A Ruthless Christmas by K.L. Savage
We’re only open for a few more days before we close for Christmas Day. We’re debating staying open for Christmas Eve for all the lost souls that wander in off the streets, alone with no place to go. It sounds like a good thing to do, even if it is only one person, but we also want to be home with our Ruthless Kings family.
If I know Tool like I think I do, he’s going to decide to keep Kings’ Club open. On the inside, he’s a big softy.
And he never stops being sexy.
“Damn it!” he shouts in pain for the hundredth time from across the stage. He’s hanging mistletoe.
Everywhere.
He says if everyone has to stop and kiss every few feet, no one has a reason to go home alone.
I think he’s about to give up because it’s the fourth time he’s hit his thumb with the hammer. It isn’t his tool of choice. My man is good with a screwdriver, but a hammer? He might end up killing himself if he isn’t careful.
“You okay, sweetheart?” I yell, wrapping the garland around the vintage microphone.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “’Tis but a flesh wound.”
I roll my eyes from the quote. Him and Reaper can’t seem to stop watching that damn movie. I’m about to call Boomer and have him blow up that damn DVD. Every single copy ever made. I’m sure he’d appreciate the challenge.
“Do you want me to kiss it to make it better?”
The hammer clatters to the ground, and his boots slam on the floor as he jumps down from the ladder. I don’t even have to look away from what I’m doing to know he’s on his way over. A black and blue thumb is shoved in front of me, and I gasp from how horrible it looks. I wrap my fingers around his wrist and gape. “Tool, I didn’t know it was this bad. We might need to see Doc.”
“I’m fine. It’s just bruised.”
“It looks broken.” I twist and turn his hand, trying to look at it from every angle. I’m learning a lot about medicine from Doc, and I help out when I can because the poor man does so much for everyone when they’re injured, and I know he gets overwhelmed.
“Well, it wouldn’t be if you’d kiss it.”
“Oh yeah?” I purr, adjusting my knees on the stage. I bring his abused thumb to my lips and press a kiss to it. “That better?”
His nostrils flare. “A little more.”
The damn screwdriver behind his ear is getting the space between my legs wet. I love how he protects me with it, what he has done to make sure I’m here with him. There isn’t anything hotter than a man, especially a man like Tool, defending you. He’s muscular, tattooed from head to toe, and don’t get me started on his cock.
It’s huge, pierced, and always gets the job done.
And he needs to get to work on me because we’re the only two here. The club doesn’t open for another hour, and with how my eyes are level with the growing bulge in his pants, if I don’t get a taste, my Christmas might be damned.
I roll my tongue over his thumb, licking it like I would his cock, and he grumbles. Wrapping my lips around the digit, I bob my head up and down, then stop. “Better?” I ask, my voice hoarse with arousal.
“Almost,” he says, unzipping his pants. He’s about to pull out that big, beautiful beast when an urgent knock on the door stops him. Tool’s hand is inside his pants, most likely wrapped around his cock. “No! No, no, no. We can ignore them. They will go away.”
But the pounding continues. It’s desperate and fast.
“Son of a bitch,” Tool gripes, zipping his pants in anger. He grabs my chin and forces me to meet his chocolate brown eyes. “You aren’t going anywhere. I expect those lips around my cock to make my thumb better.”
“I forgot your thumb was connected to your dick.” I chuckle.
“Little sparrow, every part of my body is connected to my cock when it comes to you.” He slams his mouth on mine and his new tongue piercing massages the inside of my mouth which has me whimpering with more need. That damn person at the door better be bleeding.
His tongue untangles itself from mine, leaving me wondering how the hell this is my life and how I have a man like Tool.
I watch his perky ass walk away from me, and I hurry to fix my hair, so I don’t look like a sex fiend. I get back to wrapping the garland around the microphone. I’m hot all over. I knew I shouldn’t have worn long sleeves today. Tool always makes my temperature rise.
“Juliette! Get some blankets from the back, now!” Tool yells, and I jump from the stage when I see him carrying a woman who is battered and bruised all over. Her lips are blue, and her skin is pale. I don’t question him. I run through the club and dash through the purple velvet curtain. The pitter patter of my feet echo off the walls as I hurry to his office.
It’s still the only part of the club that has yet to be renovated. We’ve been too busy to worry about it. I yank the door open and rush toward the closet in the back. I flip on the light and grab as many blankets as I can, including a heated one. If people aren’t from Vegas, they don’t know, or maybe consider how cold it can get in the desert. This girl looks like she’s been in the cold for days.
And if the Ruthless Kings’ history is anything to go by, it means bad shit is coming our way.
We will handle it. We always do.
Or maybe we will get lucky and this is some random girl, who just needs a little help getting on her feet, and is not lost, or getting abused, or homeless.
Christmas miracles happen, right?
I run out the door and down the hall, hugging the blankets to my chest. I push the curtain open, and Tool has her laid on the stage. He gently lifts her head up to tuck a pillow under her; he must have got it from one of the couches in the corner. “Here, I grabbed a heated blanket too.”
“Perfect,” he says, unfolding the electric blanket and throwing it over the frail woman. There’s an outlet right beneath us, and he plugs in the cord and cranks the heat up to high. Luckily, we have outlets everywhere. We never thought they would be used for this though. Through the day, we serve brunch and coffee, and we get a lot of business from college kids and hungover partiers.
“My gosh, she’s so cold.” I touch her hand, then wrap my fingers around the side of her palm. Her entire body shivers, and her teeth clatter together. Her eyes are closed, but they’re moving behind her eyelids quickly. “Miss?” I try to nudge her awake. “Miss, what happened to you? Can you hear me?” I try saying, knowing it’s a longshot, but we have no idea what to do right now. Her clothes are thin, worn, and with plenty of holes. Her shoes are old, the soles barely hanging on, and she’s filthy. Her hair is matted, her lips are chapped, and she’s so damn skinny.
I can tell, even underneath all the mess and dirt, she’s beautiful.
“Go get some water,” I tell Tool, but he’s already reaching for his phone in his pocket.
“We have to call 911. Maybe they can help her,” Tool says, but her hand suddenly grips his wrist so tight, his skin turns white.
“No,” she croaks, licking her dry lips. “No hospitals. Please,” she wheezes. “Jesse. Get Jesse.” She opens her eyes, and Tool inhales a sharp breath that sucks all the air out of the room. The woman’s eyes flutter shut, and Tool just stares at her, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.
“What is it?” I ask, but he doesn’t hear me. “Logan!” I make sure there is emphasis on his name, so it pulls him out of the trance he’s in. “What’s going on?”
He blinks, his lush black lashes fanning over his face as he prepares for what he’s about to say. The damn anticipation is killing me. “What?” I ask again, getting impatient. He knows something. “Logan, out with it. We have an hour before we open, and we have a half dead woman on the stage.”
“I think…” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I think she’s asking for Reaper.”
“Okay?” I say, not understanding where he’s going with this. “A lot of people come to the Kings if they need help, right?”
“Yeah, but most of it is money situations. People owe us a lot of money, but Reaper stays on top of it.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It isn’t that important compared to all the other things that have happened.”
“So what, you think she owes money?”
“No. She doesn’t need that kind of help. I think she’s asking for Reaper because this woman, whoever she is, is his daughter.”
“Shut the hell up!” I squeal so loud my voice echoes, and Tool throws his hands over his ears. “Are you sure?”
“Not completely, but they look so much alike; it’s hard to deny the facts.”
“I don’t think they look that much alike,” I say, tilting my head as I examine her face. Same nose, but she has bigger lips, sharp jawline like Reaper, brown eyes, dirty blonde hair, but that isn’t evidence. “Plenty of people have similar features.”
“And the people who have similar features don’t just go around asking for someone who looks a lot like them.”
That’s a valid point.
“She’s young.”
“So is Sarah,” he argues.
Another valid point.
“If that’s true, things are about to get awkward.”
“I just hope I’m wrong because if he has a daughter while Reaper and Sarah are trying to get pregnant, Sarah will feel like he doesn’t need her anymore.”
I hope Logan is wrong, but the more I look at the woman on stage, the more I think he’s right.
