The Ruthless

by Jaci J.

  “You gonna come, Princess?” I tease, slowing my thrusts.

  “Yesss,” she groans, leaning back and reaching around, hooking my neck and pulling me against her back. “Please, don’t stop, King. Please.” She pushes her ass back against me, begging for me to go deeper.

  I give her what she wants.

  If she wasn’t already pregnant, I swear to fuck she would be now. Her pleading does it for me. I come so fucking hard, taking her with me, that I see stars.

  The comedown comes quickly. A hard fucking crash. As soon as I pull out, watching the wetness run down her thigh, she’s fixing her dress, frowning at me. “That was a bad idea.”

  “A bad idea was you out on the dance floor wearing this fucking dress.”

  “We’re not together,” she snaps. I know it, but her words still cut fucking deep.

  “I’m well fucking aware, Samantha. Still doesn’t mean I want to see you grinding your ass on Tags while carrying my baby.”

  She looks down at her feet, ashamed. “You’re right.”

  “I know I am.” Doesn’t feel good to be right; not this time anyway.

  “King?”

  “What’s wrong?” He doesn’t say hi or ask how I am, but he answers his phone and that’s what matters.

  Letting go of the steering wheel, I let my head sag back against the headrest, relieved to hear his voice when I wish I wasn’t.

  Sitting on the side of the highway, my car dead and the rear end smashed, I take a deep, shaky breath. “I’ve been in an accident, but—” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

  “You what?” he shouts into the phone, his voice loud and rough, making me pull the phone away from my ear. “Jesus Christ, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, taking inventory. Everything works, but… “The EMT wants to take me to the hospital.” Nothing is broken. In fact, I feel fine, but they’re insisting. “Just to check, I guess.” I look out my window at the EMT lingering by my window, waiting.

  “Then you’re hurt,” he insists, his voice rising.

  “I’m not hurt.”

  “The fuck you aren’t if they’re taking you in. Where are you?” There’s no sense in arguing with him. King’s just going to keep getting madder the longer I wait.

  “On the side of the 101, right outside of town, but I’m okay,” I assure him, hand on my belly, the baby wiggling and kicking. I can hear King walking through gravel, probably heading toward his bike. I know no matter what I say, he’s coming. The man is a force. “I’ll be at the community hospital,” I relent, knowing he’s already headed my way. There’s no stopping him.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Hospitals are for the birds. The beds are uncomfortable and the constant squeezing of the blood pressure cuff is annoying. The nurse has asked me if I’m cold eight times now. I appreciate it, but I’m warm enough. The only thing I want is to go home.

  Laying on the bed, scrolling my phone, I hear him before I see him.

  “What room’s Samantha in?”

  “Sir,” the sweet little nurse says, her voice rising in panic. I can hear the click-clack of her clogs, chasing him down the hall I’m sure. “You’re not family or married, I can’t let you in there.”

  I hear King growl, “Bullshit. That’s my fucking woman and baby in there. Try and stop me.”

  I listen to his boots on the linoleum, walking with purpose, and smile. He’s nuts.

  It only takes a second before his giant, opposing body is in the small doorway, his face thunderous. “Jesus.”

  “I’m good.” I laugh softly, enjoying his concerned frown.

  The nurse comes bustling in after him, also frowning. “Sir, you really can’t be in here.”

  If looks could kill, the poor nurse would be dead on the floor, bleeding out of her ears. “It’s okay. He’s my baby’s father,” I inform her, worried for her safety when he gives her a nasty scowl.

  She doesn’t look happy about it. She nods and shoots King a nasty little look, and tells me, “The ultrasound sound tech will be in soon.” She jerks the curtain closed and leaves.

  “Cranky bitch,” King mutters, sitting on the edge of my bed, his hand instantly finding my bump under the sheet. “You’re okay?” he asks, using his other hand to touch my lips. The one that met my steering wheel.

  “I’m okay. Just hungry.” I mumble, pushing his hand away.

  He frowns. “Always are.”

  “Hey!” I act offended, smacking his arm. “I’m feeding your baby.”

  “And you’re damn good at it,” he tells me, his thumb rubbing my skin. The baby likes it, kicking back. “Baby agrees with me. You’re outnumbered.”

  “Baby’s just hungry.”

  A second later, a woman in scrubs comes in pushing a cart, with what I’m guessing is the ultrasound machine. “Samantha?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Let’s take a look at your baby, shall we?”

  After setting up, the nurse gets to work, lifting my shirt and squirting on the warm gel. She puts the wand to my stomach, and instantly the screen is filled with my adorable baby. Black, white, and wiggly.

  “Never gets old,” King tells me, watching the screen intently.

  “Do we know the sex?” she asks, looking at me.

  I shake my head. “At the last scan, the baby wouldn’t cooperate.”

  She laughs. “Babies can be fickle. Would you like to know?”

  “Sure.” Hell yes, I want to know.

  Clicking and scanning, she moves the wand, pressing it into my stomach. “There we go,” she says, clicking the mouse and looking at the screen. “It’s a boy.”

  “Fuck,” King breathes. “A goddamn boy.”

  “You got your boy,” I tell him. It’s scary. Two Kings? I’m not sure the world is ready for two Kings. I’m not ready for two Kings.

  He smirks, happy that now he’s truly got me outnumbered. “Fuck yeah I did.”

  We leave the hospital perfectly healthy and happy, King on cloud fucking nine.

  “What the fuck is this thing?” I ask Bish, holding up a piece of metal wrapped in some pink and blue fabric, a star on a string dangling from it.

  This shit’s beyond confusing.

  Lifting a shoulder, he looks down at the instruction book. “Fuck if I know. How the fuck did I get roped into this shit anyway?”

  It’s taken some time, more than a few cases of beer and a couple busted lips, but some of my brothers are coming back around, letting me back in. It’s not easy, my pride fucking shredded, but it is what it is. I love Samantha, so here I am, trying like fucking hell to smooth shit out.

  “Poncho’s too goddamn stupid to help, so here you are.”

  He chuckles. “Dumb motherfucker.”

  “Here,” Samantha says, setting down another pastel colored box with a smiling bitch and a baby on it. She doesn’t set it down as much as she drops it at my feet, smirking, but she gets it on the floor for me. “It’s a mamaRoo,” she tells me when I stare at the box, hoping the fucker bursts into flames.

  “A what? The fuck is that?” This baby shit’s too much. I understand very fucking little of it, and what I do get is basic at best. As far as I’m concerned, all the baby needs are some diapers, a couple outfits, Samantha’s tit, and a place to sleep. Other than that, the rest is bullshit, but Samantha wants it, so she gets it. I’ll buy her whatever she wants.

  “It’s like a bouncer and swing in one.”

  Scratching at my beard, I just nod, not one to argue with my eight months pregnant baby mama. “Cool.”

  “You think it’s stupid, right?” she claims, her hands on her hips.

  “You don’t wanna know what I think about this shit,” I tell her, picking up my beer and taking a pull.

  “You won’t think it’s bullshit when the baby’s crying at two in the morning,” the Princess fires back, her eyebrows raised. She’s begging me to argue, but I won’t. I’ve learned that Samantha’s always right while preg
nant. If she tells me the Earth is flat while she’s got my baby in her, then the Earth is fucking flat and I just shut the hell up and smile. Learned that shit the hard way.

  “I’m sure I will,” I tell her, watching her walk away. Jesus, from the back she still looks like my girl. Can’t tell she’s pregnant, that’s for fucking sure.

  Bish chuckles. “Glad I’m not the only motherfucker with his nuts in some bitch’s pocket.”

  “What are you tryin’ to say, brother?” I grunt, knowing damn well what he’s getting at.

  “The bitch owns you.”

  He’s not wrong. Because here I am, on a Saturday, in her garage, putting together baby shit. She either owns me or I love her. Probably a bit of both.

  “Please,” Samantha moans, riding my dick like it’s her fucking job.

  She won’t let me back in her life, but she lets me in her body. Guess some things never change.

  Straddling my waist, riding my cock, Samantha moans when I lean up and suck a tit into my mouth. Her head thrown back, her hair hits my hand that’s gripping her waist.

  Swear to fucking God, the bitch is somethin’ else. Even pregnant.

  “Harder,” she groans, biting my shoulder.

  Little shit. Grabbing a fistful of hair, I tip her head back and inform her, “We do this shit my way.” Only fucking thing I’ve got control over right now, and I’ll be damned if I let go of that shit.

  Samantha nods, her lip sucked between her teeth. “Okay,” she breathes, sliding down my dick slowly, taking me deep. It takes everything in me not to nut when she bottoms out, grinding down. She’s tight, squeezing me death. Swear to fuck, my eyes go crossed.

  Thought sex with her being pregnant would be weird. It’s not. That’s my baby, my girl. She could be missing a couple of limbs and nothing would change it, I’d still want her just as fucking much.

  I know I’ve got about a half hour left with her. The princess will let me fuck her six ways to Sunday, but as soon as I pull out, she’s done. She’s out of the bed, getting dressed, and I’m on my bike, heading back to my place. And I’m about done with that shit. I’ve given her space. Fucking miles of it. Time? Given that shit to her in spades. And proof. That motherfucking proof? I bought a goddamn house. Put shit in that house. My shit. Space, time, and proof? She’s got it, and I’m done waiting.

  I could feel it coming, like an ominous storm. Fierce and wild. Dangerous. I can see it in his eyes, the way King’s looking at me, holding onto me when we’re together. He’s reached his limit.

  I knew he wouldn’t wait long.

  “What are you doin’?” I ask him, but can see clear as day what he’s doing. He’s in my closet, throwing everything I own into boxes. He’s packing me up.

  Trying to act shocked, I grab the cream shift dress he’s flinging toward the box and frown, holding it to my chest. “Seriously, King, you can’t just throw all my shit into boxes.” I smooth out the soft material and hang the dress back on the rack.

  He cocks a brow, tattooed arms crossed. “Looks like I am. I’m done, Samantha. You’re almost nine months pregnant and I want you in my house. You’ve had your time. I’m still fuckin’ here and I’m done waitin’.”

  King’s not wrong, but I’m also not sure I’m ready. “So?” I fire back, like a toddler with an attitude. I’m having a hard time not fighting back, even though I don’t have much to fight. King’s been here. Bought a house here. Stayed here. But still…

  “So?” he chuckles, repeating my words. “That was fucking cute.”

  “That’s it? We’re movin’ in together?”

  He nods, resolute. “Goddam right. Don’t like you bein’ away from me, and I’m gonna like it even less once the baby’s here. You move in with me or I move in here. Your choice. But you’re not livin’ alone.”

  “Okay.” It’s not worth the fight. In the last few months, King’s let me have my way, do things how I want to do them, and I know my time is running out. It’s his way or no way at all, and I knew it was coming.

  “Okay? Just that easy?” He looks skeptical.

  “You’re packin’ up my stuff. Looks like I don’t have much of a choice.”

  “You always got a choice, baby, but this time, I’m makin’ it for you.”

  “No choices,” I mutter, hiding my smile behind my sarcasm.

  “None,” he tells me, wrapping a hand around my arm and pulling me into him. This is home. King is home.

  “Where do I put this?” I ask him, unpacking a box. My move lasted two point two seconds. As soon as I agreed, he had prospects here, packing me up and moving me. King wasted no time.

  “Wherever.”

  “Wherever?” I ask him, opening the top drawer of his dresser—one of the only things he has in his room aside from a bed. “So, in here is fine?” I pull out a handful of boxer briefs and dump them onto the floor, laughing when he frowns at me.

  “The fuck you doin’?”

  “You told me to put it wherever,” I argue, trying to keep a straight face.

  King snorts, head shaking as he walks toward me and moves me out of the way. Grabbing the drawer, he pulls it form the dresser and dumps it upside down, boxer briefs going everywhere. “There ya go, baby,” he grunts, handing me the drawer, smirking. “Made ya some room.”

  Rolling my eyes, I take the drawer and start putting panties of every variety in it—lace, silk, cotton.

  “Want me to empty the closet for ya?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me intently.

  “Please. Your stuff can go in the garage.” I’m kidding, but love to push it. I can’t help it. King takes my shit and smiles. The bastard is nuts.

  “You gonna be a pain in my ass the rest of my goddamn life, aren’t ya?” Getting up, he wraps a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me in.

  “You love it.”

  He growls. “Love you. Not so sure about the shit you pitch me.”

  Shrugging, I smirk. “You love it all.”

  Grabbing my wrist, King pulls on me, wrapping his arms around me. “You know goddamn well I do. Wouldn’t go through all this shit for just anyone.”

  “What about Becky? Would you do all this shit for her?” I’m just making shit up now and it works. King looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  “Becky? Who the fuck’s Becky?” he asks me, frowning hard.

  Throwing my head back, I laugh. Laugh so hard it hurts. Holding me upright, King lets me laugh, watching me with his ocean blue eyes.

  “Jesus Christ, Samantha, you’re gonna kill me.”

  “Just call me Becky.”

  He chuckles, kissing me hard. “You know I love your crazy ass, Becky.”

  “I kinda love you too, asshole.”

  “You gonna be nice?” the princess asks, walking through the lot next to me, holding my hand.

  Stupid goddamn question. “Am I ever nice?”

  No hesitation. “No.”

  “Then there’s your answer, baby.”

  “Can you try?” Walking through the door when I hold it for her, I smack her ass when she walks by, making her jump. “For me?” For her? That’s fucking blackmail and she knows it. Knows I’d do anything for her. Anything except that.

  “No. I am who I am, Princess, and that’s why you love me.”

  “Just be nice.”

  “I’m sweet as fucking pie.”

  She shakes her head as she walks through the club, the noise from the party out back floating in. It’s Rock and El’s baby’s birthday. Big ass balloons with the number two are floating around the space.

  “Your brother still wants to kill me,” I tell her, laughing at the way he looks at me when I walk out back of the club, her hand in mine.

  The fucker hates me, and the feeling’s mutual.

  She rolls her eyes, taking the baby from me and setting him down on his little feet. Wearing his little Disciples tee and Carhartts, he’s cute as fuck. Kane wobbles, but stays upright and on his feet. My son’s a badass. Ele
ven months and walking. Taking a couple steps, he stops and looks up at me, drool on his chin. I clap. He claps. Cracks me the fuck up when he does it. Wasn’t so funny when he said “fuck” yesterday, though.

  “Why’s he so goddamn cute?” I ask Samantha, and she just snorts, waving me off with her pink manicured hand, a ring the size of Oregon on her finger. The bitch is mine. My baby mama. My old lady. My wife.

  “You know why,” she tells me, patting me on the chest and walking off toward Remi, Lennon, and El. The girls are smiling and a drinking, waiting at the picnic table for her.

  Hate that she’s drinking. She should be pregnant, but we’re waiting. Her idea, not mine. I don’t fight her on it because we do this shit her way. Always have.

  “You still hate me, asshole?” I ask T, sitting down next to him at the fire.

  Rock chuckles. “We all hate ya.”

  “Fuck you. Hand me a beer.” These motherfuckers are funny.

  “You’re still breathin’,” T tells me in place of a real answer, and I can live with that. We’ll get there. Maybe.

  “How’s my sister?” he asks me, looking at Samantha. “You treating her okay?” He acts like his ass hasn’t seen her in months. It’s been a week. He knows exactly how she is.

  Jerking my chin in her direction, I ask, “What do you think?”

  “You’re lucky she loves you,” he growls, taking a drink if his beer as Rock passes mine over. Asshole.

  He’s goddamn right I am. Luckiest motherfucker on this planet. The bitch loves me for some fucking reason. Puts up with my shit and asks for more. It wasn’t easy, still isn’t. Took work. Took time. Took love. But we’re here and nothing’s gonna change that.

  “Yo, Princess?” I holler. Everyone at the damn club quiets, listening.

  Whipping her head around, Kane on her knee, she gives me a dirty little look. “What?”

  “I treat you good?”

  She doesn’t answer me right away. She acts like she’s thinking about it, until she cracks a smile. “What do I get if I answer yes?”