Whistler by K.L. Savage
“You’re pouting,” One notices.
“Am not,” I sigh, plopping my chin in my hand.
Fine. I’m pouting.
I want to go back to the beach. Ever since we have come home, things have been tense. My sister hasn’t been found, her boyfriend is out of jail, and another one of Fletcher’s crew showed up dead on our doorstep with another note.
What’s worse, I haven’t told Charlie what’s going on. She thinks Kenneth has forgotten all about her and honestly, I love how happy she has been ever since we have been back from the beach. She’s a new person. She’s all smiles and laughs, and super playful.
The other day, she dumped water on One’s head and then poured a cup of flour over him. I recorded it and it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I still watch it when I need a good laugh. My favorite part is when she lifted her finger over her lips to tell me to be quiet while One sat there with Princess and Tutu, talking about how he couldn’t wait for club whores to stop coming around.
And then…bam!
Flour everywhere.
It took him three showers to get it all off him and Charlie was in damn stitches she was laughing so hard. She fell over and Tutu had to catch her. It was one of those laughs that made everyone else laugh. It was a good fucking day.
“Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know how to tell her she’s been in the middle of a budding drug empire. And I don’t know how to tell her that the men that have died from their crew weren’t in car accidents but were murdered. Or how about the man she thought was her husband is working his way through killing God and everybody before he finally gets to her? It isn’t exactly an easy conversation to have.”
“No, but you have to have it. It isn’t her fault, and it isn’t your sister’s. It’s Kenneth’s. Scapegoat became exactly what he wanted it to and what sucks is I bet it is as big as it is because he was skimming money from her dad’s company.”
“Right. Another thing she will feel guilty for. She doesn’t need to feel guilty about anything, One. I want to protect her from this. Things are going to get messy and—”
He cuts me off before I can finish my sentence. “—Brother, it’s already messy. Not telling her the truth won’t make it messier, it will just make it harder for her to trust you and after everything she’s been through, I bet one wrong move could cause her trust to be gone forever.”
I scrub my hands over my face and hang my head. “I know. You’re right. I just hate to fucking burden her with this.”
“Hate to break up the pillow talk, but I’m calling Church. Whistler, you’re going to want to get a drink. Or six.” Mercy walks into the kitchen.
It’s become the place where everyone meets which will change soon since the foundation for the clubhouse is built.
“Doesn’t sound promising,” One grumbles and picks up his plate that has a freshly built triple-decker sandwich on it along with a glass of milk. “Come on, let’s sit down. I don’t feel like getting yelled at.”
Me either.
Mercy has fallen into his role as Prez really well. He’s helped Bookie, the man behind balancing the books, come out from hiding. He likes being out of sight and out of mind. He’s so good at it, I forgot he existed to be honest. Now, he hangs out with us, quiet as ever, just figuring out the math of income and how much money is coming in and out for the club.
There’s drilling and hammering going on next door, which is where my Cupcake is. She loves working with her hands. She’s brilliant with them, actually. She’s more than a helping hand for her father. I think she could customize furniture with her own two hands, but she’s too nervous to try right now. She’s always worked for her dad and that’s how she wants it to stay.
She has so much potential. I want more for her.
I want her to have everything because she’s capable of anything.
I drag one of the stools out and prop my boots on a table. One bites into his sandwich and a glob of mayonnaise falls onto the table.
The man is the messiest eater alive.
“Oopsie,” he mumbles around a mouthful of food.
“Didn’t your momma ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”
“No. She said if I had something to say to always say it.” He harrumphs while taking another bite of his triple-decker.
Mercy is up front while everyone else is sitting turned toward him. He points the remote at a TV he installed for I.E.D. to watch cooking shows on and turns it on. “Okay, I know things have been less than ideal lately. I had hoped starting this Ruthless Hellhounds Chapter meant a little peace and quiet, but when you’re in this life, that’s too much to ask. Quiet doesn’t exist. We got this in the mail today. And it has our favorite logo on it from the Scapegoats. I haven’t watched it. I figured it would do us all good to see it for the first time together.” He sets the remote down without pressing play. “Let me make this perfectly clear,” he sneers, casting his menacing gaze on all of us at once. “I want this issue done and buried. I don’t want to wait for more bodies to appear and I sure as fuck don’t care about preserving someone’s feelings.” His attention falls to me. “I understand there are people involved that we care about, but it can’t cloud our judgment. This needs to stop. Now, I’ve called other clubs I have contacts with. I tried smaller clubs at first, thinking maybe Kenneth has stayed small. I called the La Grange, Texas Ruthless Kings chapter, but the daughter of the Prez says they haven’t had it down in their parts yet. And The Ruthless Kings Atlantic City Chapter hasn’t heard of the Scapegoats or its most popular pill ‘Scapegoat’, but Boomer did me a solid and he contacted a buddy of his in New York. Some Irish guy named O’Crowely.”
“I’ve heard of him,” I say, wondering simultaneously how the Prez in La Grange is doing. Last I heard, he was ill, and his kids, triplets I think, were taking care of him. “They call him The Irish Crow. He is the head of the Irish Mob up there and he is deep within the cartels. He deals drugs. A shit ton of them.”
Mercy nods. “That’s right. He isn’t exactly a man you want on your bad side. O’Crowely called me and said he’s heard of the Scapegoats. They have been trying to sneak their product in with his and he has a bounty out on their heads for it.”
“You’d think he wants the business,” One states as he swallows another bite of his sandwich. “More product. More money, right?”
“Wrong. O’Crowely likes to call the shots and be in control, but he doesn’t do anything as…what did he say…” Mercy ponders before snapping his fingers. “Weak and juvenile. His runners do not sell shit college kids can get their hands on. So he wants this to be stopped too. He was happy to hear his issue was over here on the West Coast so we could deal with it.”
I snort and lick the pad of my thumb to get a scuff off my boot. “Spoken like a man who doesn’t want to get his hands dirty.”
“He sent some men to help us, but he didn’t come. He is visiting Boomer soon to see his godchildren and family isn’t something he fucks around with. He rules the East. O’Crowely is allowed not to lift a finger and usually when he does, someone dies.”
“Wicked,” Halfpint chimes in. “He’s powerful and if you stay on his good side, he is a beneficial ally. My Uncles work for him, and they make great money and have enough for their family's family for the next three hundred years.”
Everyone turns around to stare at him. “That mean you’re rich, Halfpint?”
“No,” he snorts. “I’m disowned cause I choose to be with you fucks instead.”
It gathers a few chuckles, but Mercy raises his hands in the air signaling us to calm down. “Okay, okay. Enough about him. We need to play this and figure out a game plan. I don’t know about you guys but sitting around and waiting doesn’t work for me.”
Everyone stomps their feet against the floor, and it sounds like a stampede or a roll of thunder, a way to tell Mercy we all agree.
“Great. Now, let’s see what our friend has to say.” He aims the remote at the fifty-four−inch flat screen TV hanging above a counter.
There are a few murmurs and a loud caw from Birdie’s hawk. I peer over my shoulder to see Birdie feeding his hawk a raw piece of meat. The bird has the silliest name. Luke Skyhawker. Birdie calls him Sky for short.
The screen on the TV is black but something is playing because there are drips and whispers, or maybe those are cries. I can’t hear enough to make them out. There’s static, a break in the feed, before the camera finally stops zooming in and a light flickers on.
A smiling, young man appears on the screen. His perfect brown, parted hair is flawless and he is wearing a hot pink polo shirt. His teeth are too white and too square…too uniform.
This is Kenneth.
“Hi, Hellhounds,” he says, taking a sip of a red drink that must be a cocktail. It has a fucking umbrella sticking out of it for fuck’s sake and he drinks it out of a straw. I want to break his back over my knee after I pummel his face with my bat. “Or maybe I should direct this video to Wesley.”
I sit up straighter, and One places his sandwich on the plate, pushing it away from him as this asshole says my name. Whatever he has to say, it’s geared toward me.
“I know you’ve been getting my presents, but you guys haven’t reacted and it’s hurting my feelings.” He pouts his bottom lip before throwing his head back and laughing. “That’s alright. I have other ways of getting your attention.” The humor drops from his face and something vile and sardonic takes over a second later. A chill rushes through my bones as the lifeless void in his eyes glares at me from the screen.
I reach behind me and slide my bat from its holster, the nails embedded along the body clinking across the table as I set it down, needing to grip it.
“Stay calm,” Mercy whispers. “He wants to rile you.”
“I have something you want, and you have something that belongs to me, Wesley. I want my wife. Now, I know you think she’s not really my wife, but we will agree to disagree. She’s been mine since she was nineteen. I’m all she knows. Don’t you think it’s cruel to keep her from me? Kind of like I’m keeping Taylor from you.”
The screen changes to another room, and Taylor is next to her boyfriend. She’s crying, mascara running down her bloodied face. There’s a dirty rag tied around her mouth and by the looks of it, she’s bound to the chair she’s in.
It’s muffled but it sounds like she saying, “I’m sorry.”
“Taylor,” I whisper and stand, dashing over to the front of TV. “I’m right here, Sis-a-roo. I’m here.” I talk to her even though I know she can’t hear me. It makes me feel better. I feel like I’m with her. “Damn it, Taylor. What did you do?” I lean against the counter and grip it as I watch her and her piece of shit boyfriend struggle against their restraints.
She’s wearing one of my shirts. The one that says Ruthless Hellhounds on it. It’s new. I just had them made for the club and I haven’t even worn it yet, but when I brought her here, I gave her a few since I burned the trailer down with all of her clothes in it. It makes sense how he was able to figure out where we were so fast and how he knew Charlie was here.
“Isn’t she delightful.” Kenneth walks behind Taylor and runs his hands down her neck and chest, stealing touches that do not belong to him.
One is out of his chair next and the wood scrapes across the floor. His boots pound against the ground as he stands next to me, his fists clenching at his sides.
That damn soft spot he has for her is going to be the death of him.
“She’s so pretty, Wesley.” He bends down and runs his nose over her cheek. “I might need a taste for myself later.”
The boyfriend yanks against the binds and curses at Kenneth behind the rag in his mouth. I can see his efforts to try and protect Taylor, but I still don’t like the guy. She wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for him.
Taylor closes her eyes and squeezes them shut as he pulls out a knife and starts to cut the material of her shirt. He yanks at it, splitting it right down the middle. Her screams yank at my heart and I have to look away while One watches in fury as Kenneth continues to touch her.
I punch the counter until the skin around my knuckle's stings. I don’t have to see the screen because I’m looking at One’s face and his jaw is tense, his eyes shooting bullets at the screen.
“You have 48 hours to bring me Charlie. Every day that passes until that 48-hour mark is reached, I’m going to touch another part of this beautiful body and you better hope by the time you get here that your sister is still in one piece when I’m done with her.”
I let out a painful, agonized roar that shakes the spice jars on the shelf behind the stove.
“And I know, you’re probably thinking, ‘Kenneth isn’t serious. He doesn’t look the type.’ But let me tell you something, Wesley. I am the fucking type. And if you want to know what will happen to your sister—” he drags the rag from Taylor’s boyfriend’s mouth.
“You mother fucker. I’m going to kill you for touching her! You hear me? I’m going to—”
But Kenneth shoves a gun into his mouth and pulls the trigger without pausing, without batting an eye, and there’s no remorse. Blood splatters against the wall along with brain matter and a few of the guys groan in disgust behind me.
Not me.
I’m fixate on the scream leaving Taylor’s throat and the blood splashed across her cheek. She wails and fights against the restraints, but she isn’t going anywhere. Taylor eyes her boyfriend, who is dead, cheek against the table and head turned in her direction, staring up at her with vacant eyes.
“Your sister will end up like my best drug runner here who told me he wanted to get out. Can you believe that? No one gets out. No one. Charlie is no exception. The clock is ticking, Wesley. Charlie will know where to go.” He turns off the video and I’m left staring at the Scapegoat logo.
“Whistler.”
I turn around so fast and see Charlie standing there. She takes a few small steps forward and pauses. Her shirt is drenched in sweat and her skin is glistening in the sun pouring in from the window behind her. There’s sawdust in her hair and clinging to her jeans. Her chest rises and falls as she tries to catch her breath, whether it is from exertion from working or from what she’s just seen.
“We need a plan. The sooner we act, the better,” Mercy says, turning off the TV.
“That symbol. I’ve seen it before. What is it?” Charlie asks, timid and tired, yet she isn’t backing down. Her steps are quiet as she comes forward. No one says a word. It isn’t up to them. It’s up to me. It’s been my job to keep her informed and I haven’t. “Someone better start talking.” She looks around and the guys glance away. “Now!” she screams, and the desperate edge has me taking her hand.
She pulls away from me, and I know I’ve fucked up.
That trust One was talking about earlier, it’s fading, and there is a small window of opportunity for me to save any chance of us making it through this.
Getting trust once is a miracle, but twice?
That’s damn near impossible.
