Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC Book 5)

by K. L. Savage

  Before a fight and after a fight. My mouth was his.

  “Christ, please don’t be scared of me. I’m sorry. I thought… I thought we were playing. I’m so fucking sorry.” He falls to his knees on the ground and inches his way toward me. “I didn’t know.”

  A sob catches my throat, but all I can do is nod.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Skirt says, pulling me to his chest.

  “He made me—” I hiccup at the thought. “He’d leave me—” But it’s useless. I can’t get the words out. All I can feel is the humiliation, the pain of being used.

  “I’ll never do it again,” Skirt swears, pulling me onto his lap as I cry.

  I feel so stupid. Why would Skirt want to be with someone like me? A woman who can’t even manage to suck her man’s cock? Am I going to freak out every time he tries? I hate Cohen for ruining me.

  “Ye can go, but I swear, you have to stick with the brothers, okay?” He tilts my chin up to look at him, and his face is blurry through my watery eyes. His finger brushes over the yellow bruises that are quickly healing. “I can’t stand the thought of anything bad happening to ye.”

  “Nothing will as long as I’m with you and your brothers.”

  A knock at the door interrupts us, and it’s Tongue, the creepy guy who always has the knife. His hair hangs in his face, and his stares at us on the floor. “We need to go.” He turns on his boot that jingles as he walks away, and Skirt exhales, placing his forehead on my shoulder.

  Why can’t everything be normal? Why can’t we stay here on the floor, happy in each other’s arms? Why does the world have to be so cruel?

  “Come on, Lips. We need to get going. If I’m late, I forfeit, and I can’t lose.” Skirt stands, and I expect him to place me on my feet, but he continues to hold me. “I like ye here. I think I’ll hold ye till we get to the cage.”

  I lean my head against his chest, relieved that Skirt is the type of man to accept things as they are. He didn’t push me when I backed away from him, unable to give him head, unlike the cut-sluts. A sliver of fear makes its way into my bones, and something makes me wonder if being unable to suck him will be a problem. I know it was for Cohen. Anytime I denied him, he made me push my ass up and my head down, and when he was done, he’d fuck my face anyway.

  I clutch Skirt’s cut, as he calls it, and hold onto him as if he’s the only thing keeping me fixated on this earth. Gravity is giving way from under me, and Skirt is holding me tight, making sure I don’t float away. His strength, power, and tenderness is compelling, enthralling, and addicting. A woman could get used to being with a man so viral, so electrically charge.

  It would be all too easy to give up everything for Skirt. He’s my anti-gravity, the space where there is no force, no strain, no weaknesses, just a safe place to be, to soar and be free.

  I suck in a breath and close my eyes as Skirt carries me to the truck. Everyone uses it when they need it and since Skirt doesn’t have a bike, he has been driving it. When I hear the doors open, Skirt somehow finds a way to keep a tight hold on me while he sits in the back seat.

  The leather is hot, and the cab of the truck is stuffy which makes it hard to breathe. Fluttering my eyes open, Tongue is in the driver’s seat and Knives is in the passenger seat, pretending to throw his ninja star through the windshield. A roar of bikes sound behind us, and I don’t need to look back to see them following. They’re coming to support their brother.

  I flinch when I think of seeing Skirt hit and plummeted with fists, and I hold onto him tighter.

  Without saying a word, he tightens his arms around me in a hug, and we drive down the road. I’m tracing the patch on Skirt’s cut, outlining his name with my finger. His lips find my forehead, and I close my eyes, relishing in a touch so soft, simple, and tender.

  He’s an enigma, leather and brass on the outside, warm and gentle on the inside. I get to experience all of it.

  All too soon we stop and Skirt unwraps his arms around me, leaving me cold and with worry.

  “Ah, so glad all of you arrived.”

  It’s a voice I don’t recognize. I meet the man’s curious gaze as he stares at me, and he holds out his hand. I go to shake his, and he tilts my hand over and brings my knuckles to his lips. “Why, who is this beauty? She is magnificent. I am Maximo, beautiful. Who are you?”

  “She’s mine,” Skirt steps in front of Maximo, blocking the Italian’s hungry eyes.

  “Oh, she is Dawson?” The edge of excitement is hard to miss as his voice raises. He looks around Skirt’s shoulder. “You are famous, beautiful. I have longed to meet the woman who has a man bleeding his knuckles for. And you are worth it, aren’t you?”

  I jerk my hand away and lay it in the middle of Skirt’s back, rubbing my hand over the buttery leather of his vest. The bottomless orbs of the skull embroidered in the back of his cut stare at me, reminding me of the deep void leveled in my chest.

  “She’s worth it all. I’ll fight, Maximo, but she’s mine. My property. My woman. Ye fuck with her, ye fuck with me, and I will kill ye. Do I make myself clear?”

  Hearing Skirt’s claim has a rush of lust replacing every blood cell in my veins, and the only liquid my heart is pumping is desire. I’ve never had a man claim me so openly before. Skirt’s body shakes with waves of rage. His fists clench, and I can tell he’s seconds away from punching Maximo in the face. I rub his back in soothing circles, hoping my touch relaxes him, and his shoulders sag from my attempt.

  It’s working.

  “I see. I am sorry to step on any boundaries. She is yours. I understand. You’re a lucky man, and that Cohen is a fucking fool. I hope he comes tonight.”

  “I don’t,” Skirt admits and holds out his hand to help me out of the truck. “I don’t want Dawn anywhere near that fucking arsehole.”

  I keep my lips shut and walk hand in hand with Skirt toward the hotel/casino. It looks nice, in repairs with its new hedges along the front entrance and automatic swiveling door as people enter and exit. I clutch onto Skirt’s arm as we slither through the maze of people gambling and laughing. The song of slot machines ring, and someone screams with joy as they win the jackpot.

  Maybe when life calms down, I’ll be able to gamble and enjoy a night out like this.

  “After you,” Maximo holds out his arm and winks his chocolate eye at me.

  I flush, and Skirt sneers at Maximo and tugs me close to his chest, pulling me against the front of his body as we find ourselves on the elevator. Maximo hides his mischievous smirk under a broad palm and swipes a card to the basement after all the MC brothers climb on the elevator.

  “I hope this elevator holds the weight of all of you. You aren’t exactly small,” Maximo teases. A blinking red light catches my attention under the B button. Red is never a good color. It says, ‘danger’ and ‘beware.’ The elevator slides down, dinging until it passes the B level, then it comes to a sudden stop, the white light on the button turning red to signal our arrival to Hell.

  I assume that’s what this place is.

  Once the silver doors slide open, I know I’m right. Red seems to be the theme for the night. A light hangs above the cage, burning bright red, the color of hot flames and blood. As we walk down the aisle, the ground itself is dirt and the crowd is shaking the fence blocking them off from us, screaming and shouting, roaring for the fight to start.

  The fence reminds me of lace, a barely secure barrier made to block the true object of obsession, and to tease the mind to want more.

  Skirt shrugs off his cut and slips off his shirt, and hands them to me. I clutch them to my chest, inhaling his scent of sweat and leather. I’ve never been allowed so close to the cage before. I always had to wait in Cohen’s private room, watching the fight on the TV. When he was done, that was when I would get undressed and get into position.

  The Ruthless Kings circle the cage, looking into the bleachers for Cohen O’Roarke. My skin doesn’t tingle. The hair on the back of my neck doesn’t stand up. No
thing inside me is screaming that Cohen is here.

  I’m equally relieved and devastated because it means another night without Aidan.

  “It will be okay. Skirt is a good fighter. Sometimes a bit slow, but no one can be perfect.” Tongue sucks his teeth by running his red appendage over them and then pulls out his knife to start flossing them.

  I shiver from disgust. How much blood is on that blade that he’s putting into his mouth?

  Skirt reaches into his pockets and pulls out a pair of brass knuckles and slides them on his fingers. He grips my chin, and the brass is cold as it presses against my skin. It’s odd. In a few minutes he will be bashing his fists against someone, but as the weapons lay against my flesh, I know he’ll never use his weapons to harm me.

  “Give me a good luck kiss, Lips.” His other hand tangles in my hair, and his breath ghosts over my lips, tingling my flesh and tightening my nipples. This isn’t the time or place.

  “Anything you want.” I smash my mouth against his, and the crowd roars and the impulse to give them a show has me jumping onto Skirt and wrapping my legs around his waist.

  A menacing rumble vibrates the back of his throat, and I can feel it sink into my chest, even over the crowd’s ruckus. “I think ye are an exhibitionist. Ye want to fuck in front of someone, Lips?” He brings his lips to my ear and moans. “Maybe later we can listen to one of the guys fuck again. Do ye want that?”

  I nod, completely breathless and slump against the fighting cage. The thought of listening to others have sex relaxes me.

  What the hell has gotten into me?

  “Good, now I have something to look forward to.” He lays one last kiss on my lips, then my nose, and climbs up the cage, which has to be eight-feet tall, and then descends down the other side.

  The crowd stomps their feet, and the dirt on the ground begins the bounce from the bass.

  “I could slice everyone’s throat in here.” Tongue scans the area, his eyes hungrily eating up every face in the crowd. “Every single one. I bet they would deserve it being in a place like this.”

  “Does that mean we deserve it?” I ask him, and his murderous, cold eyes lock onto mine. His long black hair reminds me of a curtain of evil when only half of his face shows.

  “We all deserve it.”

  A beefy arm wraps around me, and I turn my head to the left and see Bullseye, and my face turns a pink. I wonder if he knows we listened to him fuck Candy the other day. “Don’t mind Tongue. He’s all fucked up in the head.” Bullseye tightens his arm protectively around me then nods toward Skirt.

  Poodle, Skirt’s best friend, I think, watches me too.

  Everyone is watching me. It’s unsettling. I throw on Skirt’s cut, needing to feel secure, and bring the leather to my nose and inhale.

  The elevator opens again, and the man who runs down the aisle is three-times the size of Skirt.

  “Oh, that’s a big motherfucker,” Bullseye says, which doesn’t make me feel better.

  The man scales the cage in half the time and jumps into the ring, landing on two feet and tree trunks for legs. Skirt doesn’t look nervous, but one hit from this giant could kill Skirt. The man has scars all over his back, lashes, maybe from a whip, and he as a scar running from the side of his mouth to his eye.

  Maximo stands to the side with a microphone in hand. “Everyone welcome, Rohan the Red and Joker,” he announces, and the crowd goes wild.

  “Well, that makes sense.”

  I hold Bullseye’s hand and hold my breath. Tongue takes a step forward and cocks his head. “Well, hell. I’m the one who put that scar there ten years ago. I’ll be damned, the fucker lived. Cut him with this blade too.” Tongue rips the knife from the sheath strapped to his chest and points it at the giant, taunting him.

  “Stop it! If you get him angry, it’s only worse for Skirt!” I hit the hand that holds the knife, and it falls to the ground.

  “Good,” Tongue sneers, his lifeless eyes darting between mine. “Skirt thrives off danger. Don’t ever fuck with me and my blade again.”

  I’m scared, terrified actually, but I throw my shoulders back. “Don’t fuck with Skirt again and maybe I won’t.”

  “May the blood be in your favor, gentleman,” Maximo sings and lets go of the dangling microphone.

  The giant is holding something that looks like a bat with small metal spikes circling the body. I hold my stomach, squeezing the skin violently until it hurts when I realize there are no rules here. One swing of that bat and Skirt is a dead man.

  “This just got interesting.” Maximo stands beside me, and Bullseye’s fingers tighten on my shoulder a bit harder to protect me. “I believe in Rohan. This giant is dumb.”

  The giant swings the bat, and Skirt ducks, barely missing the sharp metal teeth protruding from the bat.

  I hold my breath and wait for the longest night of my life to come to an end.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SKIRT

  What big blokes don’t realize about big weapons is the amount of time it takes to use it, gives me enough time to react. I duck and slam my fist against his side, right where his kidney is. The brass knuckles do their job, and the giant doubles over and drops his meat grinder of a bat. I send an uppercut to his face, knocking him out in less than a minute.

  He falls in slow motion as I dance on my toes and his teeth snap together as he hits the ground, and the cage floor shakes. I guess it’s true what they say. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

  There are no breaks in this cage. Just as soon as they drag the big bloke away, another one returns, and this one has a sword. What is it with big weapons? Don’t they know that’s how they lose about a second or two in time, giving me the opportunity I need?

  I’m swearing as I dance around the sharp blade, and I glance over at Tongue to see him staring through the fence in awe, watching the silver blade slice through the air. Then my eyes land on Dawn. Her eyes are wide, and she’s holding Bullseye’s hand, clenching it every time I dive and dodge.

  It’s a distraction.

  She’s a distraction.

  And it costs me.

  The blade slices through the skin on my back when I don’t dodge in time. I bite down the pain, but the burning is unimaginable. The trickle of blood pools down my back, and Dawn’s cries are loud, nearly piercing over the roar of the crowd.

  “Now I’m mad.” I flex my shoulder, welcoming the burn, and act quick on my feet, letting the dust from the ground make its way into my lungs as I inhale, reminding me of when me and my brother would fight as kids outside in the field.

  I slide to my leg and trip the bastard, step on his wrist with my boot until an orchestra of snaps play up his arm, and he releases the sword. I bring my fist up and slam it against his cheek over and over again until I see bone through the split flesh.

  “Fuck ye and ye damn sword. Even I know not to carry mine to a fight.” I gather a wad of spit and spew it on his chest.

  Maximo gives me two thumbs up, and Reaper stands there with a smoke in his mouth, staring at me with concern.

  Not pride.

  Not joy.

  And I get pissed off because he set all this up. If he’s worried about me taking it too far, he’s probably right. I spread my arms out and toss my head back, releasing a feral roar that builds up my throat.

  I want more.

  I want Cohen.

  I feel it. The electricity burning through my body, blazing, blistering under my skin to let the animal out, to kill, to feast, and to bury. I need it. I’m almost hard from the madness taking hold of my brain. The line isn’t blurred. It’s gone.

  Another victim enters the ring, a man with a hatchet.

  He has no idea what he’s entered and who he’s facing.

  I’m in bloodlust. He doesn’t understand the visceral need in my veins to break every bone in his body with my fists. The man throws the hatchet over his head, and I dodge left, staring at him in disbelief that he just willingly lost his weapon.<
br />
  I pick it up and flip it in the air, like one does with a baseball bat. “Ye need to learn how to throw an axe before ye threaten a man with it.” I’ve tossed a thousand axes and can do it with one hand. Without warning, without batting a damn eyelash, I toss it through the air so fast that when it lands between his skull, the sick thud quiets the crowd as the man falls to his knees.

  I squat and tilt my head, his eyes wide as he stares at me, realizing that the last few seconds of his life is upon him. A small trail of blood escapes his wound, dribbling down his nose, lips, then falls free from his chin. Poor bastard. I don’t even know his name.

  And I don’t even care.

  “Maybe ye’ll practice in heaven, boyo. Ah, ye probably going to hell.” I stand, towering over the man’s weak attempt to speak. He can’t with an axe in his head. I wrap my hand around the handle, placing my boot against his shoulder, and kick him free.

  I toss the hatchet aside and watch the life leave his eyes and the blood pool around his head.

  They take his body next.

  And I’m only left hungrier.

  You can’t tempt a man who longs for blood and not expect him to become addicted to it once he has it.

  I search the crowd for Cohen, but every face I see blurs to one. I shouldn’t have to prove myself. I’m Conor’s brother, for fuck’s sake. That should be enough for him to come out of his fucking shadow and fight me like a man.

  “That’s enough for the night,” Reaper says on the other side of the cage.

  I stomp toward him and grip the fence, curling my fingers through the metal until the brass knuckles clink against the cage. “I say when it’s enough. Bring on the next one!” I roar, and the crowd goes nuts. Maximo claps his hands together and licks his lips. He can taste the money he’s making.

  “Get the fuck out of there,” Reaper commands.

  “I’m the god in this cage; not ye, Prez,” I dare say, but I can’t stop myself. I’m too fucking high on endorphins to care.