A Ruthless Christmas by K.L. Savage

 

The whiskey smells so good. I can almost feel it sliding down my throat. I can almost feel the burn, feel it pool like a puddle of gasoline in my stomach. I’m shaking, trembling, and my mouth won’t stop watering. I really thought I was stronger than this, but I haven’t been tested since I got out of rehab. Everyone has been so supportive by keeping the alcohol away from me that my will hasn’t been tried.

Well, it is now.

And it feels like my skin is burning, crawling with need. There’s a voice inside my head, encouraging me to take one sip. Only one. The last one ever. The chance to say goodbye. I can do that. There’s no harm in one more taste. If I think about it, I never really got to have one last drink because I didn’t know it would be ‘the last’ one.

“Patrick, talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling. Don’t give in,” Sarah says, placing her hand against the glass.

I bury my head between my knees and my fingers along the cold cement I’m sitting on. I need Sunnie. I need her so bad right now. “I forgot how good it smells,” I admit, unable to look Sarah in the eye after saying the words. “I wish Sunnie was here.” I tilt my head back until I hit the wall, closing my eyes so I don’t have a constant view of the bottle sitting in the middle of the room outside my door.

Grabbing the bottom of my shirt, I lift it and wipe the sweat off my face. I almost feel like I’m in rehab again, only this time I’m not detoxing; I’m holding myself back from relapsing.

“Think about her. Think about how worried she is about you, Patrick. Think about rehab and everything you’ve been through, okay? You’re stronger than the temptation. You’re stronger than the whiskey.”

I try to listen to Sarah and take a few deep breaths in, but that backfires because I can nearly taste the whiskey in the air. I hit my knuckles against the ground, over and over until I feel the skin split. With every slam, the pain becomes worse.

The pain might be the only thing stopping me from giving in and chugging the entire bottle.

So much for having a nice Christmas with everyone. I should have known. It’s always something.

Right about now, when I’m craving a shot and the high only alcohol can give me, Sunnie reads that ridiculous romance novel to me. Samuel and Elizabeth. I almost know the damn thing by heart, word for word, but it’s my safety net. A symbol of faith, love, and hope. Sunnie read that to me when I was at my lowest. When I hated everything in the world, even her.

She never gave up on me. She read that damn novel to me, and honestly, it wasn’t the story that calmed me but the sound of Sunnie’s voice. It was the way she read, her tone, and how effortless she spoke. She’s my sun on a fucking stormy day, and I need her now more than ever.

The need to drink is clawing at my gut.

“What would Sunnie do?” Sarah asks.

For some reason it makes me laugh because I think of the ‘What would Jesus do?’ slogan.

WWSD.

I need that tattooed on my damn body.

“She’d read to me,” I say.

“I don’t have a book.”

“It’s okay. There’s only one that will work anyway, and Sunnie has it. She takes it everywhere. I know the first few chapters by heart.”

“Stop hitting the ground and tell me the story, Patrick.”

I open my eyes and stare at her like she’s crazy, but she has fear written all over her face. Her mouth is pinched, her brows are furrowed, and she plasters herself against the glass to try to get as close as possible to me.

“Tell me the story,” she says again.

My cheeks flame with embarrassment. It’s my secret with Sunnie. I suppose secrets don’t matter anymore. Not when it comes to health. I tighten the sobriety chip in my palm and nod. I can do this. I can win.

“Elizabeth hated wearing a corset under her dress. The last thing she believed women should do was hurt themselves for beauty. Making a smaller waistline was not for her; it was for them—for men. Her lungs protested all day. Her breasts were pushed so high she was surprised they didn’t touch her chin, but she had to deal with the fashions of a lady. Even if she didn’t consider herself one.”

Sarah giggles. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to laugh. I never thought you were the type to read regency romance.”

“I don’t read it. Only one story is read to me. It’s different.” Plus, it helps curb the urge, and isn’t that all that matters? Thinking about reciting the next few sentences already has me calming down, the thirst dissipating. I think about rehab and laying in bed, hallucinating that I saw my sister Macy. I screamed, I begged, I cried. I constantly asked for a drink, and all Sunnie did was hold my hand and read me the silly novel she stole from Patricia, an evil bitch I later killed.

I stand on my feet, staggering because of the piece of glass in my thigh. I yank it out. “Fuck, that hurts.”

“Where are you going? Stop, Patrick.” Sarah bangs her hands against the wall to stop me, but I have a goal. “Patrick, tell me more of the story. Skip to your favorite part!”

I limp through the whiskey spilled on the floor, staring at the bottle standing all alone in the middle of the room. Light shines through the hole in the roof. The glass and liquid amber glimmers beautifully, casting a kaleidoscope of colors along the floor.

If no one thought whiskey in a bottle could be pretty, they were wrong.

“Patrick, please, tell me your favorite part. Do not pick up that whiskey.” Sarah is at her door now, staring at me with glassy eyes.

I think about the book, and there was always one part I really liked more than the others. “Samuel is lost in her love and in Elizabeth’s fierce independence. She takes on the world with strength he had never seen before with any other woman. She’s a rebel, the kind of woman others would deem ‘unworthy’ of marriage, but Samuel couldn’t disagree more. Elizabeth hasn’t found a man who is strong enough to match her strength. Until now.” I bend over and pick up the open bottle, watching the liquid swish on the inside like an angry sea.

I need to match Sunnie’s strength, the kind she’s placed in me. She counts on me. I bring the bottle to my nose and inhale. Clutching onto the chip, thinking about Samuel and Elizabeth, and Sunnie’s love, I launch the bottle across the room. The glass hits the wall, shattering with the impact, and the whiskey is a tsunami after being released. The wave tries to get to me, but I’m too far away.

I’m safe.

The door kicks in right as I collapse. A pair of arms wrap around me to hold me up. “I got you, Patrick. Sunnie is waiting for you at home,” comes Doc’s voice. I am still a little lightheaded. But I did it. I didn’t drink the whiskey. “Did you—”

“No,” I say with a smile. “No.”

“So fucking proud of you,” Doc informs me and carries me out of the alcohol-infused space. “Sunnie will be too.”

“I think I need a meeting, Doc.”

“You don’t say?” He tilts his lips in a smile as he leans me against the broken desk that’s been here since the place was built.

I lean all of my weight on my other leg and watch as Reaper carries Sarah out of the room. When he feels like he has her in a safe space, he falls to his knees and cups the back of her head. He buries his face in her neck, and I know he’s either crying or fighting the tears.

“I thought you died. I thought you were fucking dead,” he says, wrapping his arms around her so tight, I worry he may cut off her air supply. “I love you. You can’t do that to me. You can’t… You just can’t.” Reaper slams his lips against hers, and all the guys look at me to give Reaper and Sarah their moment.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Boomer says.

“Thanks, Boomer. Glad to see you.” All of his members are here too, which means he has come for Christmas.

Hell of a ride that’s been. I can’t wait for the holiday to be over.

“You can’t keep me here!” I hear from down the hallway, followed by loud bangs.

“It’s the only way your life can be spared, Porter. You have to stay in here until you’re better.” I limp down the hallway, but an arm helps support my weight.

It’s Tongue.

We stand next to Zain, and another bang sounds as Porter keeps smashing his shoulder against the glass. He sees Tongue and becomes angrier. “You! I fucking hate you. I’m going to kill you; you hear me? I’m going to kill you. My dad might have fucked your mom, but we are far from family.”

Holy shit.

Tongue’s brother is this psychopath?

Christmas gifts keeping flying at us, don’t they?

Tongue doesn’t seem too surprised. “What are you doing?” Zain asks as Tongue enters the room his brother is in. Now that I see them side by side, there are a few similarities physically, but mentally, both of them are fucked up.

“You know what?” Tongue’s voice is slow with gravel and a Southern accent. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re my blood because all my life you’ve been nothing to me.” Tongue punches Porter across the face, then pulls out his brother’s tongue. “You hurt my Comet.” Porter tries to get away, but Tongue holds on tighter and grabs his homemade knife.

He places it against the pink appendage and right as he’s about to cut, Reaper stops him. “Tongue, don’t! He’s your family.”

“He’s no family of mine.”

“That’s an order.”

Tongue slides the knife across the wet muscle until he gets to the middle. “I’ve never really cared for orders,” Tongue snarls and stabs through the middle of his brother’s tongue. Blood spills, and Porter screams. He’ll still be able to talk, but it will be awhile. Tongue listened to Prez, technically.

He bends over and wipes his knife clean on Porter’s pants. Porter spits blood, yelling in agony, but Tongue isn’t fazed. “Merry Christmas. Don’t say I never gave you anything.” Tongue slams the door as he exits the room, then slides the lock bar in place.

“Let’s go home,” Reaper announces to all of us.

“Yeah, I need to check on your heart.”

“Your heart?!” Sarah screeches. “Why? What happened?”

“I thought you died. My heart couldn’t handle it. I had a heart attack.”

That’s the thing about falling in love while you’re a Ruthless King. When we fall, we fall fucking hard. And if we ever lose the one thing that gives our dark, fucked up lives meaning, we fall too.

“Promise you’ll let Doc check you out?” Sarah begs, worry etched on her young face.

“I’m not coughing.”

“That isn’t how I check your heart, Reaper.”

Tongue and Boomer help me walk out of this hellhole asylum, a psychotic estate I hope to never find myself in again, and everyone laughs at Doc and Reaper’s banter. It lightens the mood.

There’s still a grey cloud hanging over us, and Christmas won’t be what it needs to be until it’s gone.