying to catch some recognition, a clue that this fucker knows us or knows why he’s here.

  “Fuck,” he moans, pulling on the rope. “What the fuck?” His head whips from side to side, looking at his arms tied up, and then at us.

  “Where’d you find this guy?” I ask Buck.

  “Loitering on Sam’s street.”

  “Oh yeah?” I muse, talking to Buck, but looking at the dude. “Like that side of town? Got a friend on that street?” I ask the guy, circling him. I know goddamn well he was there looking for Samantha. Watchin’. Waitin’.

  “I don’t—I don’t know,” he stutters, coughing
. He does know.

  “You get lost?”

  The guy doesn’t answer me, just groans.

  “This got anything to do with the gun shipment that got botched with the Mexicans Danny Boy was tellin’ me about?” I ask Ty, my voice quiet, but serious.

  “You thinkin’ this shit with Sammy’s because of a fucked-up shipment and some severed ties?”

  “When did all this shit start?”

  It seems to dawn on T, making sense and clicking into place. “Fuck. Jesus Christ. You think this is all tied?”

  I don’t know what I think. Haven’t been around enough lately to have a firm grasp on what’s been going on, but if I’d have to guess, that’d be my bet. “Yep.”

  Tyler drags a hand over his face, head shaking. “Danny Boy’s gonna lose his shit knowing this is a club issue and not a Sammy issue.”

  “Well, pretty soon, it’ll be a non-fucking-issue,” I tell him, grabbing my knife and walking up to the guy hanging.

  “You got a name, asshole?”

  He shakes his head, sneering at me. “Fuck you.”

  “You can make this easy or hard. Either way, I’m gettin’ the information I need.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Jesus. “That all you know how to say? Because if it’s not, then you better start talkin’.”

  The dick spits in my direction, hitting my boot. I don’t have time for this shit.

  Sticking my knife a few inches into his thigh, I ask him again, “You got a name?”

  He screams. Screams like he’s dyin’. “R-R-Rick,” he stutters through his screams.

  “So, Rick, who you work for?” I ask him casually, but I’m feeling anything but fucking calm.

  He doesn’t answer, so I give him another hole. “Who you work for?”

  He starts screaming again, louder this time. Blood oozing out of his leg from the first hole and gushing out of the new one. I don’t ask him again who he works for. I just let my knife do the talking, adding a third hole. And after the fourth, he starts babbling. “Santino. He’s Santino.”

  I’m gonna assume that’s his boss. I don’t ask to confirm he’s Mexican Mob or any other fucking question. I just put my knife through his chest.