Tongue (Ruthless Kings MC #8) - K.L. Savage Page 0,41
me. Sweat and panic grip my heart, my lungs, and my brain. I can’t breathe. Fuck, they know. They know!
“Oh my god,” Slingshot tosses the journal across the table and buries his face in his hands, shaking his head. “This couldn’t have happened to him. We can’t be looking at this. We are invading his privacy.”
“I need to know what we’re dealing with. Tongue has gone off the deep end. If it’s him cutting those tongues out and scaring that poor girl…”
“It isn’t. I think he likes her.”
“I don’t think he knows how to love,” Badge states, sighing, staring at a page in my journal.
His words take my breath. It’s been a long time since something has hurt so damn bad. They don’t think I’m capable of love. Am I that much of a monster? A drop of water landing on my hand takes my attention away from them.
I’m crying … I think. Again.
I don’t understand why.
Ever since I’ve met Daphne, there has been this unwinding of pressure in my chest. I’m a lock, and I threw away the key to make sure I never felt a damn thing again.
But Daphne found the key and slid it into my chest, releasing years of suppressed emotions.
“A person who went through what he went through has severe psychological issues. I’m not surprised he is the way he is, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to love. Everyone loves differently, in their own way,” Doc inserts what he thinks.
They went through my things.
How did they open my file cabinet? They can’t without the key; unless Tool somehow found a way.
“His uncle was a monster,” Tank says, leaning forward next to Bullseye. I’m surprised Tank cares after what I pulled earlier. Bullseye isn’t doing too well since he got diagnosed with diabetes. He hasn’t been taking care of his sugar, and he has lost a bit of weight and seems sorta out of it. He’s in denial.
“I say we kill him,” Bullseye says, polishing a dart.
“Tongue?” Slingshot gasps in horror at what Bullseye just said.
Like they could. I’d like to see them try.
Bullseye smacks Slingshot on the head. “His uncle, idiot. Tongue is one of us. I’m worried now. I didn’t know … I didn’t know any of this,” he says sadly, picking up one of the journals. “He must have been so angry.”
“He is still angry. Can’t you tell?” Tool scoffs.
“Looks like he beat us to killing his uncle.” Reaper throws down the journal that shows the drawing of what I did to my uncle.
Tool whistles. “He cut out his tongue.”
“Good,” Doc agrees, and the guys around the table nod.
“Oh. Oh! This must be when he met Daphne. Aw, that’s…” Slingshot turns the page and blushes. “Detailed.”
I step out of the shadows and snatch the journal from his hand, slamming it shut. I have nothing to say to them. I feel betrayed. I’m to the point where I’m about to kill all of them. They want to peek into my past, fine. They want to judge me, feel sorry for me, wonder what to do with me, fine.
But they will not look at Daphne.
Daphne is mine. She’s my heaven to look at, my paradise, my escape from my fucked-up reality.
“Tongue—”
“Don’t,” I cut Reaper off and gather my journals. I snatch another from Bullseye’s hand, then one out of Doc’s, feeling frustrated and out of my depth. I’ve never been so exposed. “Don’t any of you fucking dare try to talk to me after this.”
“I needed answers,” Reaper says, a slight regret on his face.
“Answers? You wanted answers? For what? To understand me. You never had a prob-problem…. You never…”
“Take your time,” Reaper says kindly, without agitation.
“Don’t. Don’t you dare fucking do that!” I shout, slamming my knife against the table near his hand. “Don’t condescend me. You didn’t even know… You didn’t….” I try to take a deep breath, to relax, and remind myself I only stutter when I get ahead of myself. It isn’t even a real stutter. I’m thrown back to the past when I had to explain myself to my uncle with a sore tongue. “Don’t you fucking dare act like you give a damn now when both of us know better.”
“Tongue, I care. I’m … I’m so sorry this happened to you. You’ve detailed your life with extraordinary talent.”
I scoff, rubbing my fingers over the front of a leather cover. This journal in my hands shows what my uncle did to me. I take my knife out,