COPYRIGHT© 2020 BOOMER BY KL SAVAGE

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. REAPER is intended for 18+ older, and for mature audiences only.

  ISBN: 978-1-952500-00-8

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL: 2020906815

  PHOTOGRAPHY BY WANDER AGUIAR PHOTOGRAPHY

  COVER MODEL:CHRIS FLEMING & JAKE

  COVER DESIGN: KARI MARCH DESIGNS

  Editing and Formatting by MASQUE OF THE RED PEN

  FIRST EDITION PRINT 2020

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Boomer

  2. Scarlett

  3. Boomer

  4. Scarlett

  5. Boomer

  6. Scarlett

  7. Boomer

  8. Scarlett

  9. Boomer

  10. Scarlett

  11. Boomer

  12. Boomer

  13. Scarlett

  14. Boomer

  15. Scarlett

  16. Boomer

  17. Scarlett

  18. Boomer

  19. Scarlett

  20. Boomer

  21. Scarlett

  22. Boomer

  23. Scarlett

  24. Boomer

  Epilogue

  Meet Tool

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  Ruthless Readers

  Acknowledgments

  Meet K.L. Savage

  Also by K.L. Savage

  To all my readers who feel unseen.

  You’re more than a beautiful ornament broken on the floor. You may feel like everyone walks around you, not noticing you, and leaving you to your own demise. I’ve lived in darkness, and it’s okay to ask for help. One day, those beautiful pieces will be put together again.

  Special Acknowledgement

  To Jamie O, one of my badass readers,

  I wanted to reach out to you and tell you how much I appreciated your review. It was beautiful, poetic, and the perfect analogy to describe Boomer. I always try to put a bit of myself in all the characters, and Boomer holds a special place in my heart because I gave him a part of me that no other character has gotten before.

  All those broken bits that made Boomer who he was, make up parts of me too.

  The first sentence of your review inspired me. I used this sentence to help write the dedication in Boomer’s story. “You ever see a beautiful ornament broken on the floor everyone walks around it but no one sees it? That’s Boomer.”

  Thank you for your kind words. I appreciate them dearly, and I know the men and women of the Ruthless Kings appreciate it too. Thank you for reading, and I hope you continue to read the series. I look forward to more of your reviews. Tool will need your attention soon 😊

  Stay ruthless, Jamie,

  K.L. Savage

  Prologue

  Boomer

  I’m lost.

  My mind is lost, my heart, my soul. I don’t know where to start looking for it, and I have no idea when the journey will end. Growing up in the MC hasn’t left me feeling like I belong. I feel the opposite. It started when my father, Hawk, died on a run when I was young. Ever since then, part of me has darkened, and I haven’t been able to find myself.

  I’m angry.

  I’m depressed.

  And I have no idea where I belong in life. What’s sad is I don’t feel like it’s here with the people who have loved and raised me. I feel guilty about it, but I need to do this for me. I need to find myself. I need to know who I am without the MC. I haven’t been good to anybody here. I’m lashing out. I’m rude.

  I know I am.

  I haven’t forgiven Reaper for what happened to my dad. I should. It was so long ago. So much of my life changed. He died. I gained a sister I had no idea existed. I got shot, and then I got kidnapped, shot again, and I lost a fucking finger. The only good thing to come of that was Sarah.

  I know what I'm about to do will leave her broken. She’ll hate me, but I’m prepared for that. I’ll have to learn to live with it like I’ve learned to live with everything else. I’m drowning here. I can barely breathe. Every day here feels like I'm being pushed under water, struggling and fighting to gain that quick second of breath.

  I’m tired.

  I need to find happiness within myself, or I’ll never be a good person, a better brother, or a better son to Reaper. I don’t know if I’ll ever find what I’m looking for, but something has to fill this void inside me. If I don’t, I’m afraid of what I’ll be.

  What I’ll turn to.

  If I give into the dark thoughts that swirl inside my mind over and over again, that could ruin the man I am. Part of me wonders if I’m better off dead, if I’m better off not existing in this world, but I know that’s the void in me talking. It isn’t who I am, and I want to beat it. I want to conquer it, and I can’t do that here.

  The only thing I have done is piss people off, and I’m tired of it. I’m better off on my own. Even if I’ve never been on my own, I’ve felt like I have been all these years. The MC is better off without me, and right now, I think I’m better off without them.

  It doesn’t mean I won’t miss any of them.

  Like Tongue’s crazy obsession with his knives, or the way Bullseye is impossible to beat at darts. I’ll miss Pirate’s rum drinking and Tank’s soft heart. It always makes me chuckle to know a big man like that is a teddy bear. I’ll miss Tool and his ability to fix anything and everything. He’s the only reason why I have my dad’s bike.

  I’ll miss my sister and her crazy ways.

  I’ll miss Reaper too, even if most of me blames him. I’ll still miss the man who raised me. Just because I love everyone and will miss them, it isn’t reason enough for me to stay. People find themselves and who they trust once they enter the MC because it’s the thing they have been looking for.

  Trust, love, family. A brotherhood. Through blood and fucking death, the Ruthless Kings have one another’s backs. It’s remarkable, commendable, and honorable.

  And while I have all that, something is missing. I’m fucked up. I have something great, I know, and here I am saying it isn’t enough. It isn’t because it isn’t enough that I need to leave. It’s me. I’m the one who isn’t enough.

  Not for the club.

  Not for fucking anybody.

  I take one last look around my room, the place I’ve called home for nearly my entire life and let out a heavy sigh. Everything is still here. My bed, my comforter, the half-naked posters of models on the wall, and the one part of the wall where Sarah wrote in red sharpie, “I love you, cranky.” My heart twists knowing I won’t see her for a while. I pull out my phone and take a picture of it so I can look at it whenever I want.

  I’ll miss her the most. I never knew I wanted a sister until I found out she and I share the same father. I swore I’d protect her with my life, and I have. She doesn’t need me anymore. She has Reaper. Another thing I’m trying to come to terms with; their love. It’s hard to look at the two of them sometimes because she is young, and he’s so fucking old. I mean, late thirties isn't that old but hell, when the woman you’re spending your life with is eighteen, you’re fucking old.

  Maybe it’s just me.

  My bed creaks as I stand, my weight causing the springs to groan as it releases. I know I have everything. I’ve triple checked a hundred times. Everything I need, I have in the backpack that’s slung over my shoulder. Clothes and a few pictures that I had on my dresser. One of me and Sarah, another of all of us on her prom night all dressed up to the nines, and then the last one is of me and Reaper.

  My dad had just died, and it was hard on me. He took me fishing and, in the picture, he was soaking wet from jumping in and grabbing the fish, and he helped me hold the flopping trout. It was my favorite memory. I got a hook caught in me that trip, in the finger that asshole Fabian chopped off when he left me hanging in an underground warehouse.

  I fucking loved fishing with Reaper.

  Not that I have ever told him that; my pride—or my anger, whichever it is—always gets in the way.

  Pushing the memories to the back of my mind is like forgetting how to take steps—it just doesn’t happen, but I have to. I grab the keys off the dresser and step out of my door, turning to look over my shoulder. I reach up, and my fingers roam over the light switch. This is it.

  At the same time, I release a breath and turn off the light, encompassing my past in darkness. My father’s boots echo lightly with every thud against the floorboards of the clubhouse as I walk toward church. I honestly didn’t realize I’d get emotional doing this.

  I’ve been ready to leave, and now that I am, it’s hitting harder than I thought it would. My eyes burn with tears that I know I’ll cry at some point, but not today. I can’t today, or I won’t make it out that damn door.

  It’s around fo

ur in the morning, and the clubhouse is quiet since everyone is sleeping. I pass by Pirate, passed out drunk on the couch, and I roll my eyes when I see his hands down his pants and his shirt off. His chest has hickeys all over it from one of the cut-sluts.

  Once I’m safely out of Pirate’s way, I open the church doors and lay my bag gently on the floor by the door. This room. My fists clench. Fuck, this room. Every decision ever made by the club has been held in this room, including the one that got my father killed.

  Stop being so angry.

  I can’t! I can’t stop. It eats away at me. It’s killing me slowly. I either want to die or someone needs to, by my hands. I feel like it’s the only way for this to get better, for the darkness to fade away.

  But I know no matter what, the shadows inside me will always be there.

  Shrugging off my father’s cut, I lay it on the long mahogany table that has the Ruthless Kings symbol carved in the middle and the skeleton gavel laying directly in front of the President’s chair. Rumor has it, it’s carved out of the first enemy one of the Ruthless Kings killed. Who knows, maybe it’s true; it sure looks like it. How Reaper grabs that knowing it’s made of a human being is something I can barely stomach.

  My eyes drift back to the cut on the table, worn and ragged; this thing has seen hell. Damn, my father lived and died in this thing. It’s torn and old. The only thing new about it is the prospect patch on it. I rub my finger over it and remember a time when I couldn’t wait to have this patch. It was a short time, but I remember it well.

  The material scratches the pad of my finger, and it sounds like sandpaper against a slab of wood from all the callouses I have after long hours in the garage. I shut my eyes and swallow the lump in my throat and sit in the leather chair. To my left is a notepad and pen, and I plan to use it.

  I’m writing one letter, and that’s to Sarah.

  I clear my throat and reach for the pen with a shaky hand while sliding the paper in front of me. No need for me to alert everyone by flipping the light switch; I can work from the dull glow creeping in the window.

  With a deep breath, I put the pen to paper and let my thoughts flow.

  Hey kid,

  I don’t know how to say this. I’ve been running it over and over in my head, trying to find the right words, but there aren’t any. By the time you read this, I’ll be long gone. Don’t think for one second this is because of you. It ain’t. How I feel has nothing to do with you, Sarah. I just need time to clear my head. The MC has clouded it. It’s all I’ve known for as long as I can remember, and I can’t remember any of it being good. I left dad’s cut for you. Wear it. You deserve it more than I do. The MC isn’t something I’m proud of, not yet, and that’s the journey I need to go on—to see if the club is more than I think it is.

  I hope you understand. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but live well.

  I love you. I’ll miss the fuck out of you.

  Your brother,

  Jenkins

  Damn, that’s short. Reading the words makes it seem like I haven’t said enough. She deserves more than a little paragraph, but it sums up everything I have to say. My hands shake as I fold it in half and write her name on the front. A tear drips from my eye and lands on the H of her name, smearing the ink. I’m not going to write it again. Forget it. I’ll cry like a little fucking bitch and then decide not to leave.

  I snatch my bag off the floor as I walk out. I know Reaper will see the cut and the letter when they have church in a few hours. It’s cowardly leaving like this, in the middle of the night, not saying goodbye to everyone and facing the music like a man, but again, I wouldn’t leave if I did that.

  This is the only way.

  I tiptoe past Pirate again and creep out the front door, the cold air hitting my face.

  I’m not sure where I’m going, but I’ll go ’til the blacktop ends or I run out of gas; until then, I’m going to ride.

  1

  Boomer

  The ride from Sin City leads me to America’s playground. Atlantic City, New Jersey just got a new resident. I’ve been riding for four days, stopping at mom and pop hotels along the highway, some more questionable than others, but I made it out alive, and now I’m on the East Coast.

  Beach is to my left, casinos to my right, and I know if I’m not careful, I’m going to gamble every night until I hit it big. I need to be disciplined if I’m going to make it here. I rev my engine and speed up when the sign says I can go fifty-five instead of thirty-five. Hell yeah. There’s nothing I love more than opening up the throttle and feeling the wind against my face.

  My cheeks hurt from the sun, and my lips are a bit chapped from licking them, but it feels good. It’s freeing. My head hurts from the damn helmet. I’ve worn it too much over the last few days, hours at a time, and I can’t wait to get a hotel room, lean back, and relax. The one thing about being on a bike all day, the body starts to hurt, legs and back, and nothing sounds better than a hot bath and a nice jerk-off session to relax me.

  Fuck yeah, that sounds good.

  Just the thought has my dick twitching, and I don’t know if it’s actually from the anticipation of an orgasm or the vibration of the motor between my legs. It’s been so long since I’ve gotten laid. The only thing I’ve been doing is jacking-off because the cut-sluts weren’t doing it for me anymore.

  Not going to lie, no female was. I wasn’t getting hard. I secretly saw a therapist, and he said with all the other negative emotions I’m feeling, it’s effecting my sex drive. I figure I’m just broken. A man who can’t get it up for a woman isn’t a man at all. Hell, I’m only twenty. I should be walking around with an erection, fucking everything in sight.

  But it’s the last thing on my mind. I just want to concentrate on me and get myself right, figure out who I am. I don’t need to get pussy involved. Shit always gets fucking complicated when pussy is involved, and I don’t need complicated right now. My mind is complicated enough. It’s a battle zone all on its own.

  I roll to a stop for a red light and look left. The ocean is never ending, and the lingering smell of salt is in the air, making me inhale and exhale just like when I was in therapy. With a view like this, I’ll never need to see a therapist again. The sand, the waves, the setting sun over the edge of the water painting the skies a dark red that reminds me of a dragon’s breath plant.

  Yeah, so what? I fucking like plants too. They’re relaxing, and dragon’s breath has a really cool fucking name. It’s a deep red that gets lighter at the tips of the plant, mimicking what a dragon’s fire would look like.

  No one knows that about me, that I like plants or that I’ve been to therapy. Sarah doesn’t even know how bad my mind gets. It’s debilitating. When it gets really bad, I’d usually go out to the middle of the desert and blow shit up. Fire is the only thing that tends to calm me, and that’s some pyromaniac shit.

  My therapist said to push my negative thoughts into something positive instead, so he recommended plants. Something to keep me busy, to tend to and take care of. Since I didn’t want anyone to know, I’d buy small plants and keep them in a certain part of the desert. They’ll be fine now. I made sure to get native plants that would thrive in the sand. While it helped, I still had a dark urge to blow everything up, to see flames, to light matches, to hear the sizzle of a fuse, to feel the rumble of a grenade beneath my feet.

  I have the urge to lay there in darkness and let the intrusive thoughts consume me, to take me; the compulsion that makes me feel better is flames.

 

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