Tongue (Ruthless Kings MC #8) - K.L. Savage Page 0,23

take me down if he needs to.

Please, what a joke.

It would take four Ruthless Kings to take me down.

I spin on my heel and hurry to my bedroom, then slam the door behind me. I lock the door and sit on my bed. My heart is pounding. I lay my hand against my chest and feel it flutter against my palm, racing. Sweat drips down my back, and the material of my shirt sticks to me. The walls are closing in, and my head swims.

Everyone thinks I’m this emotionless monster, but I feel just as deep, if not more, than others. It takes its toll on my mind, my soul, and not being able to understand them only fucks with my head further.

It’s why I am the way I am.

Madness created me.

Abuse broke me.

And then madness stitched me back together again.

I’m insane with moments of being lucid, and I was created from something hopeless, which means there isn’t much room for improvement.

I’m starting to wonder if my soul is lost, or if I’m soulless and chasing a life that’s never meant to be mine.

The book falls from my hand, and I set the bottle on the ground, then let out a heavy exhale. Pressing the palms of my hands against my eyes, I breathe. I’ve never been like this before. I’ve always known my place in the club. I’m the crazy one, the one who’s obsessed with knives and loves getting bloody. I don’t think there’s something wrong with that, but one glimpse of Daphne and I want something else for the first time since I killed my uncle.

I always do for others, but what about me?

I want something for me.

I want something that’s mine.

I want Daphne, my comet. Seeing her, she ignites hope in that meaningless void in my chest, and the feeling is addicting.

Standing, I open the closet and reach into my pocket for the key to the filing cabinet that holds all the journals I’ve drawn in since I was a kid. I grab a new one, close it, and lock it back up. The charcoal pencils are in a cup next to my bed already. I kick off my boots and whip off my shirt, getting more comfortable. Opening my journal to the first page, I take a pencil in hand. Black dust transfers to my fingers instantly, and besides blood, it’s the only thing that ever coats my skin.

I glance down to draw, but the scars across my chest get my attention. No one knows that I’m covered in cigarette burns. No one knows I was constantly raped as a child by my uncle. No one knows that I’ve never had sex before because the idea of sex scares the hell out of me. If people knew what made me tic, they wouldn’t respect me like they do now.

Everyone is scared of me, and I’d rather them fear me than pity me.

I stick out my tongue and rub my clean hand across it, the bumps reminding me of the pain and torture. They’re everywhere, and no matter how many people I kill or mute, I’ll never be able to get them off me. I’m a disease. I infect.

The first thing I did when I turned eighteen was cover eighty percent of my body in beautiful tattoos so no one would have to see how hideous I look. It was awful being stared at like I’m some sort of freak. On top of not being able to speak properly, I was the person that everyone stopped and pointed at, laughing. I was always the joke.

And I guess in a way, I still am.

I’m the one-stop-shop for a circus.

It would have been better if my uncle had found a way to kill me because the person I’ve turned into is the horror story people tell their kids they will become if they don’t do their homework.

My stomach rises as I inhale, and then I place the pencil against the paper and draw my favorite moment from tonight. Of course, I draw Daphne lying in bed, asleep. She tossed and turned for a few minutes, groaning in her sleep. She felt me. My presence. Not once has she been afraid of me. Is that because she doesn’t know me? What if she got to know me and, like everyone else, looked at me like I don’t belong?

There’s more to me than people see, and it’s my fault I don’t let them in. The truth is too ugly; the