The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

“Swimmin’ drunk?”

  “Yes,” she affirms, arms crossed.

  Who the fuck am I to tell her no? If she wants to swim, then she’ll swim.

  Walking into the hotel, I throw a hand out toward the swinging double doors with the word pool painted on them in black. “Go ahead, Princess.”

  She smirks as she brushes by me, walking through the doors.

  I follow. There’s a couple females in the pool, with two prospects watching.

  “Out,” I holler, and no one argues. The prospects scatter and the chicks follow.

  “It’s good to be the King,” Samantha teases, grabbing my cut and pulling me to her lips. She kisses me, smiling against my mouth.

  “Damn good to be the king.”

  Sitting down in one of the lounge chairs, I kick back and watch her. Watch her pull the dress she’s wearing up and over her head, tossing it to me. “Hold that for me,” she instructs, lifting a brow.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  In a simple white bikini, showing more skin than she’s covering, I stare, getting my fill.

  “Sexy as fuck, baby,” I tell her, watching her linger at the edge of the pool, dipping a toe in.

  “I know,” she smirks, pulling her hair out of the braid it was in and shaking her hair out. “That’s why you’re here.”

  Not the only goddamn reason I’m here.

  “Because you’re hot and I wanna fuck you?” I ask her.

  She nods, diving in and popping up and out of the water near the edge on the other side closest to me. “I don’t know why else you’d be here if it weren’t for the fact that you think I’m hot and you want to pork me.”

  “Pork you, huh.”

  “Fuck. Pork. Bonk. Pound. Whatever.”

  “You’re crazy, lady, and that’s another reason I’m here.”

  She laughs. The sound is one of the best things I’ve ever heard. “That’s right,” she muses. “You like your girls crazy.”

  “Girl,” I correct. I wouldn’t put up with this kind of shit from anyone else. I wouldn’t be here for anyone else. Samantha is the girl.

  “Girl?”

  “You’re the only one, Princess.” She likes that. She smiles.

  “So, if I did this…” She flicks her wet hand, splashing me with water. “You’d still put up with my shit?”

  “Don’t push your luck,” I tell her, taking a drink of my beer and pointing it at her.

  Samantha just laughs, dipping under the water and swimming to the middle. “If I push my luck, are you gonna leave?”

  She’s asking me things she’s not going to like the answer to. Asking me to tell her I’m staying. Asking me to tell her I love her. Asking me shit I don’t have the answer to. Samantha’s the only good thing in my life. The only woman I could possibly love. But she won’t hear me say it because I can’t. I can’t lie to her.

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere right now.”

  My answer seems to make her happy because she swims back over to the side, to the ladder, and crawls out. She’s a wet fucking dream. She crawls on top of me, her wet pussy pressed against my cock. “Kiss your crazy girl.”

  “Kiss your King,” I counter, lips on hers.

  “Always.” I kiss the bitch like I love her, because I might.

  “Hit him!” Lil shrieks, jumping up from her seat, practically falling onto me. Grabbing my shoulder, she throws an angry fist at the ring set up in the middle of a field and screams, “Hit him again! Harder!”

  The chick is a violent drunk.

  “Calm down before you fall down.”

  “You see that shit? Cheap shot.”

  I’m not sure what she’s worried about. Tank’s got the upper hand, wiping the mat with some scrawny guy missing a couple teeth.

  “Tank just nailed him in the face.”

  She throws a hand toward the ring, looking at me sideways. “But that fucker socked him in the kidney.”

  “Tank’s fine, though.”

  She gives me a nasty look. “You got money on the skinny dude or somethin’?”

  I laugh, holding up my hands. “Yeah, ten million. Now tell Tank to throw the match.”

  Lil smacks my arm, rolling her eyes.

  The people watching are cheering and booing, pounding on the mat as Tank circles the guy, hitting him in the stomach with a quick jab.

  Rallies are wild. Loud and out of control. Charity makes bikers crazy.

  Boxing brings in the big bucks. Everyone bets and the money raised goes to charity, and the winner gets bragging rights. It’s a whole thing.

  King is next, standing by the ring, talking to the guys. He’s shirtless and mouthwatering.

  It doesn’t take long before Tank knocks the little guy out and everyone watching cheers, patting him on the back as he leaves the ring.

  “Ooo!” Lil squeals, getting up. “I’m gonna go congratulate my man.” Congratulate, meaning a lot more than I wish it did.

  “Have fun,” I call after her, watching her run toward Tank and throw herself around him. He catches and kisses her, and I roll my eyes. They’re gross, but cute.

  I watch King. Watch him climb between the ropes and stand in the middle of the ring.

  My heart accelerates.

  A guy about King’s size gets into the ring, sizing him up. Watching him. The guy has wild eyes, shaking his hands out, staring.

  King doesn’t look at his opponent, he looks at me. Sitting on the small metal set of bleachers, I return his stare.

  He’s hypnotic. The way he moves, each muscle flexing, perfectly in tune with each movement. Solid and built, King’s like a machine, his hits methodical.

  I can’t look away. My eyes are drawn to him.

  Watching him hit the big guy, a straight shot to the mouth, I feel my heart begin to race. Watching King works me up. The guy staggers, stunned, but King doesn’t stop. He keeps coming for him, hit after hit. My heart beats wildly as I watch him.

  Sweaty, King wipes at his brow, dodging a fist, but he comes back at him, catching him with an uppercut that sends the man’s head snapping back.

  The crowd cheers, getting louder.

  King hits him again. And again. I can’t stop watching, even as blood starts dripping from the man’s mouth.

  Jesus, he’s a beast.

  I register someone sitting next to me, a big someone, his body crowding mine. “That big dude’s an animal,” I hear him say, and turn to give him a quick look. He’s wearing a cut I don’t recognize. “You his old lady?” the guy asks, looking at King’s cut folded in my lap, my hands clutching the leather.

  I shake my head no because I’m not. King doesn’t live that way.

  The guy takes my no as an invitation. “You got a name, baby?” Just hearing him call me ‘baby’ makes my skin crawl.

  “Busy,” I tell him, turning my body and attention back on King. And King’s attention? On me. One hundred percent focused.

  The big guy in the ring is barely standing, staggering around, and I know King’s about two seconds away from hopping out of that ring and laying the guy next to me out.

  I start to stand, to get away, but it’s too late. King lays the guy out in the ring, hitting him with such force, the guy falls flat on his back—out cold.

  “King,” I start to say, standing.

  He’s out of the ring and single-mindedly coming for me.

  Taking the bleacher steps two at a time, he doesn’t pause when he gets to me. He grabs my hand and hauls me behind him, snarling, “Touch my old lady again and I’ll fucking kill you,” before he lays the guy next to me out, breaking his nose with one bloody fist to the face.

  Jesus. This shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. I’m breathing hard, and I haven’t even done anything.

  “Damn,” I breath, squeezing King’s hand. “You’re crazy.”

  “In-fucking-sane,” King growls, taking the cut from my hand and throwing it over my shoulders. I don’t question it. I don’t argue. I go with it.

  King’s go
t my hand, pulling me through the crowd and across the road, into the hotel and up to our room.

  We barely make it through the door.

  Breathing hard, raging, King shoves me against the wall, jerking on my shorts, pulling them down without unbuttoning them.

  He’s all over me.

  Grabbing his hand, the one tearing at my panties, I shake my head, stopping him.

  “I’m your old lady?” I tease, tugging at the button on his jeans, my hand sliding inside, finding his cock rock solid.

  King groans, his head on my shoulder, leaning into me. “Closest thing I’ll ever fucking have to one.” He’s drunk and high on pain, his words holding little weight, yet still hitting me in the chest. “Jesus, baby,” he growls, his hips jerking when I stroke up and down his smooth shaft, squeezing him.

  “We do this my way,” I whisper, pulling him free from his jeans.

  King chuckles darkly, grabbing my hands and pinning them behind my back. “Nah, baby, we do this shit my way.”

  Walking me toward the little desk in the corner, he grabs my hips, setting me on it, my ass hitting cold laminate wood. My hearts in my throat, my stomach on a damn rollercoaster. King’s the only man that makes me feel this way. Only one that makes me this high.

  He’s not sweet or gentle about it. Tearing my panties off, he fists his dick and thrusts into me. Hard. The desk slams against the wall, my body going with it.

  “Shit,” I yelp as he growls, “Fuck,” low and deep, his fingers digging into my skin.

  It’s not pretty or special, or loving. It’s rough and mean, and brutal. King fucks me hard, pounding into me over and over, the same way he hit the guy in the ring—methodically, like a machine, taking what he wants.

  The only difference? His lips on mine, worshipping me, hungry for me, needing me. “Goddamn it, baby, I love this pussy,” he breathes out, rubbing my clit with thumb.

  “I know,” I moan, my fingers digging into his shoulders and holding on as he goes deep.

  “This shit’s mine,” he declares, nailing me hard, my back hitting the wall with a thud. He doesn’t say sorry, he just does it again. “This pussy mine?”

  “It’s yours.” I shudder, feeling the high take me over.

  In and out. Hard and fast. My body starts to spiral as my orgasm builds.

  “Goddamn right it is. You’re mine, Princess. Always have been,” he growls, his thrusts frantic and wild. “Always fuckin’ will be.”

  King comes hard, taking me with him. My pussy convulses and his cock jerks. It’s only like this with him. The man owns my body—owns me.

  “I want to swim,” Peaches tells Samantha, and I know goddamn well she’s gonna be all over that shit, especially after the other night.

  This whole goddamn weekend has been a free-for-all. Booze, fighting, fucking, stunt show, brothers, and a lot of fucking partying. Swimming this weekend? Why the fuck not? She’s been all over the goddamn place anyway, having the time of her life.

  Sitting on my lap, she looks at me from over her shoulder, smiling sweetly. “I’m gonna swim.” She’s not asking, she’s telling me. Let’s be fucking honest, the princess does what she wants, and I just work around it.

  “Take a prospect with you, yeah?”

  She rolls her eyes, getting off me. “Pass.” She leans down, hands on my knees, to kiss me.

  Stealing a kiss, I grab her ass, pulling her in.

  She smells like grapefruit and tastes like cinnamon.

  “Wasn’t a suggestion,” I inform her, kissing her again, not playing around. I’m not the only protective motherfucker with a woman about to hop in that pool. Pretty goddamn sure Rock and Gin feel the same way.

  Peaches grabs Samantha’s hand, Ellison’s hand already in her other, and smirks. “Just smile pretty at him and nod. Works better that way.”

  “Don’t teach her bad habits, Peaches.”

  Peaches laughs, waving me off. “It’s the way of my people, King. Don’t get in the way of tradition.” The bitch is certifiable. Swear to Christ, I don’t know how Gin deals with her.

  Samantha and Peaches laugh, holding hands. “She’s my queen,” Samantha declares, smirking.

  “We bow down,” El chimes in, giggling.

  “You three are fuckin’ weird,” I scoff, grabbing her hips and jerking her back toward me when she moves away. Bringing her down to my level, I tell her, “Be good. Be careful.”

  “You be good,” she tosses back, fire in her blue eyes, lips inches from mine.

  “Not the drunk one here.” I steal a quick kiss before sending her drunk ass on its way. She’s too much. The three of them are more than I want to deal with when I’m trying to have a drink and enjoy my evening.

  The last thing I see before all hell breaks loose is Samantha, smiling and dancing, as she walks off with Peaches and Ellison.

  Shit changes real goddamn quick, and I never saw it comin’.

  It happens in an instant. Everything slows down to a painful crawl and shit starts to spiral quicker than I can process.

  Not more than two hundred feet away from me, crossing the little dirt road toward the casino, Samantha, El, and Peaches are stopped by a rusty, white box van, a van I don’t recognize. And its singlehandedly the most terrifying moment of my life when I watch it pull up, brakes squealing, the sliding door flying open. Right in front of my fucking eyes, two guys in head-to-toe black hop out, grabbing Samantha.

  Adrenaline kicks in and rage sends me flying.

  Samantha doesn’t make a noise in the chaos when she’s grabbed, she just looks for me and finds me. Peaches is screaming. Ellison’s screaming. The man in black’s hollering, the driver shouting at him. People are panicking and I’m up and out of my chair in a second, running toward her.

  Desperate.

  I’ve never been more fucking scared in my goddamn life.

  Reaching for my gun, I come up empty. My shit’s in the room because I didn’t need it to box. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I don’t have my piece.

  I watch her and I watch him. He’s got his arms wrapped around her middle, tight, not letting go. I can see her struggling, kicking, fighting.

  Pushing through a group of people, someone fires a shot, and that’s when shit really falls apart. Everyone at the rally runs—someone toward the van, and a shit ton away from it.

  I couldn’t care less what fucking happens around me. The only thing I care about is getting to my girl.

  Feet away from her, someone shoots, hitting the guy that’s holding onto her. It’s close. Too fucking close. A bullet hits the motherfucker in the head and he goes down, taking Samantha with him.

  She screams for the first time since this started, and it’s the the worst sound I’ve ever heard.

  I reach her in seconds, and from the moment I stop to grab her, she’s scrambling toward me, blood on her face and her clothes.

  She’s terrified. I’m fucking terrified.

  “King!” she cries, her voice broken and distant. Arms wrapped around me, she holds on.

  “I’ve got you.”

  She’s crying silently, her arms tight around my neck, and I know I can’t do this shit. I may love Samantha more than I love any goddamn thing, but we can’t fucking do this. I can’t be what she needs, and it’s clear as fucking day right in this moment. We are what we are and I can’t give her more, and the way she’s holding onto me says she wants more. She deserves more. But it won’t be with me. It can’t be.

  I feel strangely calm. Blank. Emotionless.

  Sitting in the middle of the hotel bed, I stare at the TV, but not actually watching anything. I can’t. My mind is numb.

  There was a rush of emotions an hour ago, and now there’s nothing. In those moments, in that rush, the scariest part of it all was seeing the look on King’s face. The terror. He was scared. I was scared because he was scared. Now there’s nothing. I feel nothing.

  “You okay, cousin?” Lilly asks, touching my arm.

  She’s lying next to me on the
bed, her head resting on her hand.

  “I’m hungry,” I hear myself tell her. I think I’m hungry. I’m not sure how I can be, but I am. I’m hungry and I’m tired.

  She chuckles. “Salad hungry or burger hungry?” She knows me too well.

  “Burger.” Definitely a burger.

  Lil gets off the bed and slips out the door, saying something to who I’m sure is a prospect standing guard at the door, on her way out.

  Thank God for Lilly.

  King’s in the lobby, or at least that’s where he told me he’d be. I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m not sure I want to.

  Reliving those moments an hour ago, the only emotion I can dredge up is anger. Anger for having my day ruined. Anger for being followed. Anger for being targeted. This whole situation is shit. Complete fucking shit.

  I know I should be feeling something besides anger, but nothing comes up. I want to feel something. Worry, scared—something, but I feel nothing but anger.

  Leaning back against the headboard, I stare at the TV, some game show on the screen. I focus, tuning everything out.

  I’m not alone long.

  King’s back in the room five minutes after Lilly leaves, carrying a white to-go container and wearing a frown.

  “Here,” he says, setting my food on the bed in front of my crossed legs.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, peeking inside the container. A bacon cheeseburger and curly fries, and a side of fry sauce. Thank God for Lilly.

  King doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t sit next to me, or lean in and kiss me. He sits across from the bed in a small chair by the window and stares at me.

  He’s rigid. Still. Solid.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him, watching his face for any sign of anything. Any sort of emotion. I get nothing.

  “You need water?” He looks at the burger and fries, and back up at me.

  Something feels off. Different. Wrong.

  He’s detached, and that scares me more than anything.

  “I’m fine.” I abandon my burger and the bed, crawling toward King.

  He’s watching me with those bottomless ocean blue eyes. Soulless and cold. “I’m okay,” I reiterate, saying it again. “I’m good.” I say it for him. I say it for me.