by K. L. Savage
He’s going freaking crazy!
Braveheart doesn’t break eye contact with the fire-breathing beast currently standing in front of him. I understand where he gets the name. I knew the story about how he got it, a fight, but witnessing the bravery is something else entirely.
“Let him go,” Reaper’s order cuts through the threat seamlessly as he stops at the bottom of the stairs. He wipes the soot off his face with a rag and stares at Bullseye with nothing but a pissed off look. “Or I swear, Bullseye, you’ll have a heart carved on your chest by the end of the day. The last thing I want to do is add more wounds to what’s happened here, but I will.” Reaper takes the last step down from the stairs and peers around the room, lips tight. He has a cut on his cheek, stiches in his arms, and worry etched in the lines on his face. “We do not,” he says calmy, “need this shit right now!” His voice is deep, loud, booming over everyone else’s. He slams his fist against the wall, and a few guys take another step back to get away from Reaper’s wrath.
Bullseye loosens the grip around Braveheart’s neck and takes a step back, plucking his beloved dart from next to Braveheart’s head.
Reaper crosses his arms and lifts one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “The last thing we need is to be at each other’s throats. Everyone needs each other right now. We nearly lost Patrick. Skirt. Jo. Mary. And I don’t know where the fuck Tongue is. I swear to all the vile things if that bastard is dead, I’m going figure out a way to kill him again.”
“No one has heard from him. He is AWOL. His phone is dead. We have no idea where he is,” Poodle conveys and then turns to glance over his shoulder to check on Melissa who is currently unconscious. I wonder if she’s supposed to wake up. I hope so. Poodle’s eyes are red-rimmed from tears.
Seeing men cry hits me in a different way, especially when it’s men like Poodle. Big, bad bikers wearing leather, waving their weapons, and riding their Harleys. Then to see them cry, to know people as badass as them can breakdown and care, it’s a different sight to see.
“Do you think he’s behind this?” Bullseye asks, staring everyone down. “It’s odd that he isn’t here, right?”
Reaper grips Bullseye’s neck and yanks his head down, applying pressure on the sides of his throat. Bullseye hisses and instantly lowers his head. Reaper’s biceps are flexed, stretching his shirt. “You just earned yourself a fucking carving, Bullseye. I don’t know what’s crawled up your ass, but you better yank it out. How dare you, Bullseye. How fucking dare you accuse Tongue of that. He has been nothing but loyal. I should fucking gut you right here, right now, and I’ll do it over Candy’s body since you seem not to give a fuck about anyone else but yourself. Is that what you want? You want to defile Candy’s body?” Reaper’s neck stiffens, and he must apply more pressure because Bullseye falls on his knees.
“No, Prez. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. You’ll meet me when I fucking call for you, and you’ll take your carving. If I hear one more word from you about Tongue, I’ll do what he does—” Reaper lifts Bullseye’s head and hisses—“I’ll rip your fucking tongue out.” He drops Bullseye’s body to the floor with a thud, and his boot goes to the back of Bullseye’s neck pushing him face-first into the floor. Reaper cracks his neck left and right and spins in a circle as he looks at everyone, me included. “Jo,” he greets me, and he has a relieved smile on his face to see me awake. Eric snaps his eyes open when he hears my name, takes a step forward, then trips over Bullseye’s leg, smashing against Reaper’s chest.
“Sorry, Reaper. I’m still waking up,” Eric’s sleepy tone gravels from unuse as he napped in the corner.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. You aren’t the one on schedule to get your chest carved. Anyone who has any questions, stay behind and ask Doc. He’s going to be busy tonight, so don’t stay long. Also, anyone who is willing and not injured, I’m putting together a search party for Tongue. He would not turn his back on us. I’d bet my fucking life on it.”
Tool flinches when the words leave Reaper’s mouth. Saying that means that if Reaper is wrong, the members can ask for his head. I don’t think any of them would, but he just gave them the choice. “Meet me in the kitchen in ten,” Reaper says, giving the injured one last look over before curling his lip and pounding up the steps.
No one stays behind unless they have someone here they care about. Eric waits for anyone to ask him any questions, but not a single person has the energy to stay. Every member and ol’ lady drags their feet up the steps behind Reaper and soon, the only ones left in the basement are me, Eric, Skirt, Dawn, Sunnie, Patrick, Poodle, Melissa, Moretti, and Mary. Out of all of us, I’m concerned about Patrick and Melissa most.
What if they never wake up?
I always wondered what it would be like not to wake up, what it would feel like, what death could be like. I bet it’s serene, a drug-like state that makes the body and brain feel at peace. Peace. It’s a word that isn’t used enough and is often under so much strife, so much torture, so many oceans of tears—it’s buried. And by the time you’ve dug it out to hold peace in your hand, it slips through your fingers again, sinking six-feet under, and all that’s left is to pick up the shovel and start digging once more.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” Eric says before a large yawn takes him by surprise. He sits down in the gray padded chair and leans his arms against the rail. His hair is a wreck. He has spatters of blood all over him, dried sweat, and soot. He’s exhausted. Eric takes off the bandage covering my arms and pulls out a drawer to his left to get new dressings. My arms are stitched again, and I can see the time and care Eric took to make sure my sutures were perfect. They are clean, tight, and each make a perfect X. “What the hell were you thinking? Do you know what could have happened to you? Why don’t you have any care for your life, Jo? Huh? Don’t get me wrong, I can care for the both of us, but I just want to know.”
“I-I-I stopped caring about myself a long time ago, Eric.” My head sinks into the soft pillow behind me as I press against it. “It’s too long of a story. Just know I’m fucked up, okay?”
“Jo love, we’re all fucked up. In our own way, every person in this house is one-hundred shades fucked in the head. You’ve met Tongue, right? I can’t be the only person who sees the crazy.”
I know he’s trying to take my mind off the pinch of pain in my arm, but it isn’t working. I hiss, jerking my arm away from him, and his hand grips my elbow softly, stopping me from doing more damage to myself. My elbow almost hits the rail. Those are quick reflexes. “You can’t do that, Jo. If I have to do your stitches again, your arm is going to look like hamburger meat. I know it sucks, but stay still for me, okay?”
His fingers graze along my wrist a few times, igniting the spark in my belly that I feel whenever he’s around. We’ve done this dance for a while now. The kind where we know we’re looking at one another and feel the energy pulsing between us, but we turn our heads and ignore it. He knows he’s better off without me, and instead of giving in, he pulls away.
I’m toxic, a deadly injection right in the veins.
It’s who I am. It’s what I do. I don’t mean to. I don’t want to be that way. I want to be the good someone turns over for in the morning. I want to be the shot of happiness slipping down someone’s throat.
I’ve been Cyanide for far too long, and I’m tired of killing everything in my path, including myself.
He carefully loops the bandages around my arms, applying the right amount of pressure, not too tight, not too loose. When he’s done, he intertwines his fingers with mine, brows furrowed in concentration as he stares at our hands. The touch seems to be hurting him with how tight his face is. Eric clicks the rail down, leans his elbows on the bed, and wraps his other hand around ours fists, then brings them to his forehead. “You scare the hell out of me,” he admits. “So reckless when you don’t even know your worth.”
“You don’t know it either.”
He brings his eye
s to mine and lays his soft lips against my knuckles, then holds our hands to his cheek. “I know enough. I know you’re more than what you give yourself credit for.”
“Don’t act like you know anything about me, Eric. If you knew, you wouldn’t waste your time.”
He exhales and leans away in his chair, still holding his hand in mine. “That. That right there. I don’t understand why you do that. Why do you cut yourself down? You aren’t time wasted. You aren’t something to be thrown away, Jo. Give a damn!”
“Why?” I whisper, feeling the need to cut myself again. Maybe when no one is looking, I can slip into the bathroom and relieve some tension. The insides of my thighs are barely marked. I can try there. I need it.
“Because I give a damn, Jo. I give a damn about you. Do you know how hard it is to care about someone who doesn’t care about themselves?”
“Yes,” I whisper, thinking about my dad, thinking about Eric.
Eric puts on a good show, but I see it.
People who are damaged can see through other damaged people. His soul is sutured, holding together the pieces that matter, that have a fraction of humanity.
You know what’s so dangerous about stitches?
They can come undone and slowly the agony leaks out, weakening you day by day until there’s nothing left.
He’s about to say something when the monitor next to him starts to go berserk. Eric spins around and flies out of the chair, running toward Patrick’s bedside.
“What’s happening? What’s wrong with him?” Sunnie says, the tears come roaring to life again and sprinkle down her face. “What’s wrong with him?”
Eric unlocks the wheels and rolls him into the surgical room. “Stay out here, Sunnie. I’ll update you when I know more.” He disappears into the room, the door closing behind him. Sunnie bangs on metal, hysterical.
“Let me in, Doc! I swear if you don’t let me in, I’ll cut you with your own scalpel,” she shouts, flattening her palms as she smacks the door. “Let me in, please,” Sunnie sobs. “I need to know he’s okay,” she says weakly.
“Come here,” I say with soft urgency and hold out my hand.
Sunnie doesn’t want to leave the door but gives it one last look before walking over to me. She plops down, and the poor girl looks drained.
“He’ll be okay. Eric is the best,” I reassure her. “He won’t let anything happen to Patrick.”
“He’s been through so much. He’s lived through so much. He can’t die now, you know? We finally have our lives together. We were supposed to have time. More time. That’s what rehab was all about. We survived. We are supposed to have kids, have fun, be in love. Now—” she presses her palms against her eyes and her face turns red—“I won’t be able to deal with it if he dies. I’ll relapse. I know I will. We take care of each other. We help each other. I can’t. I think I’m going to be sick.” She flies out of the chair and heads straight for the restroom, throwing up in the toilet from the stress she put herself under.
I don’t understand what she means. I’ve never been in love like that, but I immediately think about Eric and wonder how I’d react if something happened to him. The thought steals my breath. The opportunity to not love him hurts more than the thought of loving him. Doc is the kind of man who deserves a woman who isn’t fucked up. He shouldn’t have to worry about a train wreck like me. Would he love me or worry about me more? How long would it take for him to resent me?
Does he already? I lay my hand on my belly, and the shock of being pregnant rolls through me again. I resent myself. I resent I trusted someone when I know trust is a fickle thing. My friend, the person I thought I was the safest with, did this to me.
I did this to me.
I’m not the woman for Doc. I come with too many strings and too many burdens. He deserves someone who will take care of him after a tough day, like today. He needs someone who understands he doesn’t like to be touched on his back, someone who understands if they never learn the reason why. I’ve noticed him shy away from someone just to make sure they don’t touch.
I wouldn’t ask. I’d let him come to me when he is ready. Until then, I’d treat him delicately. A caress. He’s a package wrapped in fragility, hoping someone knows how to handle him with ease.
The last thing I’d want to do is tear apart our sutures.
One mistake.
That’s all it’s going to take.
And we will never heal.
Too many close calls over the last three days.
Patrick kept clotting. I thought for sure he was going to die. I don’t know how he’s alive. He’s a lucky bastard. That’s what I know. I sit down on my own bed for the first time in days and lean back. I haven’t even had time to shower. I smell, but I don’t have the energy to get up. I want to sleep.
Forever.
My phone vibrates, and I groan, not wanting to answer it. I pull it out of my pocket and rub the blurriness out of my eyes when I see it’s my mom calling. “Damn it,” I say when I realize today is Sunday. I can’t cancel on her again.
“Hello?” I answer, groggy and half-asleep.
“Hey, sweetie. Still on for tonight?”
No.
I’ve never been able to say no to my mom, and I’m not about to start now. “Absolutely. Can we make it seven instead of six?” I don’t say why, and I hope she doesn’t ask. It’s for sleep. I need a couple hours. I’m about to fall over.
“Yeah, sweetie. That’s fine. I’ll see you then. Now…”
I grin for the first time in a week because I know what she’s about to say.
“Tell me you love me.”
She always makes me feel like a damn kid again. I’m a grown fucking man, but I’m going to say it anyway, and whoever catches me can fuck off. If they can’t admit they love their mothers, something is wrong with them. We wouldn’t be who we are without them. “I love you, Mom. You know that.”
“I know. I just like to hear you say it. Are you okay? You sound tired. Are you getting enough rest? Are you taking your vitamins? You know what I’ve been saying, Eric—”
“I know, Mom. I need to go, okay? I’ll see you tonight.”
She sighs dramatically and huffs. “Fine. I’ll see you later.”
I throw my phone to the side and close my eyes, not bothering to get under the covers or take off my boots. I let the silence lull me to a relaxed state. Everyone is alive. Everyone is well. Everyone is healing. Reaper and his search party are still looking for Tongue. I hope nothing bad has happened to him, but at the end of the day, he’s a tough motherfucker. He’ll be fine.
Reaching behind my head, I yank off my shirt and let my scars breathe. They have been burning and itching, driving me insane over the last few days. I never tell anyone about my pain because I don’t know if it’s physical or mental. If it’s all in my head, I don’t want to admit it.
I unbutton and unzip my pants next and let my cock hang out. Maybe I will get undressed. I feel suffocated in these clothes, but I’m so goddamn tired. This is where an ol’ lady would come in handy. She could help me take off my boots when I’m too tired to fucking move. I’m not saying that’s what women are for—they aren’t. They are beautiful, strong creatures, and if I ever get lucky enough to gain the love of one, I’ll treasure it.
And hopefully in return, every once in a while, when I’ve been on my feet all day, she’ll untie my boot laces. She doesn’t even need to take off my boots. I can do it by kicking them off; I just need them loosened. I’m tempted to call Slingshot in, but now my cock is out, and it would be too weird. Jeez, I’m so damn lazy right now.
Goddamn it.
I’m not stuffing my cock back in either. The air feels too nice.
I glance at the time and want to cry in happiness when I see I have plenty of time to nap. It’s like waking up hours before your alarm and seeing you have hours of sleep left. It’s an unexpected gift.
Closing my eyes again, my sleepy mind takes an unexpected turn. I’m dreamin
g of Jo. She’s in regular jeans and a tight shirt, but it’s her jeans that have my limp cock coming to life. Her ass is divine. It’s big, bubbly, and made to be fucked. Every time she’s around, my eyes fall to the round peach, and all I want to do is sink my teeth into it.
My shaft burns, throbbing with need, and I wrap my hand around it, giving myself long strokes to ease the ache. I imagine her healed and happy, smiling as she slips off her jeans and tosses them at me. That turns me on more than anything. Not just because she’s half naked, but because she’s healed.
“Fuck, Jo,” I growl when she saunters over to me, turns around, and bends over. She pulls her cheeks apart, showing her forbidden puckered star. Her wet pussy winks at me, daring me to take both of her holes. I bury my face between her cheeks and eat her ass, plunging my tongue inside. She moans, pushing herself down to get more friction. I bury a finger inside her cunt next, and she cries out my name.
My cock is dying to get inside her ass, fucking that ripe hole until I’m filling it with my seed. I’ll pull out, watching the white cream leak out of her and drip to her pussy.
“Oh, fuck,” I moan, tossing my head back as the fantasy gets out of control. I shouldn’t be thinking of her like this, not when there are so many milestones we have to cross before we can be together. I can’t help it. I’ve held myself back for far too long. I’ve given her time. I’ve given her space to heal, and it was a mistake. She didn’t need space. She needed me. She needed someone to care.
And I do.
I’ve wanted her from a distance, and now the miles between us are nonexistent. It’s time to take what’s meant to be mine.
The fantasy changes again, a different time, a different scenario. Her belly is round, and she’s in need. She rubs her wet cunt against my cock while we’re in bed. My hand cups her belly, and something about it turns me on. She isn’t pregnant with my kid, but I’ve claimed them. Jo is mine. The baby inside her is mine. I’ll protect both of them.
