by K. L. Savage
Until one fucking thing slides out of place. Money problems, partner cheats, sickness, and that ugly bitch hatred roars her head and takes over.
Hatred is the only power in this world that is strong enough to drown out love. It’s the only thing that truly lingers after loves fades. I’ve lived it… Fuck, I’m still living it.
Dawn deserves peace, a good life for her and her boy, and I’ll make sure they get it. She’ll never see me again, just how it should be. I don’t need my head fucked up by some las anyway. My cock might be harder than it ever has been, but I can’t get it up for any of the cut-sluts. It’s time for me to get my head out of my arse and just fuck. Maybe I’ll get Candy. Pirate seems to like her best. I hear she sucks cock real fucking good. And I need that right now.
The anger burns my muscles; the frustration, the memories of Conor, and the pent-up aggression is nearly bursting at the seams. I can’t take it anymore. I’m not myself. I won’t ever be myself again. I should have taken care of Cohen years ago. Maybe this abuse wouldn’t have happened to Dawn. She wouldn’t be here bruised to hell and back. She wouldn’t be tempting me with those bright green eyes. She’d be safe from me, from my fists.
A fighter is just an abuser, after all. What if I’m just like Cohen? What if I hurt her?
The thought has me hitting the bag harder. The material of the gloves smack against the heavyweight bag. I make it sway, dodge, keep my feet planted against the floor, and keep light on my toes.
Jab, jab, hook. Jab, Jab, uppercut.
I exhale with every hit, punching the bag harder with every beat that passes. I intentionally miss the next hit, soaring past the swinging bag so I can keep my reflexes quick.
“Hit the bag any harder and you’ll punch a hole through it.”
I jab the bag one last time before turning around, seeing Poodle leaning up against the doorway, cut on, hair brushed and fluffy like it always is, looking just like his damn dog. Shit, the dog. Chaos.
I forgot all about him. I’m sure Ellie is taking good care of him for me.
“Fuck off, Poodle. I ain’t in the mood for anymore shite today.”
“Accent is heavy today,” he notices, uncrossing his ankles as he pushes off the wall to walk toward me. “Something on your mind?”
I scoff, chuckling sarcastically as I hit the bag again. “Fuck off, Poodle. Don’t act like ye know a damn thing about me.”
“Come on, Skirt. I’ve been trying for weeks to talk to you. You have something on your mind. I want to be your friend—”
“Me friend? Me fucking friend? Are ye kiddin’ me with that bullshite right now?” He’s right. My accent always comes out a lot thicker when I’m mad. I can’t help it. Right now, I want to kill and Poodle. With the tension between us, he’ll be my target if he doesn’t get the hell out of my way. “Yer out of yer damn mind if ye think we are friends right now. Ye know everything about me, Poodle. Why don’t ye take a guess at what is bothering me? Hell, I couldn’t begin to decipher what is on yer mind. Fuck off, Poodle. I’m not in the mood.” I square up, ready to hit the bag again. I want to spend a few more hours hitting the bag. I need to feel the ache in my bones, my muscles; I want to be tired. I want this anger buzzing in my system to set me free.
“Grow the fuck up, Skirt. Talk to me. We aren’t kids anymore. Man up, turn around, and fucking talk to me.”
The bag in front of me rocks left to right, right to left, and for about an hour now I’ve been imagining it’s Cohen; right now, I’m imagining it’s my best friend.
My ex-best friend.
I turn my head until I only see the wall to my right since Poodle is standing behind me. “What the fuck did ye just say?”
“I think you heard me, Skirt. You hard in the ears now? Or just in the head?”
I turn around slowly, my chest heaving, my body boiling, my fist aching to plummet him. “Ye have a death wish, James?” I call him by his given name, letting him know where we stand now.
“Not as much as you do, Rohan.”
We circle each other, just like fighters do in the ring. The only thing Poodle has on me is that he hasn’t been hitting a bag for an hour. My chest heaves, and my muscles burn, twitching. “Ye realize I’m trained in fighting or did ye forget?”
“I didn’t forget.” He cracks his neck and then pulls up his fucking hair.
“Yeah, wouldn’t want to get yer pretty mane messed up, would we?” I run my hand down my hair and bat my lashes. “A real bitch fucks with his hair,” I sneer, then spit on the floor next to his boots.
“A real man fights with his fists, not fucking brass knuckles.” Poodle fakes a left hook and hits me with a right.
Shite, it makes my ears ring. I shake my head and wiggle my jaw back and forth. There’s a familiar burning sensation spreading along my jawline. “Not bad,” I say, impressed, and lick the inner part of my cheek where the blood is gathering. “For a poodle.”
His lip curls with anger, but he doesn’t charge me again. He’s smart when it comes to fighting. I had no idea. I spit again, getting the damn iron out of my mouth.
I don’t swing my fists; instead, I swing my leg to the side and knock him off his feet. Poodle hits the mat with a hard thud, and his hair comes out of its tie, so I grab ahold of it like bitch reins. “Is that what Melissa does when yer fucking her? Holding on to yer hair to control ye? Cause that’s what this shit is for!” I rear his head back and smash it against the mat, watching speckles of red flow from his mouth.
He wraps his legs around my waist and rears his head back, busting my nose. It’s enough for the hold I have on his hair to loosen, and he rolls out from under me, smashing his palm against my nose. A river of blood flows down my face as I holler in pain.
“To have been trained by the best fighter in Scotland, you’re real shit,” Poodle taunts, landing a blow in my stomach.
I double over, groaning when puke rises up my throat. It’s a vulnerable position to be in. A fighter never bends over like this because it leaves room for—
A sick crunch sounds when his knee connects with my face, and I stagger back, the world caving in around me as my head spins.
All I taste is blood.
I fall to my knees, tired, exhausted—the fight leaving me. I leave myself open for him to finish me off, but he falls to his knees in front of me. He grips the back of my neck and lays his forehead against mine. “You’re a fucking dumbass if you think you can go in a ring and fight one of the greatest fighters who ever lived thinking with your emotions, Skirt. I don’t know shit about fighting, and I just took you down. I know how you fight. You’re a killer. I’ve seen it. If you can’t win against little old me, how the fuck can you beat Cohen?”
I pull from his grasp, not ready to be brother-brother with him just yet. I wipe my nose on my arm, streaking blood along my freckled, tattooed skin. “Fuck ye! I’d just been beating on a bag for an hour. I’m tired.” It’s a sorry ass excuse.
“Yeah? How’s that going to go when you’re seven rounds in the ring?”
“That’s different,” I hiss and pound my fist to my chest, the gloves soft and forgiving the blow.
“How?” Poodle flips his hair over his shoulder, looking like he belongs in a Head and Shoulders commercial.
“Because I won’t be fighting someone I thought I could trust.” I wipe my lip again. “Or I won’t be fighting someone who thought he couldn’t trust me.”
Poodle’s shoulders sag, and he tosses up his hair again in a messy girly bun. “It wasn’t about that, Skirt. It wasn’t about not trusting you. I trust you with my life. I still do.”
“You know how important it is to me for my brother to fucking confide in me!” I yell, blood and spit flying. “Then ye went and proved I couldn’t be trusted. I couldn’t be confided it. I wouldn’t have told anyone about yer psychopathic killing ways. I would have joined ye, Poodle. I would have helped ye, without question. And then—just fucking forget it. Ye don’t understand.” Shite, I feel like
I’m breaking up with a long-term girlfriend or something with how me and Poodle are talking.
He was my brother after my own flesh and blood died, though. Poodle was the first person I recognized as someone who wouldn’t fill Conor’s space or replace it, but he came real fucking close. He doesn’t understand how much his friendship meant to me or how much I needed it to keep me grounded. Poodle was the only one who understood me.
And now?
I’ve never felt more alone.
I’m starting to wonder if my ma was right. It should be me in the ground instead of Conor. No one can confide in me. Not like Conor. That died when he did.
“You don’t think I wanted to talk to you? Do you know how lost I was? How dark I felt? I was afraid to tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought I’d lose you as my friend, but it looks like I did anyway.”
“If you two are done having your fucking pillow talk, Prez is calling Church,” Bullseye’s voice cuts through the heart to heart Poodle and I are having, and I’m glad for the interruption.
My eyes meet Poodle’s, then I place my hand on my hips and stare at the wall. “We are done here anyway,” I say and march toward the exit, leaving Poodle behind me.
I’m not even sure what I’m mad about anymore. All I know is that I’m furious. It’s consuming. I can’t stop it. I’m mad at everyone. Everything. I know I can turn around right now and count on Poodle, but my pride stops me. I want nothing to do with anyone. My bare, sweaty shoulder slams against Bullseye, and I don’t bother saying sorry.
“Better watch who you’re running into, Skirt.”
I grunt in return and make my way through the gym, prowling to Church, my footsteps pounding across the hallow polished floors. I yank the door open, and it slams against the wall, the metal rattling my brain. I rip my gloves off with my teeth and throw them on the floor as I walk down the hall that leads to the kitchen.
This place has grown so much since I got here. There are homes that I’ve built by my hands, something I didn’t even know I enjoyed doing until I tried. My hands always need to be busy; that much I’ve learned.
When I kick the door open from the hall to the kitchen, Sarah and Melissa are there, and they gasp when they see how Poodle kicked my arse. I don’t care. Prez calls for Church, I’m there busted nose and all.
“Lassies,” I tip my imaginary hat to them, and their eyes roam my body. They seem shocked that someone got the upper hand on me, but there’s only one person alive who will ever be able to do that, and he has girly fucking hair.
“Skirt,” they say with a tone that’s garbled with disbelief.
The basement door taunts me, reminding me of the time I spent next to the Dawn as she laid there sleeping. Just the memory of her has my heart doing those fucking flips that I don’t have time for. I try to rub the pains out of my fist, but it’s no use. The damn gal has sunk her claws into my heart, and if I spend any more time with her, she’s going to yank it from my chest.
Something about her calls deep to me, the reminder of what home feels like. Not here, but Scotland. Dawn reminds me of the waves crashing against the cliffs, the scent that hangs in the air after it rains, and the way the skies open up after a storm. She’s the day I walked through the rain from my brother’s funeral.
Dawn washes away the agony, but I can’t be without pain. It’s what drives me. Washing myself in her rain won’t cleanse me, it won’t baptize me—it’ll ruin me.
I stop outside the door of Church and get my bearings together. A few guys are still in the main room, drinking beers, and Tank, the big fucking teddy bear, is talking it up with Becks, the club’s massage therapist. I don’t know if other clubs have one of those, but they should. There’s nothing like getting a rub down after a run. Muscles are tight, stressed to the max, and then Becks cracks her fingers and rubs hot oil all over your body; fuck, it feels good.
My eyes fall on Candy, sucking Pirate’s cock. I can hear the slurping from here. He just sits there, eyes pointed to the ceiling, bottle of rum in his hand, and a dead expression in his eyes. Pirate doesn’t even look like he’s enjoying the blow job. Candy is moaning like a real bitch putting on a good show, shoving her hands between her legs to get herself off, but Pirate just pours rum into his mouth. The liquid drips down his chin and chest, wetting his shirt. Jesus, what a sad fucking sight.
“I called for Church! Get your asses in here!” Reaper shouts as he enters the room, pushing me in there with him.
Poodle comes in a second later, knuckles red and bruised from kicking my ass. “What the hell happened to you two?” Reaper asks as he takes the seat at the head of the table, taking the gavel in hand. The one made of human bone.
“Poodle kicked my arse,” I say, not wanting to lie to my Prez.
Reaper’s eyebrows hit his hairline with shock as he runs his fingers through his beard. “That so?”
“Once in a lifetime sort of thing, Prez.”
“You two bury the hatchet?” he asks.
“No,” I say quick.
“That’s too bad because we have a problem, and I need you two to kiss and make up.” Reaper’s eyes scan across the room, glancing at every brother in the room, and my sweaty arms land on the table. I hate that look. It’s the look that says he’s about to burn Vegas to the ground. “Close the door,” he says to no one as he stares out the window, but Pirate comes in, zipping up his pants, and kicks the door shut.
“Can’t find the kid,” Reaper says.
My stomach drops to my fucking feet, and I stand so fast, the chair slams against the wall as beads of sweat from my earlier work out falls from my hair and onto the table. “What the fuck do ye mean, Prez?”
“I mean, we cased Cohen’s place, his gym, everywhere. The kid is missing and so is Cohen.”
Chapter Seven
DAWN
“Dawn.”
The sound of my name has me turning my head. Skirt is standing in the doorway of a room they call ‘Church’; whatever that means. I’m going to take a wild guess it has nothing to do with prayer and everything to do with what people pray against. He isn’t wearing a shirt. Skirt’s skin is wet, glistening with sweat, and his chest heaves from exertion, and he has dried blood trailing down his nose and lips.
“What happened to you?” I stand up from the couch and run over to him, laying my palms on his chest. His body is warm, sticky. He smells of blood, sweat, pain, and torment. My eyes roam his body. He has abs under all the tattoos and carved hips meant to be held onto as he fucks a woman. His pecs are defined, swollen with muscle, and he has a dusting of red hair along his chest that makes thousands of goose bumps rise on my body. I’ve shivered from fear, with pain, but I’ve never shivered from pleasure, never by a simple touch.
His nostrils flare, and one of his rugged hands that has a black and white tattoo of a devil screaming across the top lands on mine, holding my palm against him. The air between us charges with this unseen force, this energy that I’ve never felt before. My body is being called to him, and I move a step closer, unable to fight it any longer.
I’ve been fighting the urge to fall into his arms ever since I laid my eyes on him. I thought he was a dream. He’s the walking, talking, real-life version of my perfect man, plucked out of my fantasies to make my reality sweet at last.
“Dawn,” he repeats my name, and I love how it sounds with his accent. Skirt lays his forehead against mine, and my breath catches from his lips being so close. The blood doesn’t even bother me. “Lips, we need to talk about Aidan.”
Hope springs to my chest, and I pull away, but I keep my hand on his pec and feel the wild heartbeat beneath my palm. “You found him!” I say with glee, but when disappointment fills his eyes, the creases between his eyes furrowing, dread falls into the pit of my stomach. I yank my hand away, missing Skirt’s heat when my hand turns cold. “Please, tell me you found him, Skirt. Please,” I beg as tears fill my eyes. My hands cup my mouth the longer he stays qu
iet.
His silence speaks volumes, and it’s deafening.
“No!” I scream at the top of my lungs and double over. “No, please,” I sob so hard I gag. I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. The world tilts, and nothing makes sense. Aidan has to be with Cohen. He has to be. I don’t know where else my boy could be. Every ounce of strength I’ve had to fight to survive Cohen drains from my body, and my knees give out from under me.
“I got ye, Lips.” Skirt catches me, wrapping me in the safety of his arms, the strength he uses to fight.
I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. I don’t care. My heart is breaking. No one knows how this feels. It’s like my heart is being ripped out of my chest and stomped on. My hands dig into Skirt’s arms, and I lay my cheek on his chest, inhaling the musky scent of his skin. It’s oddly relaxing, but it isn’t enough to stop the onslaught of tears.
“You can’t find him,” I mumble with moist lips against his chest, the salty liquid from my tears spilling onto my tongue.
“No, they can’t find Cohen either,” he replies, rubbing his hand down the spine of my back. His chin settles on top of my head as I cry. We’re standing there, in the middle of the doorway, a dozen eyes on us, and he doesn’t care. He lets me hash out the pain.
I untangle myself out of his arms and step away from him. I look over his shoulder to see Reaper staring at me, pity in his eyes, and I cock my head at him, then point my finger. “I thought you said you’d find my son. You didn’t. All of you are the same!” I shout. “Just more men making promises you can’t keep. I’ll find him myself. I’ll find my son. He’s probably not even at the top of your priority list. You probably need to go find some drugs or whatever the fuck an MC does; maybe just sit around and get your cocks sucked,” I spit and shove a finger into Skirt’s chest.