Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC Book 5)

by K. L. Savage

  Church is heavy.

  I’m sitting at the table, mourning, my head bowed and my hands clenched tight into a ball. This cannot be my reality. Last night I had her in my arms. She was right there. I felt her. She was safe. I remember her warm skin pressed against mine, the sound of the words of love falling off her lips; all of that was real.

  The guys have never seen me like this. My eyes are red-rimmed, and I know bikers aren’t supposed to cry. We aren’t allowed to be soft. There isn’t room for emotion when it comes to big decisions concerning life and death.

  I’m loving Dawn in ways I never thought I’d be able to do. If I lost her, the absence of love would be too much to bear.

  Bikers can fucking cry too.

  We aren’t heartless. Those bastards are the ones who feel the most. The tough exterior doesn’t mean shit when the interior is in strife. Havoc might swirl in our lives, be we like the calm after the storm just like everyone else.

  “Skirt,” Reaper breaks the silence by saying my name.

  I don’t lift my head.

  Poodle is next to me, and he squeezes my shoulder, trying to make me feel better.

  “Do you think Cohen did this?”

  “Without a doubt,” I say in an instant and press the heel of my hands against my eyes. “It has to be him.”

  1,440 minutes.

  86,400 seconds.

  That’s how many minutes and seconds are in a day, and Dawn has been missing every hour of it. With every tick of the hand on the clock, my mind has been on her. Her absence is eviscerating.

  “Maybe that other MC has something to do with it,” Tool says. “Maybe we need to reach out to those Demon Furry’s.”

  “Fury. Demons Fury,” Reaper corrects him, and a few guys chuckle, but there isn’t any humor in it. It’s automatic because Tool is trying to lighten the mood.

  “I’m just saying, maybe they know something.”

  “It’s not a bad idea. Tongue, ride out to the dam. Take Knives with you. Get a location on the Hounds. Bullseye? Any update on Maximo? I find it odd that he’s been quiet through all this.”

  “When I met with him, he said he’s keeping his ear out. He says the Hellhounds are bad news, but that’s all he knows. He hasn’t heard anything about Dawn.”

  “Keep an eye on him, Bullseye, and take Tank with you.”

  “Prez—”

  “If you want to prove yourself fucking worthy, Tank, you’re going to go. How long do you want to be a prospect? Go with Bullseye, and I swear, I don’t want to hear from either of you until you have something useful. Either information or a dead fucking body.”

  “Yes, Prez,” Bullseye says, stands, and picks up Tank’s huge ass by his prospect cut and drags him out the door.

  Braveheart, Reaper, Poodle, Slingshot, Doc, and Badge are the only ones at the table. “We always find our women,” Reaper states, trying to make me feel better.

  “Aye, I know.”

  A soft knock taps against the door. None of the guys knock that way. The door creaks open and Ellie, Poodle’s daughter, peeks her head in the crack.

  “Ellie, what did I tell you about coming in here? Prez, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Everything okay, Ellie?”

  She blushes and steps in, holding Chaos in her arms. “I know Skirt is sad. I wanted to bring him his puppy in hopes it will make him feel better.”

  Reaper’s eyes soften as does every other guy in the room, especially Braveheart.

  “I’d really like that, Ellie. Thank ye.” I stand and squeeze behind the chairs to get to her. She places Chaos in my hands, and the bush on top of his head has gotten bigger, but his body hasn’t. Chaos whines and licks my nose, and I hold him close, feeling his little heart racing against my shoulder. His nose is cold and whoever said dogs were therapy deserves a damn reward because I feel lighter.

  Dawn would love this pup. “Hey, Chaos.”

  He whimpers, sensing my sadness.

  “Thank ye, Ellie.”

  “Anytime, Skirt. Sorry, President Reaper. It won’t happen again.”

  A few of the guys snicker from hearing her say ‘President Reaper.’ It’s cute and naïve. We never want her to change.

  “Good job, baby. I’ll be out soon, okay?” Poodle kisses his daughter’s forehead, and it spreads another ache in my chest.

  Aidan is still gone. I’m such a goddamn failure.

  Chaos growls and sinks his sharp puppy teeth in my neck.

  “Ye little shite!” I press my hand against the spot where he bit me and see if he drew blood. I bop his nose, a light love tap, and slightly scold him. “I’ll let that go cause ye cute. No biting.”

  He latches onto my finger and growls, those damn teeth as sharp as Tongue’s blade. “Damn it! Ye menace.” A small smile breaks my face, the first one I’ve had since Dawn went missing. Chaos removes his bear trap of a mouth from my finger and licks it, sensing my mood shift. “Yer alright, Chaos. Ye alright.” I tuck him to my chest and take a seat.

  “That dog is damn ugly,” Badge says. “Pidoodles were not, and still are not, a good idea.”

  “Don’t talk about Lady like that,” Poodle and I say at the same time.

  “Okay, alright. I’m glad to see everyone’s mood has shifted, but I know the heaviness is still felt. Skirt. I know the pain won’t go away until she’s home. We will find Dawn and her kid. No one fucks with women and children. No one.” Reaper punches the table with his fist and the guys that are left in the room cheer and holler.

  Badge’s phone blares, the sound of an alarm before a tornado, and in a hurry he pulls his cell from his inner cut pocket and taps the screen. His lips press into a firm, pissed off line. “That was Braveheart. We have a visitor, Prez. He’s alone.”

  “Who is it?” Reaper asks, reaching into his gun holster to pull out a .44 Magnum pistol. The damn barrel seems to be a mile long, and the gun itself looks heavy. He definitely upgraded from his last gun.

  Badge’s eyes cloud with rage, and his mouth tenses before he speaks. “Seems to be the Prez of the Hounds. He’s alone.”

  I stand and thrust my dog out to Badge. “Hold my fucking Pidoodle.” Badge grabs onto the pup, and I run through the house, slipping my brass knuckles in place as I go. I’m going to kill this sorry excuse of a man. I’m not going to stop until his skull is in pieces and scattered amongst the desert.

  “Skirt! Stop. We need to know what he has to say,” Reaper calls the order out from behind me, his tone full of warning, but all it does is push me to keep going. If it means I earn an arrow through the heart on my chest, so fucking be it.

  The air is fucking dry and hot as I sprint out the door, choking me with the mugginess. I jump down the eight steps and land on both feet, a cloud of dirt engulfing me. The biker rides down the long dirt path toward us, and I run to him, head on, like knights about to joust. I dodge left to miss the tire and fling out my arm at the last possible second. His neck slams against my forearm and the man flies off the back of his bike. His Harley swerves right and crashes to the ground, his mirror snapping off.

  I press my boot against his neck and bend down. “I hear that’s seven years bad luck.” I punch him across the face, brass knuckles making contact with his skin, and the feral fighter within spurs me on to keep going until he’s nothing but hamburger meat.

  “Enough!” Reaper places the .44 against the back of my head. I know he won’t shoot me, but the slightest possibility that he might has me lifting my hands. “I said to stop.”

  “This fucker—”

  “We don’t know shit yet. For all you know, he’s innocent.”

  “Something tells me he ain’t.” I lift my boot to crush his throat, and Reaper cocks his gun. If that bullet leaves that gun, it won’t leave a hole in my head; it will blow my damn head right off my neck. I take a step away and kick the ground. “Fuck!” I scream.

  Reaper turns the gun off me and aims to the Hound. “You better get to talking before I let him loose.�
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  The man nods and groans, pressing his hand against the wound on the side of his cheek. “You have a hell of a hook, man.” He struggles to get to his feet and shakes his head, probably trying to get the bells to stop ringing in his head. They won’t for a while.

  “Shut up and talk before I lose my patience and shoot you dead.”

  The guy presses his forehead against the barrel, daring Reaper to pull the trigger. “Do it. Have fun with the feds on your ass.” The guy tosses his wallet to me and I open it to see an FBI badge staring back at me.

  “Shit, Reaper. He’s FBI.”

  Reaper’s sardonic smile plays on his lips, reminding me of a sinner about to dance on a few graves. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re a fed. Nothing a few buzzards can’t help me fix. Explain why an FBI agent is a Prez of an MC.”

  “I’m undercover. Been undercover for a while so I can find this child sex-trafficking ring these fuckers sell kids to. It hasn’t been an easy few years. I’ve had to do things I never want to do again, killed a lot of innocent people, and the only fucking trail I have right now is Aidan.”

  “How the fuck do ye know about Aidan!” I roar and slam my body against him, taking him to the ground.

  “You must be Skirt,” the agent says, bleeding from his cheek.

  I grab his cut and bring him so close to my face, he has no choice but to smell the fury on my breath. “How do ye know me?”

  “Cohen brought us Dawn. I came here to tell you of the plan we have, okay?”

  “Ye have Dawn? Where is she? I want her back! Tell me, or I swear to fucking God I’ll kill you and not give a damn what the consequences are.”

  “Dawn and I made a deal. She was sold to the same people who have Aidan. It’s the first time I’ve had contact with them. Usually it’s one of the other members handling this shit.”

  The breath leaves my lungs, and I fall onto my arse. “She isn’t here? She’s gone? Ye sold her? Ye son of a bitch! I’m going to fucking kill ye!” I wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze.

  “I have the location of where they are! I have it! I’m getting a team together. She will be okay.”

  “Where are they?” Spittle flies from my mouth and lands on his face.

  “New Orleans,” he chokes through my hold. He rolls to his hands and knees, gasping for air. “You know, I had to look for you guys on my own to prove my intentions to Dawn. She didn’t tell me shit about your club. She was afraid I was lying.”

  Good girl. God, when I get her back, I’m going to kiss the fuck out of her and make love to her until she can’t take anymore.

  “Call Pocus, Skirt. Looks like we’re going on a road trip to NOLA. I’ll call Tongue to see if the Demons Fury want to join us. I have a feeling it’s going to be a shit show.”

  “The feds will be there,” Agent Fake President says. “You all will get arrested if you go.”

  “Well, that’s why you’re going to tell us when they’re getting there so we beat them to it. This is a fucking club matter. One of our own. That’s the law, Mercy,” Reaper reads the nametag on his cut. “Either get used to it ,or go back to your federal building.”

  Basically, nut up or bitch out.

  “I can buy you the time you need,” Mercy says.

  Reaper tucks his gun in his holster and pulls out his phone. “Tool is going to be excited to see his friends down in NOLA.” He walks far enough away that I can’t hear what he’s saying, but by the aggravated expression, he’s pissed at Tool.

  “She’s okay?” I ask Mercy.

  “For now. Cohen is with her for the trip. He has my order not to touch her.”

  I punch the ground until the dry clay cracks and creates a web of fractures. That fucker always gets away. Not anymore. When we get to NOLA, he’s mine. I’m going to enjoy ripping him from limb to limb and throwing his body parts in the Mississippi.

  Actually, not the Mississippi.

  I’ll feed him to the gators.

  Alive.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DAWN

  I’m not sure how long we’ve been driving, but the van is starting to smell like body odor, and I really need to pee. They have refused to stop to use the restroom. One girl pissed herself, and they threw her out of the back of the van in the middle of the night. I hope she survived, but I doubt it. Being thrown from a moving vehicle at seventy-miles-per-hour doesn’t leave much hope.

  “We’re here,” the driver says, the brakes squeaking as we come to a stop.

  Cohen slides the door open, and I look away from the sudden burst of light; the sun has my eyes wincing and watering. I’ve been in the dark for too long.

  “Come on, bitch.” Cohen grabs my arm and yanks me out the door. I don’t have my footing yet, so I fall to the ground, banging my head against the sweltering pavement. Warm liquid drips from my forehead, and blood blinds my left eye. I can’t wipe it away either because those damn zip-ties are back.

  Cohen picks me up, bruising my arm with his fingers as they dig into my flesh so forcibly. “Get the fuck up. Come on. I have a big pay day waiting for me.” His hands run down my back and palm each cheek, then he brings his lips to my ear, rotten breath permeating the air I need. “Maybe I can get one last feel of you, huh? Would you like that?”

  “I’d rather die than feel you again,” I sneer, which earns me a backhand across the face. He hit me so hard, I worry my neck might break.

  “Don’t worry. A few days in here, you might.” He shoves me forward, walking me to a rundown house next to a swamp.

  I look out into the dark, murky waters. Algae floats along the top, making certain sections appear green. Dragonflies flutter their wings around the trees growing in the water, scaling the air. Gauzes of moss hang from the branches, broken and tattered, skimming the surface of the swamp. A few heads bop out of the water, and black, beady eyes are staring at me.

  Alligators.

  How many women and children are thrown in the water for food? Oh my god, what if Aidan isn’t alive? What if he’s in a belly of the swamp? No, I’ve come this far. Mercy says Aidan is alive, and I’m going to believe him. I’m close. I have to have faith. I can’t give up now.

  My feet crunch along the long grass, squishing against the soft ground. The driver, another Hound, leads us to the door of the haunted house.

  It looks like it would be. The wood is rotten, a few boards are missing, and the windows are broken and shattered. Tarps hang on the inside to cover the deceit on the other side. The steps groan and bend under my weight as we climb up the steps. The driver knocks, and Cohen keeps a firm hold on my arm.

  “Password?” a voice says from the other side of the door.

  “Peaches and cream,” the driver replies, and the door opens on a painful moan, echoing all the fears this place has undoubtedly holds.

  Cohen pushes me forward, and I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life after what I see. Along both sides of the room are small dog cages, the kind someone puts in their backyard to keep their pet in. Locked inside are children.

  While dirty, as I walk by each cage, they seem healthy. They have an abundance of food and water. Some are crying, others are sleeping, but they don’t seem to have been abused. They are fully dressed and staring at me with curiosity.

  Hope is a foolish thing to have right now, but I feel it when I see that the children are safe and without bruises. Maybe the monsters aren’t as monstrous as I imagined. Still, these men are what nightmares are made of.

  Another thing I notice, there are no adults.

  “I have someone interested in a mother child duo, so this works. I never do this, but the payout is worth it,” the man leading us to the back informs the driver and Cohen. “Luckily the little brat is still here. No one seems to want a child who is broken.”

  Aidan.

  Oh God. I bet he’s had so many seizures.

  The water beneath us splashes against the wood, and that’s when it hits me that we’re on a houseboat. The breaks
between the floorboards show the rippling of the swamp beneath us, and I know there are gators under there just waiting to take a bite.

  We stop at a cage to the left, and in the back is a small figure curled up in a ball on a bed of blankets. Just like a dog, but it’s my son.

  “Aidan! Aidan, baby! I’m here. Mommy is here,” I cry when I see his small body curled up on the floor.

  “God, shut up!” Cohen tightens his grip, and I do as he says, but the overwhelming joy is impossible not to feel. It’s been too long without Aidan.

  The man opens the cage, and Cohen cuts the zip-ties from my wrists and tosses the plastic inside. The greasy old man shuts the gate, and his pointy chin reminds me of a witch, but the scabs on his face tell me he’s a drug addict. The man locks the cage in place, and his eyes never leave me. “You’re goin’ to make me good money,” he says.

  I crawl over to Aidan. He’s still sleeping. I shake him awake, but he doesn’t move. I snap my head in the direction of the men who think they have the power of God. “What’s wrong with him? Why won’t he wake up?”

  “He kept cryin’ and seizin’, so I got some medicine from a doc and knocked him out.”

  I’m not sure if I’m thankful or terrified that the man drugged my kid. “How can you care about their health when you treat them like this?”

  “I don’t touch ’em. Don’t believe in that sort of thing. I have a business to run. I got bills to pay. They are fed, taken care of, so why you bitchin’?”

  “Because the people you sell them to probably do.”

  “Ain’t my problem, lady.” The chain hanging from his hips jingles as he walks away. Cohen squats and tilts his head, eying me from head to toe.

  I hope I never see him again after this.

  “I’m going to miss you. I know you find it hard to believe, but I hate breaking new bitches. You can’t be trusted anymore. So this is the consequence. At least Mercy was kind enough to reunite you with your son. Honestly, I wouldn’t have cared so much.”

  I cradle Aidan’s limp body to my chest and kiss his forehead. He’s burning up, and I can’t tell if he has a fever or if it’s this Louisiana weather. I’m so glad to have him in my arms again. “What will you do now?” I ask.