Tongue (RUTHLESS KINGS MC™ (A RUTHLESS UNDERWORLD NOVEL) Book 8)

by K. L. Savage

  COPYRIGHT© 2020 TONGUE BY KL SAVAGE

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. TONGUE is intended for 18+ older, and for mature audiences only.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-952500-15-2

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL: 2020922466

  PHOTOGRAPHY BY WANDER AGUIAR PHOTOGRAPHY

  COVER MODEL: JOHNNY JAMES

  COVER DESIGN: WANDER AGUIAR

  EDITING: MASQUE OF THE RED PEN

  FORMATTING: CHAMPAGNE BOOK DESIGN

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FifTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  TONGUE PLAYLIST

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ALSO BY K.L. SAVAGE

  To Wander thanks for always being there and saving the day with Tongue’s cover. Your Tongue is safe from our most Ruthless King.

  And

  For all the readers that have a shadow inside themselves that they don’t know how to explain. It can be hard to deal with and how to comprehend the darkness. No one wants the void in their hearts. It’s confusing, and sometimes maybe you’ll wonder, “Maybe this is who I am.”

  And maybe it is.

  Accept the differences that make you unique from everyone else. It’s easier to be who you are than pretend to be someone else entirely.

  Be a good person.

  Fight for who you are.

  And in no way are we saying to embrace the techniques Tongue uses in this book (No, no, please don’t do that).

  Accept yourself. Be with someone that accepts you.

  And be happy.

  Happiness is what we all want, even in our darkness, we crave light.

  “The torture of a bad conscience is the hell on a living soul.”

  —John Calvin

  Twelve-years-old

  I don’t want to talk about it.

  I really dislike talking. It always seems to get me in trouble. I’m tired of being in trouble. When Jeremy says to go to the room for my punishment, it’s always the same.

  Close the door.

  Undress.

  Bend over.

  But the number one, most important rule?

  Don’t. Make. A. Sound.

  The worst part of it all is Jeremy always finds a way to make sure I’m in trouble. Jeremy isn’t my dad, but he’s all I have right now, and I don’t know where else to go. My parents died when I was four, leaving me with Uncle Jeremy.

  I don’t think they would have if they knew what kind of person he is. They never touched me, and Jeremy touches me every chance he gets. It’s usually after a night of working the corner. I might be twelve, but I’m not an idiot.

  I mean, I am an idiot, but I know things.

  Every night he snatches his wig off, digs into his bra, and pulls out a wad of dollar bills that are always crinkled and stained. He kicks his high heels off, puts his feet on the coffee table, and lights a cigarette.

  I glance at the clock and tears brim my eyes when I see the time. The night is young before the routine starts. It’s only six at night, which means he’s going to make me come to his room and help him get dressed. I hate it when he makes me help him. At least he will be gone for a few hours. It’s the only peace I get before he comes back and ruins the rest of my day and says I’m in trouble.

  Run away.

  My inner voice tells me to get out, go far away and never look back, but where would I go? I have a roof over my head here, food, and it sucks when he touches me, but he isn’t all that bad sometimes. I can deal with him until I turn eighteen.

  I don’t want to deal with it.

  It hurts.

  No, I have to man up. I have to be a man. That’s what Jeremy always says to me when I’m crying into the pillow.

  “Wayne Hendrix! You get your ass out here and help Mama get dressed, damn it. You know what time it is.” He pounds his fist against the bedroom door, and the silver knob jiggles from the force. No locked doors are allowed, but when my door is shut, he respects my privacy.

  He must be in a good mood.

  “Two minutes before you’re in trouble!”

  I gasp. “O-okay, I’ll be ri-ri-right out, Uncle Jeremy,” I raise my voice so he can hear me and put my journal down. I know it’s a lame thing to do, but it’s the only way I can get my thoughts down without getting… Well, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

  It’s in my journal. That’s what matters. I don’t write since I don’t know how, but I draw. I draw all my thoughts and feelings onto the page, and it helps me deal.

  I roll out of bed and stare at myself in the mirror, wincing when I reach down to pick my shirt up off the floor. My butt is killing me from the last time I was in trouble. I haven’t been able to sit on it in three days.

  Be appreciative you have a home.

  It’s something I say to myself every day. I have a bed, it’s small, but it allows me to sleep. I don’t have a dresser, but I have plastic bins with my clothes in them, which is better than on the floor. Other than that, the room is bare. The floors are carpet, stained, old, and torn in a few places. The walls have a yellow tint to them from cigarette smoke because sometimes Uncle Jeremy likes to kick back and relax after he punishes me.

  Don’t go out the door.

  I have to.

  Don’t.

  The hard threads of the carpet dig into the pads of my toes, pricking them like needles from the build-up of grime over the years. No amount of vacuuming can help at this point. This house is filthy for life.

  Just like me.

  Not by choice.

  It is. I choose to stay.

  The door groans as it swings open, and Uncle Jeremy is leaned against the wall. He has pink and blue rollers in his light brown hair, an extra-long cigarette hanging between his red-painted lips, and his pink silk robe is open and untied, showing the thick hair on his chest. The cigarette bobs in his mouth as he blows out the cloud of smoke. He hollows his cheeks as he takes another inhale, then grabs the orange butt between his fingers and drops his arm to his side.

  A wild stampede thumps in my heart as he stares at me. I stay silent, like I usually do, and tilt my head down in submission. I peer up, staring through my lashes, and his brown eyes, so familiar to mine
, narrow.

  “What took you so damn long?” he asks as he readjusts the sparkling blue bra he is wearing over his flat pecs. His fake nails rake across his stomach and dip into his belly button, and that’s when I notice the matching panties. His legs are covered in fishnet stockings, and his feet are bare, toes polished red to match his nails.

  “Sorry, Uncle—”

  He backhands me, and the flow of blood drips over my tongue, making its way to the back of my throat. Uncle Jeremy wraps a hand around my throat and slams me against the wall. My ears ring, and my skull explodes with sharp pain.

  “What did I tell you? When I’m getting ready, you call me Justine. God, you’re stupid. So, fucking dumb. Nothing can get through that head, can it? Is it just air in there?” He knocks his knuckles against my temple. “Hello? Is someone there besides a fucking idiot?” Uncle Jer—Justine places his cigarette in his mouth, sucks in, then blows the rotten fog in my face. “You remember what happened last time you called me by the wrong name, right?”

  I nod, remembering very vividly. It took my tongue weeks to heal from the cigarette burns. The cigarettes would sizzle until the ember was out, and he’d light another and start the process all over again.

  “Speak!” he yells.

  “I’m … I’m … sorry, Justine. I’ll … I’ll try hard … hard … er,” I struggle to say.

  “Well, try harder!” He slams a fist against the wall to the right side of my head, adding another dent. Applying pressure to his grip, he keeps his hand tight around my neck and slings me into his bedroom.

  I gasp and lose my footing, hitting the edge of the bed. I bounce off and hit the new hardwood floors Jeremy had installed. He has all the upgrades. His bedroom is another world, another type of house. It’s hard to believe something so fancy is in this home. There is a chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, a round bed that vibrates, a closet bigger than my room, and he has a walk-in master bathroom. Everything is marble.

  And everything reeks of smoke.

  “Now, sit on the bed. I have some new outfits I bought, and I want to wear one of them tonight.”

  I scurry onto the bed and grab one of the purple shag pillows. It’s soft. It’s comforting, and it gives me something to focus on and hold onto while I’m being forced to watch him change.

  He shucks off his robe and tosses the silk onto the floor, then he struts into his closet. I turn my head when I notice he’s wearing a thong. My stomach turns in discomfort. Sometimes he makes me wear that exact same one.

  “Okay, so I bought this beautiful Chanel dress. It’s black with a red neckline that dips down. I need an opinion. What do you think?” His voice is distant for a second, lost in the darkest depth of the closet before he steps out and holds the dress against his body. “So? Yes, no?”

  I shake my head. “I… I don’t like it. I don’t th-think it does anything for your … your … fig-figure.” Something I’ve learned Justine appreciates. Uncle Jer … Justine doesn’t talk about his body, but when he’s in Justine mode, the figure is all that matters.

  He holds the dress out in front of him and analyzes it, pursing his lips. If I’m wrong, I’m in trouble.

  If I’m not…

  I can go to bed without having to cry myself to sleep.

  “You’re right. I knew you were good for something.” He tosses the dress down hatefully and spins around on his foot to disappear into the closet.

  I rub my cheek against the pillow and sigh, wishing I had the comforting touch from someone. Not a hateful touch, not one that hurts, just one that is warm, like a mother’s touch.

  I miss my mom. I wonder what she was like. Was she pretty? Kind? Did she sing lullabies to get me to sleep? Did my dad try to teach me anything? Did he have a beard? I know it’s silly to question, but I’ve always wondered. I don’t have any pictures of them because Uncle Jeremy says I don’t deserve to see them.

  My eyes burn as I stare at the floral wallpaper.

  “Hey! Eyes on me, you stupid bastard. What about this one? It’s Gucci.” Next in the expensive line of skimpy silk gowns is a purple dress. It seems too small for his body, but at the end of the night, he isn’t looking for class and fine wine.

  He’s looking for cash, and the skimpier his clothes, the more money he makes.

  “I think it lo-lo-looks ni-nice. I like th-that one. The purple looks goo-good against your ha-hair,” I stutter like the complete fool Uncle Jeremy thinks I am. I only have trouble speaking because of the scars from the cigarette burns. My tongue hasn’t been the same, and I don’t think it ever will be.

  “Look at the back,” he says excitedly. He takes another hit off the cigarette, and a grin that reminds me of the Cheshire Cat stretches across his lips. “Sexy, right?”

  It has ribbons down the back, crisscrossing so low it becomes inappropriate. I don’t care about what he thinks is sexy. I just want to play outside or make friends. I want to go to school, but that’s something I’ve never been allowed to do.

  “I think it’s a winner,” I say, laying the pillow on the bed. I swing my legs over the edge and stand. “I’m … I’m … I’m … going to go get a snack if that’s okay, Just-Justine.” I hate stuttering, but after all the burns on my tongue, I’m not able to say things as quickly as I used to.

  “No, it isn’t okay. Did I say you could leave, Wayne? Have you learned nothing? You’re such a disrespectful little shit. I hate that I got stuck with you.”

  His words are a kick in the gut, but I’ve heard them so many times, it almost doesn’t cause pain.

  Almost.

  “I-I-I…”

  “I-I-I…” he mocks me, pretending to stutter, and then he spits in my face. He reaches into my mouth with his fingers and pinches my tongue. “Can you ever string together a sentence? Are you dumb?” The growl that leaves his throat sounds like an animal about to attack.

  He releases his grip on my tongue and flings me backward, and my tongue throbs as blood rushes through it. “No, Justine. I—”

  “No? Are you disagreeing with me, Wayne?” He pushes the cigarette against my shoulder, and I scream when the ashes burn through the material of my shirt, sizzling my skin. “You know that you’re always wrong. Don’t forget the roof you live under, Wayne.”

  I hold a hand over my shoulder and whimper, doing my best to hold the tears in. I hate it here. Would I be better off dead? No one would miss me. No one knows of me. If I die, it’s as simple as being put into the ground, but I doubt Uncle Jeremy would do that. He’d probably give my body to science so he wouldn’t have to deal with me.

  “Now, lay on the bed, pull down your pants, and bend over. Mama needs a warm-up before she goes to work.”

  Immediately, sweat breaks out over my nervous, heated skin. A bead of liquid salt drips down my neck, and I take a step back. “N-no. P-please.”

  “You mumbling, stumbling, stupid fucking retard. Do what you’re told, goddamn it!” he shouts, slapping me across the face so hard my ears ring. “Lay on the bed, bend the fuck over, and spread your cheeks!” he roars so loud his voice cracks, his face turns red, and spit flies from his mouth, landing on my lips.

  I can’t handle doing that again. No more. Every time it happens, another piece of me dies. I can’t. “I-I-I don’t … wa-wa-want to.”

  He grips me by the roots of my hair and yanks me to the front of his body. “You don’t know how to listen, do you?” He stares at me, puffing his cigarette breath onto my face, and a curl of his lips promises something bad.

  “Uncle… Un…” I catch myself before I call him Jeremy, but I didn’t catch myself soon enough.

  I want to die.

  Why couldn’t I have died in the car accident with my parents? Why did I have to live? Why, out of all the people, did I get stuck here?

  I’m useless to society. I can barely talk. I haven’t ever gone to school.

  And I don’t know how to read or write.

  I try. I try so hard to read, but I can’t figure it
out. It’s too late to learn for me. I’m going to be a dumbass forever just like Uncle Jeremy says.

  Maybe I should just do what he wants.

  He smacks me on the side of the head with his palm. “What? What? Cat cut your tongue?” He slaps me again, this time across my ear, and the burning flush takes over the left side of my face. He chuckles when I stand there, unmoving, waiting for what’s next.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I should’ve run when I had the chance.

  “Sit. Down,” he growls, reaching into his pink robe pocket to pull out the packet of cigarettes. He places them on top of the dresser, sliding one into his mouth and lighting the brown tobacco until it’s glowing orange.

  It’s hotter than it looks; believe me, I know.

  I do as he says and sit on the edge of the bed, folding my hands in my lap. I keep my head down, and my hair falls in my face. I’m breathing faster because I know what’s about to happen. It isn’t fair.

  Or maybe it is. Maybe life is supposed to be like this and involve nothing but a series of challenges until it kills me.

  I’m only twelve. I’m not supposed to know so much about the cruelty the world offers yet. That’s what the neighbor said to her son when I overheard her talking about me. I wonder if it’s true. Is life not like this for everyone?

  “Get undressed.”

  I gasp, tilting my head up. Uncle Jeremy stares at me with so much hate that if it were possible, I’d die from the daggers he’s shooting at me. “Ple-ple-please,” I beg him as my emotions well up in my throat. “Please, don’t ma-ma-make me do it. I’ll do any … anything.” Water fills my eyes, and I tremble all over as I stutter over my words. I hope in time the way I speak gets better.

  I don’t want to live the rest of my life sounding dumb. Being stupid is one thing, but sounding it? It lets people know, and I don’t want anyone to know.

  “I said—” He shapes his lips to a small O shape, and fog breezes from his mouth again. “Get undressed. Don’t make me repeat myself, boy. I’m going to the restroom. When I come out, you better be ready, or I swear, Wayne, you won’t be able to sit for a month.” Justine sashays away from me, a word he taught me a few years ago. I remember him saying, “You have to own your walk, your strut, or no one will respect you, and you better believe no one will give you a fucking dime.”