Tool

by K. L. Savage

  TOOL

  RUTHLESS KINGS MC BOOK 3

  KL SAVAGE

  COPYRIGHT© 2020 TOOL 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. TOOL is intended for 18+ older, and for mature audiences only.

  ISBN: 978-1-952500-03-9

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL: 2020907900

  PHOTOGRAPHY BY WANDER AGUIAR PHOTOGRAPHY

  COVER MODEL: CHRIS FLEMING AND JAKE

  COVER DESIGN: KARI MARCH DESIGNS

  Editing and Formatting: MASQUE OF THE RED PEN

  FIRST EDITION PRINT 2020

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Want more…

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  To anyone who thought they were a burden to love, love has no burdens, no fears, it accepts you for who you are, damaged, afraid, and wild. The only burden is doubt. You're deserving of love. Doubt has no home here.

  Prologue

  TOOL

  Fifteen years old

  Love is a supernatural entity that has never lived here; not on this planet, not in this town, and definitely not in this home. Hell, to call this house a home is a lie. It’s nothing but a prison, keeping us locked up like stray animals. If love does exist, it doesn’t find me or my mom worthy of it.

  That’s fine.

  Fuck love. Fuck what it brings.

  From what I’ve noticed, love only brings control and pain.

  Hate is born from love, and it’s all I’ve ever felt because of him.

  My dad.

  My drunk of a father who only works part-time because he can’t find a job that will keep his drunk ass. My mom is the star, the heavy lifter, the one who kills herself every day to make sure there is food on the table, that the electricity stays on, so we have a warm bed to sleep in at night, and a roof over our head.

  She also is the reason why his ass never leaves the recliner. I swear to god his body has molded to the old green chair. It smells of him, beer and body odor. He goes days without showering, and all of his clothes are filthy with stains. It isn’t because my mom doesn’t wash them; she does. He’s just that disgusting.

  I’m waiting for the day I turn eighteen so I can get my mom out of here. I can’t do anything for her yet. I’m just skin and bone and a kid. I can’t do shit to stop him, and nothing pisses me off more. I hate him with every cell in my body.

  I hate that I come from him.

  I hate that I look like him.

  I’ve done all that I can to work out, to put meat on my bones, to learn how to fight, but I don’t eat enough for the muscle to stick. My dad won’t allow it. He eats all he wants first, then Mom and I can have the scraps.

  He thinks he’s a king.

  And I can’t wait to rip him from his throne—that fucking nasty chair that smells of mistakes and cigarettes.

  “See you at school tomorrow, Logan!” my friend Kent shouts as we get off the bus.

  Snow crunches under my boots as I walk to the rundown duplex I live in. It’s old, the paint is chipping, windows are cracked, and the mailbox leans. I told my mom that when the snow melts, I’ll work on the house and clean it up. Mom is ashamed of where we live and I don’t want her to be. She deserves more than this cold hell we find ourselves living in.

  Literally, it’s fucking cold. I hate Boston. There is a foot of snow on the ground, and it just keeps coming, thick fluffy flakes landing on my face and coat. I’m sick of it.

  “See you, Kent,” I say, waving as I cross the frozen street. It’s white from salt, ice, and snow. A bit slick, and if someone isn’t careful, they can slip and bust their ass. I have more than once, and it sucks. Last time it happened, I couldn’t sit down for three weeks without crying out in complete agony.

  Which then got me a slap across the face from my dad. He said, “Boys don’t fucking cry. No boy of mine will tear up like a little bitch. Is that what you are? A bitch? Like your mom?”

  My mom stood behind him with a black eye, and I saw the look in her eyes; the pleading desperation for me to keep my mouth shut, so I did what she wanted.

  I rub my cheek from the memory, and I can almost feel the burn of his hand and the tingle underneath my skin as his palm made impact. Stopping at the gate, I reach around the broken tips of what used to be a white picket fence and unlatch the iron lock and push it open, only for it to fall off its hinges and onto the ground. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble, shoving my backpack up my shoulder as I reach down to pick up the rotted wood. I spin around and lean the entrance of the gate against the fence and walk down the cracked cement walkway that’s covered in bits of salt I put out this morning. I stomp my feet as I climb up the stairs to get the snow off.

  If I track any inside, I’ll get a belt to my back for fifteen minutes. My shoulder is still tender from the beating I got yesterday. I look down to make sure the snow is off my boots, and it is, but I don’t want to chance it. I slide them off my feet and leave them by the door. My feet are frozen since the socks I have has holes in them.

  I hate being broke. I hate that my mom works her ass off, and he takes her hard-earned money. I want to drop out of high school and get a job, then me and my mom can get out of here, but she says no, that education is important, and she’ll deal with my father until we can figure out something else.

  The screen door creaks as I open it, then push the main door open with my hip. Damn it, he’s home. I can smell the fresh lit cigarette lingering in the hallway. He tracked snow in! I can still see his boot prints. The fucking irony of him.

  Loud banging comes from the kitchen followed by my mom’s too familiar painful yell. I drop my bag and run down the hall to see my dad pinning her against the table. “You stupid bitch!” he slurs, wrapping his hand around her throat. “I said get me a fucking beer, and you’re going to get me that damn beer!” he roars, and she flinches away. The light shines on her cheeks illuminating her tears and busted lip.

  “We don’t have any money, Fred. I got us groceries. We didn’t have enough for beer.”

  He slaps her again, and her head snaps to the left. She holds one of her delicate hands to her face, the same hands that make sure I live to see another day, and her eyes meet mine. She must see the rage on my face, but she shakes her head again, telling me to stay back.

  Mom is always looking out for me, but when am I going to start looki
ng out for her? She deserves more from me.

  “Look at me, whore,” he sneers at her, leaning his body onto hers. I know she’s uncomfortable. He’s a fat fuck with a beer belly. “You’re cheating on me, aren’t you? You spreading your legs for someone else? Who would want you? You’re an ugly, stupid cunt who doesn’t know her place.” He takes her by the throat and throws her onto the kitchen floor. “Maybe I need to remind you who you belong to, woman.” He reaches for the button on his pants, and my mother turns on her belly, trying to crawl a way.

  Oh, fuck no. He isn’t going to touch her. He isn’t going to get near her, ever again. This shit stops now. My mom will no longer be a victim to his mental, physical, or emotional abuse. She will no longer be raped or beaten by him.

  He drops his pants and falls to the floor on his knees and grabs her ankles. She kicks and screams, pleading no, and I push off the wall and slam into him, knocking him on the ground. “You sonofabitch!” I scream in his face. “You won’t touch her! You understand?” I bring my fist up and let it fly, slamming my knuckles against his face. “I hate you! You’re the worthless one, you useless”—punch—“fucking”—punch—“drunk!” Punch.

  He grabs me by my shirt and throws me off him, and my head hits the cabinets.

  “Logan!” My mother reaches for me, but he grabs her legs, and I push myself up onto my feet and tackle him again. We fly across the kitchen table, and I fist his shirt, pick him up, and then slam him on the floor.

  I’m going to kill him.

  “That all you got, boy?” He laughs, his yellow rotted teeth are covered with blood. I did that. I hurt him. I made the fucker bleed.

  And I’m happy about it.

  “You don’t have the balls to do anything to me.”

  “Logan.” My mother’s voice is pleading, but I can tell she has no idea what she wants me to do. Her voice distracts me, and my dad takes that moment to get the upper hand and roll me onto my back. This time, it’s his fist that lands on my cheek.

  Twice, three times, and I feel the bone break.

  “I never wanted you,” he says through a chuckle, hovering over my face, and I have no choice but to inhale the stench of beer and nicotine. “Your mom got pregnant, and suddenly I was stuck with both of you. You’re a waste of goddamn space!” His blood-ridden spit hits me in the face as he speaks. “I should have made your mother abort you, but she wanted you. I don’t know why. You’re pathetic.” He punches me again. “And no son of mine!” Through the swollen eyelid, I see his clenched fist preparing to hit me. He’ll kill me this time.

  “You get away from my son!” my mother screams and swings an iron skillet at him, but she misses, and it hits his back instead of his head. She’s so small, so tiny, all bone. She couldn’t hold the skillet up long enough to hit him where she wanted to, but that’s okay. It knocks the air out of my dad’s lungs, and it’s all I need to kick him off me and flip him to his back again.

  “I’m going to kill the both of you,” he says. “And finally, I’ll be free.” He reaches for something beside him, and when I see what it is, I act quicker than he can.

  It’s a screwdriver.

  “No!” I wrap my fingers around the blue handle. “It’s us who will finally be free of you.” My heart pounds, adrenaline and rage pump through my veins, and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’m high on it. I bring the screwdriver in the air and slam it down right between his eyes, the same eyes that I have. The metal pierces his skull and hits his brain until it’s lodged against the blue handle.

  I fall backward, gasping for air, sweating. I wait for the panic to hit, but I don’t feel it.

  “Oh my god, Logan!” My mom wraps her arms around me and drags me off my dead father. His eyes are open as he looks up at the ceiling. “Are you okay? Baby, talk to me.” Mom cries as she touches my swollen cheek.

  “I couldn’t let him hurt you anymore, Mom.” I finally bring my eyes from my dad to her face. It’s been so long that I’ve seen her without a bruise, I’ve forgotten what she looks like. “I couldn’t.”

  “I know.” She nods and kisses my forehead. “I know, baby. It’s okay. We will figure it out. We need to pack, okay? I know people who can help with this. Go pack. Let me take care of this. I love you, Logan.”

  “I love you too, Mom.” I feel the emotion welling up in my eyes. We haven’t been able to say that to each other in years because of Dad. He’d beat us then say that love doesn’t live here.

  It didn’t. Evil will forever live in this house, and the sooner I get out of it, the better, before it turns my sanity into madness like it did my dad.

  She helps us off the ground, and my eyes wander back to Dad. Blood flows from the back of his head, pooling around him. She reaches for the phone with shaky hands, and I stand there, my feet frozen to the ground as I stare at him.

  He’s actually dead.

  I can breathe again.

  “Knox, is Brass there?” my mom asks. Who the hell is Knox? What kind of name is Brass? “I’m calling in that favor. I need to get out of Boston, Brass. He’s dead. Thank you. Thank you.” She hangs up the phone, and I turn to her, curious.

  “Who was that?” My hands are shaking, and my entire body is trembling. Has it become colder? My teeth chatter as if winter has made itself welcome inside.

  “The men who are going to get us out of here and make sure your dad’s body is dealt with. Go pack a bag.” She pushes me, and it makes me find my feet. I nod and run to my bedroom. I pack everything I can, all the clothes that will fit in the suitcase along with a few pictures of me and my mom.

  When I hurry out of the bedroom, I hear a grumble of motorcycles pull up, and a stampede of boots fill the hallway. “Whitney? Whitney!” a deep voice booms through the thin walls of the house, shaking them.

  “In here,” my mom answers him in a voice that’s uneven and pitchy.

  When I get to the living room, I dump the duffle bag and see four men standing around. They are huge, black jeans, big boots, leather vests that have a skull and crown. It says ‘Ruthless Kings’ Boston chapter. They are intimidating. I've never seen men so big in my life. I run over to my mom and push her behind me, tilting my neck as far back as I can to stare a man I don’t know in the face.

  He has long brown hair over his shoulders, a goatee, young-ish looking, and there’s a patch on the front of his vest that says ‘Brass, MC President.’

  What the hell is an MC?

  “You got some stones, skinny,” he says, staring down at me and then my dad’s dead body.

  “I won’t let you hurt my mom,” I tell him, ignoring the fact that he called me skinny. He’s a foot taller than me and has one-hundred and fifty pounds more than I do to beat me with, but I’ll take him, just like I took on my father.

  “They’re here to help, Logan. They’re friends,” my mom says to me, rubbing my shoulders to help me relax.

  What kind of friends does my mom make?

  “You do this, kid?” Brass asks me, pointing to the body on the floor.

  I swallow and nod.

  “You got some fucking stones,” he repeats. “You’ll do just fine in life. Whitney, here. Take this. Map and money. You’ll be safe in Vegas. The Ruthless chapter will help you there.”

  “Thank you, Brass. Thank you.”

  “Anything for you, Whitney,” he tells her, but with a soft tone to his voice. “Prospect? Get the lye; we got work to do,” he barks at a man who’s green in the face and about to be sick.

  “Yes, Prez.” The prospect hurries away like the devil is biting at his heels.

  “Knox, get them a car, then get them to the halfway point,” Brass tells a guy that has VP on his vest.

  They usher us out of the house, and I push between them to run back to my dad. “Wait!” They pause in picking up my dad’s fat body, and I squat down, wrap my hands around the tool, and yank it free. His skull gives a sick crunch, and his brains are wet, almost making me gag, but I keep my puke down. I don’t want
to seem like a bitch in front of these bikers.

  “Wicked,” one of the bikers says.

  “Taking a souvenir, skinny?” Brass asks me.

  I nod, go to the sink, and clean it off, then stuff the screwdriver in my back pocket. Hell yeah, I’m taking it with me.

  To remind me of the place I come from, the things I’ve seen, and what I’m capable of doing.

  1

  TOOL

  Present

  “Right there. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the fucking spot, Becks,” I praise her as she rubs my shoulders to get a knot out that’s been killing me for the last few weeks. Everyone thought Becks came here to be a cut-slut, but come to find out, she didn’t fuck; she just gave massages. We call her a hang-around instead. Reaper designated her as the club massage therapist, and she gets paid well for it.

  Her little hands are packed with a punch. It’s amazing that she can get her palms over the swell of my trap muscles, but she does and does it well.

  “Oh, yeah, you’re all wound up, Tool.”

  “Working on cars all day does that.”

  All too soon, the buzzer goes off telling me it’s been the best sixty minutes of my life. “No,” I whine. I actually whine because I’m not ready for my massage to end. “I’ll pay for another hour.”