The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

“Done. Next.”

  Each motherfucker gets bigger and better. Takes four rounds until I’m face-to-face with some big motherfucker that looks like he can throw a punch. Six inches shorter and outweighing me by twenty pounds, he looks like he could cause some damage. Good. I need a challenge.

  The big fucker doesn’t waste time, coming at me as soon as I’m ready. He comes swinging, fists flying.

  I let him hit me in the face, his wrapped knuckles connecting with my mouth. I can taste blood, and it’s sweet.

  “That all you got?” I taunt, ducking another hit.

  We exchange a couple blows. Blood’s dripping into my eyes. Hands throbbing. Side aching. First thing I’ve felt in a long fucking while.

  The big fucker swings, hitting me in the gut, but I swing at the same time, connecting with his face and he goes down. I follow. Ground and pound, laying him out, hitting him over and fucking over. My hands hurting, burning and stinging. Blood and spit all over his face, all over my hands. It feels fucking good. Cathartic. I turn his face to goddamn hamburger. I hit him until Rowdy’s pulling me off of him, and it feels fucking glorious.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Ellison laughs, bouncing her baby girl on her hip. Standing at the sink, she looks at me, eyes rolled and lips pursed. “Already? Didn’t you see Tags, like, two days ago?” she teases, grabbing a bottle from the counter and popping it into the baby’s mouth. “He that good?”

  She laughs and I want to cry.

  I told Tags and he shut down, got up and walked out of the room. I drove home fifteen minutes later and I cried the entire way.

  When I don’t say anything, she turns slowly, staring. Her eyes are huge and her mouth’s hanging open. She’s shocked. I’m shocked. “That wasn’t a joke, was it?”

  “No.”

  “You and Tags are havin’ a baby?” Her voice gets higher and her eyes get bigger. I wish it were Tags’. It’d be much easier that way.

  “It’s King’s,” I whisper, the words slicing my tongue when they leave my mouth. I can’t look at her anymore, so I opt for staring at my feet instead.

  “Oh my God,” she breathes, putting little Aubree in her bounce seat. “Oh my God,” she says again, her hand clutching her chest as she sits down next to me on the couch. “Are you sure?”

  “At least three months sure.”

  She looks at my belly and back at my face. “You’re sure?”

  I shrug, too scared to see a doctor. “Pretty sure.”

  “Have you gone to the doctor? Told anyone? Does King know?”

  I just shake my head, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. I’m so sacred, but so excited. So nervous, but so in love. “It feels weird to be twenty-nine and having a baby alone.” I sniffle, laughing. “Shouldn’t I be married, or at least in a relationship?”

  “No. You don’t need a man to do this. You have me. You have family.” This is Ellison— tough, and always ready to help. This is why I love her.

  I snort, sucking back tears. “And as much as I appreciate that, I don’t have the one person I need right now.” King.

  “You think you need him, but you don’t. He’s a fucking asshole anyway. No one, including you and that baby, needs him. If he’s just going to leave, you don’t want that shit in your life.”

  She’s not wrong, but it still hurts.

  “So, Mommy, what do I do next?” I ask her, knowing she knows where I go from here. She’s got a five-month-old, the girl knows her shit.

  “We eat tacos and ice cream, and then, in the morning, we make you a doctor’s appointment.”

  I can do tacos. The rest I’m not so sure about.

  Walking out of a modern building downtown, my hands full of pamphlets and prenatals, I try not to puke. I’m on baby overload. A heartbeat and a sonogram. Dos and don’ts. My head’s swimming.

  “I think it’s a boy,” Ellison says, bumping her shoulder into mine.

  “Maybe,” I mutter, staring at my feet as I walk, trying not to trip. My heads not here, floating in the clouds.

  El stops, grabbing my hand and stopping me. On her face is understanding and love. “I know you’re shocked still, and mad, really mad, but shit will be okay, okay? You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

  I nod, hearing her and believing her, but not feeling it yet. This is all too new. Too much.

  “I have to tell my dad and brothers.” The idea makes me sick. They’re going to be pissed, and then they’re going to kill King. “They’re going to kill King.”

  El shrugs. “Good.”

  Not good. My baby deserves a father—not that he or she will get one.

  Walking into the parking lot, I stop suddenly, shocked, when I see a bike parked next to my car. There’s a body on the bike, his cut-covered back to me.

  For an instant, I think it’s King, until Tags turns around, his eyes locking on mine. “Sammy,” he says, his voice low. Getting off his bike, he walks up to me, his face soft. “How ya doin’, sweetheart?”

  “Good,” I croak, swallowing back the disappointment. Tags is here, King isn’t.

  “Good.” He nods. “And the baby?” he asks, looking down at my stomach. His eyes on me makes me want to hide.

  “Fine,” I manage to say when he grabs me and pulls me into him.

  “Good. Sorry I was a dick the other night. Shocked the fuck out of me,” he tells me, eyes on his feet, rubbing uncomfortably at the back of his neck.

  I nod, understanding. Tags owes me nothing. In fact, I owe the apologies. Tags has never been anything but good to me. He treats me good. He’s here.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, my face in his chest.

  I feel him chuckle. “It’s all good, Sammy.”

  “I was awful.”

  “I’m good with awful. Stop cryin’. It’s over and done, and I’m here.” I don’t know what that means, what here means, but I don’t care. I just want to feel whole again. Happy again. Me again.

  “Okay,” I agree. I have to agree because if I don’t, I’ll fall apart.

  “Friends, baby?”

  “Friends.”

  Tags isn’t King. No one is King. There are no substitutes or replacements. No one or nothing can fill the fucking void.

  I won’t lie, won’t fucking pretend that I don’t miss the princess because I fucking do. I miss her more this time around then I ever did. Miss touching her. Miss having her body. Miss listening to her laugh, listening to her talk. Hell, I miss fighting with her. I won’t pretend I understand it or get it, but this time, shit feels so different.

  My childhood was shit. A lot of my adult life was shit. In and out of foster care and group homes as a child, and in and out of prison and jails as an adult, my life has been one long string of fucked-up circumstances. But there’s always been Samantha. For eleven years, I had her whenever I needed her. Shit wasn’t going well, I’d head toward Oregon and spend a day or two getting the good shit. I’d get my fix and be good. Life wouldn’t be so goddamn bad for a while. I’d use her, and I never felt bad about it, but leaving this time wasn’t easy. This time, I know I can’t go back for my fix, and that fucks with my head. That makes this so much fucking harder.

  I miss the bitch. Miss her so goddamn much, it makes me fucking crazy.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” the guy strung up between two pickup trucks spits—hands tied to one bumper and feet to the other. “You won’t get shit from me,” he declares, and I laugh because I am crazy, and it’s Samantha’s fault.

  “Might rethink how much information you give me when your legs are on the other side of this parking lot.”

  In an old abandoned parking lot, a few miles from the New Orleans’ club, I get information the only way I know how, through brute fucking force.

  “Fuck you.”

  I need the money, and he’s got dollar signs on his fucking forehead.

  Twisting my hand, I tell the prospects, “Crank it up.” Firing up the two old Fords, I watch the guy strung up jerk, his eyes wide an
d his head flopping from side to side. He’s scared as shit, as he should be.

  “No! No, wait!” he screams, his voice sounding a lot like a scared animal’s.

  I keep twisting my hand and the prospects do as their told. They put the trucks in drive and let the tires roll. The ropes on the guy tighten, pulling taut. It’s satisfying as hell.

  Nothing is harder or scarier than telling a parent something that’ll most likely disappoint them. I don’t care what age you are, it’s scary. There’s not much I’ve done in my life that my dad’s disapproved of, but this might be it. This might take the cake.

  I’m not sure what’s worse, morning sickness, or the feeling in my stomach from keeping this secret in and away from my dad.

  Walking into the shop at the club, I look around, finding him under the hood of a beat-up Honda. Hands covered in grease and wearing a pair of oil-stained coveralls.

  I feel like throwing up.

  “Hey, Daddy,” I say, walking up next to him. My voice gives me away, because he lifts his head slowly and looks at me funny.

  “Princess.”

  “Can we talk?”

  He nods, pulling away from the car and wiping his hands on a rag hanging out of his pocket. “How much money you need?” he teases, smirking.

  It’s been years since we’ve had those talks. “About a million,” I say, forcing a laugh.

  We walk across the lot and into the club, heading down the back hall and into his office. My dad sits behind his desk and I sit in front it, feeling a little like I’m in the principal’s office.

  Not one to beat around the bush, he asks, “This is about King, yeah?”

  I nod slowly, a little shocked and stunned, even though I shouldn’t be. My dad’s a smart man. Quietly observant.

  It’s like pulling my own teeth, getting my mouth to open and say the words. Nothing has been harder.

  “Spit it out, girl,” he chuckles.

  Taking a deep breath, I let the words spill out. “I’m pregnant. It’s Kings.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t start getting stabby. He looks at me and sighs, rubbing at the salt and pepper scruff on his cheek. “Fuck, Sammy.”

  “I’m sorry.” The tears well up and I swear I’m one breath away from vomiting.

  “Don’t do that shit. Don’t cry. It’s your fault you’re in this mess, so don’t start regrettin’ it now,” he says softly. His words are curt and short, but his voice is full of acceptance and love.

  “I don’t regret it.”

  “Good.”

  “What about King?”

  “What about him?” my dad growls, and I know this will be the sorest part of the conversation. “I knew there was something there, always has been. That motherfucker doesn’t come around often, but when he did, it was you he was coming around to see.” He shakes his head, looking at me. “I don’t fuckin’ like it, but underneath, that asshole’s shit is something decent or he wouldn’t be a part of my fucking club, Sammy. Do I like that he, that you, have been going behind my back and messing around? Hell no. But here we are, and there isn’t shit we can do about it now.”

  “You’re not going to kill him?” All my life, that was the rule. Any brother who touched another’s old lady, sister, or daughter, would be put to ground. It was drilled into my head.

  “You want me to kill him?” he asks, getting up from his desk.

  “No.” My answer is automatic and fierce.

  “Can’t promise you I won’t hurt him,” he tells me, walking around his desk toward me. “He broke a rule, baby, and for that he’ll pay. But I can’t speak for your brother.”

  Shit. “Tyler will kill him.”

  “He might, and that’s between the two of them. But he broke a rule.” What my dad is telling me is, what happens between T and King is going to happen, and there’s nothing I can do or say about it. I hear him, but I don’t accept it. Yet, right now, my dad is who I’m worried about.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “I’m not happy, but I’m also not going to act like your fucking mother and lose my shit. Push you away, because you don’t do what I want. You’re an adult.” His voice sincere and soft. “This is your life, baby. You do what you want and you own up to your responsibilities.” My dad’s not a fly off the handle kind of guy. He’s thoughtful and patient. Deadly, but calm. He’s been this way my entire life. Where my mom freaks out, loses her mind easily, my dad is easy and smart. “Speaking of the cunt, you talk to her lately?”

  “About six months ago.”

  He nods. “Good. Don’t need that crazy in your life.” He’s not wrong. My mom left us when I was about six, and since then, we haven’t had much of a relationship outside of our few yearly phone calls. I’m good with that. She’s not a good human. I’ve got my dad and brothers, and that’s all I’ve ever needed.

  “You and me?” I ask, dying to know where we stand.

  My dad nods for me to stand, and when I do, he grabs me, hugging me tight. “We’re good, baby.”

  “And the baby?”

  He chuckles. “Is gonna look damn adorable in a mini Disciples cut.” And that’s all I needed to hear. This might not be how I saw my life going, but here it is. My dad’s okay with this. With us. And I’m okay with us.

  “Damn, baby,” the blonde on her hands and knees moans, looking at me from over her shoulder.

  “Chill the fuck out, yeah?” I tell her, jerking on her frizzing hair, slowing her ass down. She’s trying to be sexy, but it’s not working. Bouncing around on my dick, she’s about to break it. She’s got black makeup all under her eyes, and some red lipstick smeared around her mouth, and probably around my dick. She’s not fucking beautiful. She’s fucking basic. Easy.

  I don’t look at her, I just shove my wrapped-up cock farther into her cunt. She’s not tight. She’s not sexy. She’s not Samantha.

  The bitch bucks against me, jerking wildly. “Right there,” she growls, head thrown back. “Yes!” she screams when I go deep.

  I’m into it enough to stay hard and get off, but not enough to smack her ass and tell her to come because I don’t give a fuck if she does or not. I don’t care if she fucking likes me. I want my dick hard and balls emptied.

  “Let me turn over,” she moans, trying to get off my dick and get on her back. She wants intimate. She’s not getting that shit. Not from me.

  “No,” I bark, grabbing her hips and keeping her on all fours.

  There’s no way this bitch is getting under me. Not a chance in hell I can nut while looking at this bitch’s face because right now, balls deep inside her, I’m thinking of my princess.

  The chick doesn’t argue when I reach around and grab her tit, pinching that shit hard. She just groans and squeezes my dick in return.

  All I can see is Samantha. See her face, her bottom lip between her teeth, and her eyes low and sexy while lying under me. Her smooth soft skin, flushed and pink. Her perfect tits, her flat stomach and her round ass. I miss the taste of her cunt and her mouth. Miss the way she’d wrap her body around mine and hold on. Her voice in my ear and her hands on me.

  I fucking miss her.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I come hard thinking of my princess. Nutting in the condom and nowhere near the bitch’s cunt, knowing damn well she’d end up knocked up and try to call me daddy.

  Did the bitch get off? I have no fucking clue, and I don’t care. I shove her off my dick and get off the bed.

  Chucking the condom and pulling up my jeans, I hit the door and I’m at the bar before the bitch can catch her breath.

  “Got a funny story,” Rowdy drawls, claiming the stool next to me, drawing out the story when he stops talking and asks for a beer.

  “Talk, Rowdy.” I’m not playing games.

  Fingering his beer bottle, he says, “There’s a hit out on you.”

  I laugh, shocked as fuck. I’ve been doing this for years, taking out hits and hunting motherfuckers down, and in all that time
, I’ve never been on the other side. It’s fucking comical.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Hundred grand.”

  Well fuck me, someone must really want me dead. “You hard up for cash, brother?” I ask him, looking him up and down, expecting to find a gun to my head.

  Rowdy chuckles. “Nah. Wouldn’t kill a brother, but I might hire someone else to do it and split the money with ’em.”

  “You’re a funny fucker.”

  He nods, laughing. “I know.”

  I’ve been in New Orleans a week and I’m ready to move on, but this shit throws a wrench in my plans. Instead of floating from place to place, laying low, I’ll be hunting for the fucker hunting me.

  “Got a name?”

  “Nah. Just heard there was some money on your head and figured you’d like the heads-up before you lose said head.”

  Jesus Christ. Last goddamn thing I need in my life. “Thanks, brother.”

  He just tips his beer and takes a pull. “You leavin’ I take it? Put a stop to your bounty?”

  “Yep.” If anyone’s gonna kill me, it’s gonna be me.

  “Good luck. Don’t get yourself killed. Made a killin’ on you this weekend and I’d like another go at it next time you swing through, yeah?”

  Asshole. “Yeah,” I agree, getting up and heading toward my bike.

  It didn’t take long. Didn’t take much tracking or digging before I found someone looking for me. Just a few thousand miles and a couple of days. Someone with light pockets and a taste for blood. Found the asshole in the alley behind a bar in Nevada, a gun in his hand and dollar signs in his goddamn eyes. Found him the same time he found me.

  He tried, but I was quicker.

  Pinned against the brick wall by his neck, I hold the little scrawny fucker looking to take me out, cutting off his air. “Who sent you?” I growl, pissed the fuck off.

  He wiggles, kicking his feet, struggling. The asshole makes a gurgling noise, his fingers clawing at my hand. He’s turning blue, his eyes bugging out of his head.

  There’s a gun at his feet, the gun he had to my head a few minutes ago. I should shoot him with it, kill the little shit with his own gun.