The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

  “None of your goddamn business. Take his drunk ass inside. I’m takin’ Samantha home.”

  “You okay?” He looks at Samantha, watching her face. I know he loves her like a sister, but I don’t like it.

  She nods, frowning. “I’m fine.”

  Rock looks at me and nods, walking back inside, hauling Tags in with him.

  Alone with the princess, I advance.

  “You’re fuckin’ crazy,” she tells me, backing away from me.

  Shrugging, I tell her, “You’re the reason.” That shocks her. Her eyes go wide and her pretty mouth drops open.

  Samantha has always driven me fucking crazy. Crawled inside my brain and fucked with it. Ruined me. I hate the bitch as much as I love her.

  “What?” Now she’s screeching. “How?” Blonde hair a disaster. White dress stained. She looks worse for wear.

  “He touched you.” It’s simple. Keep your motherfucking hands to yourself. Now she’s really shocked. Hell, I’m fucking shocked. Jealously isn’t me, never was. Looks like shit’s changin’.

  “He was just saying hi,” the pretty little princess growls, shoulder checking me as she tries to push past me, going after him. Not happening.

  “Fucking doubtful.”

  No one touches her. Not Tags—no one.

  “He was—”

  “You’re mine,” I tell her quietly, grabbing her arm and stopping her dead in her tracks.

  “Oh, am I?” she growls. “What about the bitch hangin’ off you in the bar just a second ago?”

  “What about her?” Some stupid hang around means nothing and she knows it. The bitch was getting drink orders and that’s it. Swear to fuck, Samantha’s just looking for a reason to be mad and fight with me. “It’s only you.”

  “Bullshit.” Pulling away, she steps back and eyes me, waiting for me to disagree.

  That’s the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve ever heard and she fucking knows it. I may not be everything the bitch wants out of life, her prince goddamn charming, but I’ve never treated her bad, never fucking hurt her, even when I’ve wanted to. “You know I’d fucking care if something happened to you.”

  She rolls her eyes and scoffs.

  Swear to fucking God, no one in my life has ever made me madder or fucking harder than this bitch. She’s standing in front of me, shoulders back, defiant as fuck. If she thinks I wouldn’t care if this piece of shit put his hands on her, then she’s fucking stupid.

  “Doubt it,” she fires back.

  “Swear to fucking God, Samantha.” Scrubbing at my face, I take a couple deep breaths before I snap and lose it more than I already have.

  “I don’t—”

  I cut her ass off. “Why the fuck do you think I’m here? You think I’m here to bullshit and shoot pool?” Her mouth snaps shut, and the heat drains from her cheeks. Pointing at her, I add, “I’m here to keep some creepy motherfucker away from you. Keep you alive and breathin’. That’s why I’m here, so don’t pull some bullshit by sayin’ I don’t care about you. Might not be the way you want me to fucking care, but,” I tap on my chest, “here I fucking am.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come.”

  “And you wouldn’t fucking have to.”

  “I’m nothing more than a pair of tits and a warm body to you.”

  That makes me laugh because it’s fucking hysterical how stupid she is, and it makes me laugh because she couldn’t be more wrong. That shit scares me, and I don’t know whether to puke or fucking laugh about it, so I laugh.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “That’s why I keep comin’ back for more because you’re only a pair of tits.” I don’t know what she wants me to say. If she wants some heartfelt bullshit from me, she’s not getting it. If she wants me on bended knee confessing my love, then I’m sticking with the idea that she’s fucking stupid.

  There’s something more with Samantha, something I don’t want to explore or touch on, but I know it’s there. I feel it when she looks at me, when I’m inside of her. There’s so much more.

  “Just take me home,” she demands, done.

  “My fucking pleasure.”

  “I’m goin’ to bed,” she tells me, taking off up the stairs. I give her a minute before following her up, not done with this shit.

  In her room, I watch her strip, pulling off her dirty white dress, leaving her in nothing but that sexy fucking lace deal.

  “You really think I don’t care about you?”

  “I don’t know what to think, King, because you won’t tell me. We fuck and it’s so good. She peels off the lace bodysuit. “And for years it worked, and then you show up here and things start to change,” she tells me, disappearing into the bathroom, naked. I follow her. “You act different. You’re not so cold, not so damn detached, and I’m fucking confused.”

  Samantha flips on the shower, turning it hot.

  She’s naked. Beautiful.

  Tugging at my shirt, she stops me. “No. You can stay here, sleep on the couch, but we’re not having sex tonight.”

  “Princess—”

  “No,” she says firmly, sending me on my way. “I need a night.”

  Not fucking happy about it, I give her the night, too fucking tired to fight with her. But if she’s asking me to leave, she’s not getting it. I take my ass downstairs and sleep on the fucking couch.

  Something wakes me from a dead sleep. A noise loud enough to pull me from a deep sleep, but not nearly loud enough to be distinguished in my hazy brain.

  Sitting up, my comforter around my waist, I shiver, my room cold.

  Looking at the clock on my nightstand, it’s just past two in the morning. Way too early to be awake.

  “Shit,” I mutter, looking around.

  Staring at the wall, watching the shadows from the trees outside my window dance across the wall, I hear it again, louder this time. A bang, and then something rattling.

  My heart seizes in my chest, coming to a full damn stop before falling straight to my feet. I’ve never bolted out of bed faster or flew down my stairs quicker, but I do manage to sling on my robe on the way out.

  My house is dark, the only light in my living room coming from the TV. The sound’s low, but it’s some infomercial playing on the screen, and the only thing I can hear is the fast-paced beat of my poor, overworked heart.

  Creeping to the couch, I look over the side and find it empty. No King. And it’s possible my heart falls farther, out of my feet and through the damn floor.

  King left? Shit, he left!

  The sound of something shutting, a door maybe, has me creeping toward my dining room, toward my French doors and the back yard, where the sound came from.

  I’m scared. My heart’s beating frantically. My hands are shaking. Blood’s pumping.

  Standing at the door, looking through the glass, I damn near have a heart attack when King wraps his arms around me, his hand covering my mouth. “It’s me,” he says in my neck, his lips at my ear. “Not trying to scare you, but I need you to be quiet. Can you be quiet?”

  I nod, my heart rate slowing just having his damn arms around me. I hate how safe he makes me feel.

  King uncovers my mouth, walking me away from the door. “You heard that, right? I’m not crazy?” I ask him, looking up at him.

  He nods. “I heard it. Grab your phone and go into the bathroom. Lock the door.”

  Whoa. “What? Why?”

  King looks serious. Deadly serious. “Go upstairs. Lock the fucking door.”

  I don’t have time to go because someone tries my front door handle. I watch it twist and turn, watch it bow when someone rams into it, the wood groaning and cracking under the weight of a body.

  It’s going to fucking break. Oh God.

  Someone’s trying to break down my fucking door!

  King pulls a gun from behind his back from the waist of his jeans, the only thing he’s wearing, and takes a couple steps toward my door. Before he reaches the handle, he stops and looks at me, his finger to his lips. �
�Quiet.”

  I nod my head, my heart and stomach trying to crawl up my throat when I step away, around the corner of the wall.

  I’m scared shitless in this moment.

  I want to beg King to stay in the house, tell him to call the cops. Plead with him to be careful. But I keep my lips pressed together, my mouth closed, watching him.

  I watch a piece of my front door blow open, the wood splintering as a bullet blows through it. It happens in an instant. “Fuck!” King stumbles back a step but doesn’t waiver. He shoots once, twice, returning fire.

  And then everything goes silent for a half a second.

  I don’t hesitate. I don’t think. Rushing up to King, I touch is arm, the one covered in blood.

  “Fuck. Shit,” I mumble, my voice shaking. “You’ve been shot.”

  He doesn’t even acknowledge me. He just shoots again, putting two more bullets in my door as he shoves me behind him.

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  “How are we here,” she asks, waving between us, “doing this shit again?” Her voice shakes, even though she’s trying to make light of the damn situation.

  I don’t lift my shoulder because I fucking can’t. My skin burns, the muscle aching, on fucking fire. “Luck,” I answer her, not telling her the real reason were here again, because that’d mean admitting we’re here because I fucking love her. I’m here because she needed me, and I couldn’t imagine not coming when she needed me. We’re here, again, because she’s mine, and I always fucking take care of what’s mine.

  In the bathtub, Sam sitting on the edge, me between her knees, she bandages me up the best she can, again, for the second time in just a few days. There’s a sizeable hole in my shoulder. The bullet went right through the meat and I’ll be goddamned if I know where the bullet ended up, but I just thank fuck it’s not stuck in my arm because that shit’s fucking painful.

  “You okay, baby?” I ask her, taking a drink of the rum I’m pounding straight form the bottle.

  “I should be askin’ you that.” She lifts a brow, looking at my arm.

  “I’m good.”

  She laughs softly. “You’ve got a hole in your arm.”

  “Better than my head.”

  Samantha’s face sobers. “That’s not funny.”

  It’s not, but it’s true.

  “Are you scared?”

  “Yes,” she answers right away, without thinking about it. “That asshole shot you, King. Shot you in my house. This is serious.” Thank fuck, she’s finally getting it.

  “You’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “You are. I just thank fuck it wasn’t you.”

  She looks at me, eyes glassy, reality hitting her. It could have been her, something I don’t even want to think about. “But it was you.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her, wrapping a hand around the back of her neck and kissing her roughly. I need her fucking lips, need to taste her.

  My adrenaline’s all over the goddamn place.

  She cares about me. As much as she doesn’t want to, she does. The feeling’s fucking mutual. Knowing that bullet came close to her puts me in a blind fucking rage, and the only reason I’m not out there blowing holes in any motherfucker that walks by, is because my girl’s sitting here, taking care of me. It makes her feel better, and if that’s what it takes to keep her calm, I’m fucking good.

  Bent over my shoulder, her mouth pressed against mine, I reach a hand inside of her robe, grabbing one of her tits. “King,” she moans, “you’re bloody and hurt.”

  “Couldn’t give a fuck less. I want you.”

  She pulls away and crawls into the dry tub, a leg on either side of me. The tie on her little silk robe isn’t doing shit to hide her body. I can see both tits and her pussy. The only thing that shit’s covering is her belly button. Tugging at the tie, I tell her, “Pointless piece of clothing.”

  She laughs softly, her eyes still a little glassy and wet at the corners. She’s still scared.

  “Want me to stop?” I ask her, biting at her nipple. The soft skin puckers, going hard in my mouth.

  The princess’s head falls back, shaking from side to side. “God, no.”

  “Good, ’cause I wasn’t going to.”

  I don’t wanna fuck around and go slow.

  “Up.” I pat her tight with my bad arm, the muscle smartin’ like a bitch.

  “You’re hurt,” she mumbles against my lips, but lifts her hips.

  Couldn’t give a fuck less. “I’m feelin’ good,” I tell her, unbuttoning my pants and tugging on my fly, freeing my aching dick. The son of a bitch wants inside her something fierce.

  Samantha laughs. It’s a smoky, heady sound. “How good?” she teases, sliding down my hard as fuck cock. Her juicy pussy takes me deep, sucking me in.

  “Jesus, baby,” I groan, my head falling onto her chest.

  She seats herself, my cock damn near in her stomach. “Why’s it always so good,” she moans, riding my dick.

  Up fast and down hard.

  Holding her hips steady, I let her ride me.

  “Because you fuckin’ love me.” The words slip, and again, I couldn’t give a fuck less right now.

  “Maybe,” she groans, grinding down. “Or maybe it’s your dick,” she tells me, her clit rubbing against me.

  “Maybe,” I agree, but knowing it’s a bunch of bullshit. The bitch loves and feeling is fucking mutual.

  “You gonna come, baby?” I ask her when she grinds down on me.

  “Yes,” she moans, her thighs shaking.

  “Good. Then fucking come for me, Princess.”

  “Jesus Christ, brother, you okay?” my dad asks King, grabbing his hurt shoulder, making King chuckle and wince.

  “Fucking great. Samantha fixed me up,” he says, shooting me a quick look. There’s something in his ocean blue eyes other than ice—it’s heat.

  “So what the fuck happened?” my dad growls, sitting down next to King at the bar.

  Standing a few feet away, I listen to King recount the story, my blood running cold. I want nothing more in this moment than to be in King’s arms, and I fucking hate that I can’t be. I want to be at home, in bed, with King.

  Does my dad know about us? I’m not sure and I don’t want to know. He’s not a stupid man, but he also trusts his daughter, trusts his brothers, and if he did, I’m not sure King would be here right now.

  “You okay, Princess?” he asks me, done listening to King.

  “I’m fine.” He gets up and walks over to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me into his side. He kisses my temple, nodding. “Good. King’ll keep ya safe.”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “You gonna be able to ride like that?” Bish asks, walking around the bar, two beers in his hands.

  “Gonna die tryin’,” King answers him, taking the offered beer and laughing.

  Just hearing him say he’d die trying makes my stomach knot. King came close to dying tonight. Too close. And I hate how much it sickens me.

  The guys start to bullshit, talking about how to handle the situation, and it’s too much for me. Just hearing King talk about it makes me ill. I lived it—I am living it. I don’t want to hear it too.

  Leaving the bar, I walk outside, walk under the tin shed style roof and sit down on a camping chair near the fire pit. Propping my feet up, I exhale the exhausted breath I’ve been holding all night.

  I’ve lived a crazy life living in this club, but nothing quite like this. This is too much for me.

  “What are you doin’ out here?” King asks, walking up behind me. He doesn’t touch me and he doesn’t have to. He does something to me. Something no one else can, and I can’t explain it. I feel him without touching him.

  “Watchin’ the fire.”

  “You okay?” He sits down next to me in an empty chair and grabs my hand, pulling me onto him from my seat and onto his lap.

  “Someone’s gonna to see us.”

 
“Fuck them.” It’s not that simple.

  “What if it’s my dad?”

  “Good,” he growls, lifting his hips, grinding into my ass. “Let him know I’m fucking his daughter.”

  “King,” I groan, enjoying the friction, but hating his words.

  “No one’s gonna know,” he tells me, pushing the hair off my shoulder and burying his face in my neck, his beard scratching at my sensitive skin, “that I spend hours deep inside your tight cunt. No one’s gonna know I’ve been inside of you for fucking years.”

  Jesus. I melt into a puddle. “King, seriously.”

  He chuckles, kissing me. “Relax, Princess. We’re good.”

  “Are we?”

  Wrapping a strong arm around me, he puts his hand on my hip, holding me tight against him. “Fuck yeah. Bullets aren’t gonna stop me.”

  I feel like everything is catching up to us. This thing we’ve had going for years and this stalker. Everything is coming to a head and it scares me.

  “Bullets? What about bats?” I joke, needing the lightness.

  “Bullets. Bats. Knives. Handcuffs. Nothing’s stoppin’ me, baby.” I believe that. “We’re good,” he adds, kissing my neck.

  “So good,” I agree, falling hard.

  “That all you packin’, baby?” I ask her, watching her fold up what I’m guessing is shirt number six, and stick it in her suitcase.

  Samantha glares at me from the floor of her closet. “Are you judging me?” she huffs, surrounded by clothes and shoes.

  “I’d never.”

  She narrows her eyes and points a hanger at me. “I may be on the back of your bike all the way up there, but it’s not like you’re haulin’ my ass and my bag, so shut up.”

  Holding up my hands, I chuckle. “You pack as much shit as you want.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t forget your prom dress.”

  Samantha laughs so hard, she’s got tears in her eyes. “A prom dress? What the fuck?” She can barely breathe through her laughter.

  “You all right there, Chuckles?” I fucking love it. She’s prettiest when she’s happy, but even prettier when she’s laughing.