Whistler by K.L. Savage

My nose is killing me from where Kenneth elbowed me in the face. I’m not knocked out, but it does take me a minute to get my bearings about me. I shake my head to relieve the dizziness but only make it worse.

I inhale deep breaths and remember the gas filling the room. Taking the bottom of my tank top, I hold it against my face to cover my nose and mouth.

Why aren’t I passed out like Taylor?

I drag my eyes from the floor to her, then the windows, and see Whistler dropping his bat.

No.

It hits me that the gas isn’t affecting me like the others. Maybe it’s because he makes it from the drug I tested for him and I’m immune to it? Or I’ve built a tolerance, not immunity because I’m still dizzy. I grip the chair Taylor is in and use it to hoist myself up. When I do, I untie her hands, her ankles, and then take the gag out of her mouth.

Poor woman, she’ll remember this for the rest of her life. I know I will. I’ll remember every scar, every hit, every moment of feeling worthless, or when I thought I’d die. I’ll never forget the baby I lost from the abuse, and I’ll never forget feeling so small every day in the hands of a cruel man like Kenneth.

“Taylor?” I shake her shoulder, but she doesn’t wake up.

I can’t lift her but maybe I can turn the gas off. I just have to find the button. “Fuck,” I groan as a hang my head.

Kenneth has it.

“I’ll be back. I swear, okay? I’ll be back. I’m so sorry,” I tell her, even though she can’t hear me.

I trip over my own two feet as I head to the door, unlock it, and open it. Every member of the MC is down because of the gas, all except for Whistler, and Kenneth is bitching about a gunshot wound to his shoulder.

“You stupid fuck!” He slams One in the face with his foot and knocks him out indefinitely. Blood flows out of his nose and onto the floor. God, I hope he is okay.

Whistler tries to reach for the bat, but the more he tries, the more he begins to fall.

This isn’t his fight anyway.

It’s mine.

I dash to the bat, stumbling, slamming my shoulder against the window, and bite my tongue when it irritates the road rash.

My fingers circle around the handle of the bat and I kiss Whistler’s cheek. “It’s okay. I have it now.”

Kenneth’s eyes are shocked to see me. “You’re supposed to be passed out.”

“I guess all those years you stuffed your drug down my throat built up my tolerance.” I slam the bat into the wall and dust clouds the air.

His surprise only lasts a few seconds before a sneer takes over his face. “You don’t have the fucking guts,” he says, pushing against the floor to get away from me.

I lift the bat and swing, landing it right across his legs.

The wail that leaves him sounds so similar to mine every time he beat me. “That’s for tricking me into loving you.” I lift the bat and swing again, the nails shredding the flesh of his stomach. “That’s for manipulating me.” I take a different stance and let the bat fly, slamming it against his shoulder. “That’s for abusing me!” I scream until my voice cracks and tears break free from the liberation I feel.

“Charlie. Sweetie,” he tries to twist his lies again to get me to fall for him. His hand raises and the palm is coated in blood.

I swing the bat again, the tip landing in the middle of his hand, mangling it on impact. “That’s for your lies!” I snarl in anger, my breath coming out in stuttered beats. I swing again, clipping him right against the jaw. “That’s for my baby!”

He finally drops to the ground, lying flat on his back, and coughs up blood like I have so many times.

“I have the fucking guts,” I spit, his blood dripping down the bat and onto my hand. “And it’s because of how much I hate you. I’m taking all the pieces you have ever taken from me back. You were and will forever remain the worst part of me.” I swing the bat above my head and let it fly, his face flattening from the force. The nails stick into his bone and muscle and I have to wiggle the bat to get it free.

I swing again.

And again.

And again.

Smashing his skull in until it’s broken and his face unrecognizable. “This is for me. This is for Taylor. This is for every woman who will forever be safe from you.” I continue to beat him, years of pent up emotions taking over, blinding me with hate.

There’s a fine line between love and hate.

Love has the ability to make you feel like you’re floating while hate slithers in your bones and fills you with a different capability.

I don’t float.

I react. I need to react. I have to let the hate out. It’s consuming me.

The sick sound the bat makes every time it hits his body doesn’t faze me.

I don’t know how long I hit him for. I lose count. His blood is splattered across my face. My muscles shake from the exertion. I’m running out of steam and I remember why I came out here, to begin with.

He has the button to stop the gas.

I gather saliva in my mouth and spit on his body before throwing the bat to the side. “It’s you who doesn’t have the guts.” I sit on the floor and look away as I rummage through his pockets, gagging as the warmth of his blood slips through my fingers. It’s not in the left pocket, so I try the right, feeling the hard plastic.

I don’t take it out. There’s no need. I press the button and the hum of power used to pump the gas finally stops.

It’s over.

He’s done.

I sag against the floor and smile, cry-laughing that I had it in me all along to fight for myself.

A moan from behind me has me spinning around and Whistler is trying to push himself up again. “Cupcake,” he slurs, blinking up at me through those dark, glassy eyes.

“Whistler.” I scurry/run/slip and fall because of the blood as I try to get to him. When I do, I throw my arms around him, then drag him to where I can rest my back against the wall. His head is in my lap while we wait for the drug to fade and for the other members to wake up again. “I love you,” I tell him, leaning down and pressing a kiss against his forehead like he always does with me.

“You did it,” he slurs like Bolt did. “You saved yourself and everyone here. Taylor—”

“—She’s okay. Passed out, but alive.” I run my fingers through his hair. “We’re all alive.”

“Knew you were a fighter. So strong.” His eyes begin to close. “Never… needed… anyone… but yourself,” he says slowly as he falls asleep.

He is wrong.

I always needed Whistler. I needed him to show me who I was as a person, as a woman. He showed me I wasn’t weak, but capable. The strength I have wouldn’t have been found if it wasn’t for him. I used to be afraid of my own shadow, my own voice, my own opinion, my own thoughts, but not anymore.

“You’re so wrong, Whistler,” I say to him, stroking the side of his cheek. “I’ll always need you to remind me how much of a fighter I really am.”

Whistler is the best man I’ve ever known, the kindest, the fiercest, the kind always willing to fight for what’s right, for what he loves.

Not many men embrace love. So many think it’s a weak emotion, but not these men. Not the Hellhounds. They run off the feeling, they thrive for it, they need it, they want it.

They are different.

They don’t fight for hate.

Their fight always has something that their enemies don’t and it’s love. Either for someone else, like me, or for each other. Love isn’t always intimate but consists of so many other relationships.

Being in love is only one out of a million reasons to fight to survive.

I’m not sure how long I sit there and wait for my new family to wake up and I don’t care. They are all alive and breathing, and that’s all that matters.

One is the first to get up. He pays me no mind and staggers as he stands, then does his best to hurry to the other room to grab Taylor. I watch him take his shirt off and tug it over her head to cover her. He doesn’t know how to touch her, she’s so hurt, and he doesn’t want to cause more pain. One is devastated and I can tell he is getting emotional as he buries his head in his hands.

He finally swings her into his arms and walks her out.

“Let’s go home,” One announces, holding a sleeping Taylor whose head is pressed against his chest.

“Home,” Whistler repeats, groggily. He palms my cheek, and I close my eyes, leaning into his touch. “I am home.”

“You always know the right things to say.” I kiss his inner wrist before Princess comes over to get Whistler to his feet.

It takes a few of us to help get Whistler up and out the door. He was the last one down so he’s the last one to get up. Everyone is moaning and groaning, holding their hands to their heads.

We’re all walking by Whistler’s downed bike and a wave of guilt hits me. “I’m so sorry for stealing it.”

“I don’t care,” he says, lifting it off the ground. Whistler takes the keys from my pocket and dangles them in the air. Then tries to start it. It grumbles to life, and he grins. “Plus, it runs. That’s a bonus.” He wraps his arms around me, his body still unstable as he tries to get his footing. “I really only wanted you safe, Cupcake. You’re what matters and I’m so fucking proud of you. I know what you had to do wasn’t easy.”

“It was,” I admit. “I hate to admit it, but it was the easiest thing I’ve ever had to do. I feel no guilt or remorse. Maybe I should, but I hope he rots in hell.”

“Now we just have to find his father to rot down there with him,” Whistler says, reminding me that there is a part of this situation that isn’t resolved. I’m not as worried about his father. Kenneth was my enemy, but his father is my dad’s, so I’ll have to keep an eye out.

“Come on. Home. Shower. Bed. Sleep.”

“Yeah, you aren’t driving. You can barely stand.”

“How is it that I’m riding bitch for the second time today?” He throws his leg over the bike and his large arms wrap around me and squeeze. “Don’t kill me,” he jokes.

“Now there is one thing I could never do.” A piece of the bike falls to the ground and clinks as I drive away, following the other tired bikers down the road.

“I can’t look,” Whistler sadly says, burying his face in my back.

I’ll never forgive myself for wrecking his bike, but without me stealing it, none of this would have happened today. Someone had to make the decision to come here and get shit done.

And that someone was me.

It feels good. I feel confident and empowered.

Almost like nothing can stop me.

I slam on the breaks when I see a puppy on the side of the road. I guess there is one thing that can stop me…

“Shit! Woman! Damn it, be easy with her.”

I squeal as I hop off the bike and run into the ditch, picking up the wet, cold fluffball.

“Oh no,” Whistler grumbles.

“Can we keep him?”

“Like I could ever tell you no,” he says, and I give him a big kiss on the cheek. “What will you name him?”

“What about Sprinkles? Sprinkles and Cupcakes go together.”

Whistler’s face softens and he scratches the puppy under his chin. “Yeah. Yeah, they do, Cupcake. Come on. I’ll hold him. Let’s go home and get Sprinkles warm.”

Whistler is more than my home.

He’s my sanctuary. My haven.

And as long as I have him to go home to, I’ll fight just like he swings.

Hard. Unforgiving. And relentless.