Doc (Ruthless Kings MC #7) - K.L. Savage Page 0,98
somewhat scolds.
“I might have left Bullseye’s test results under his door three days ago when I was really down in the dumps about mom. I think he’s done giving me time to grieve.”
“What’s wrong with him?” she asks. “Is he dying?” Her hand covers her mouth, and the way the sun hits her hair has me dreaming of a sea of chocolate.
“No. Well, he could if he doesn’t take care of it.”
“Oh, no!” Jo gasps, tears in her eyes. “Don’t mind me. Pregnancy hormones. Maybe. I don’t know. That’s so sad.”
Fuck. How did I make her cry and have a bull charging at me right now?
“He has diabetes. He’s going to be okay with proper insulin and diet. He’ll be fine. I’ll schedule an appointment with him today; I promise.”
“Leave him alone!” Knives says to Bullseye. “He’s visiting his mom. Have some damn respect.”
“Coming from the guy who won’t leave me alone,” Mary huffs her arms at Knives.
“Why did I bury my mother in the club cemetery? I should’ve taken her far away from the drama, Jo.” The wind blows, and I smell a hint of hibiscus. I turn around, searching for her, but nothing is there.
I swear I smelt it.
My mother’s perfume.
The wind blows again, and there it is. I inhale it and my scars, for a second, are soothed.
I glance down at the headstone and grin when I imagine her voice demanding me to tell her that I love her.
“I do, Mom. I love you,” I reply, kissing my fingers and laying them on top of the headstone.
“Come back and lay with me. The sun feels good,” Jo says, closing her eyes as the sun glows upon her flawless face. Her lips are red, and her cheeks are slightly burnt. Her hands lay on her stomach, and the ends of her brown hair dance in the slight breeze and tangle in the shadow of an oak tree.
Fucking beautiful.
“Now tell me you love me,” I try Mom’s slogan toward Jo to see what she says.
She turns her head just as I turn mine, and her green eyes have a golden hue around the iris from the sun gleaming against them. “Like I could ever stop,” she replies.
And I hope she never does.
THE END.
“Tongue, where are you going? Patrick is awake,” Slingshot tries to stop me from leaving out the door.
Patrick woke up about twenty minutes ago, and no one has left him alone. I’m glad he’s awake, but I’m going to see him later, when everyone is done bombarding him. Poor bastard was shot when the clubhouse got fucked up in a drive-by. He just had a liver transplant. The guy has the worst luck.
“I’ll see him when I get back,” I say, tucking the box under my arm. “When you guys are done bombarding him.”
Slingshot says something, but I don’t hear it. I don’t care to. I shut the door and inhale the fall air.
I love autumn and winter. People are always licking their lips because the cold dries out their mouths. Everyone else likes fucking leaves and pumpkin spice bullshit.
Not me.
I like the tease of a tongue peeking between the lips. Some are light pink, some are red, some are wet, some are dry. Some are pierced, some are split in half like a snake, and I love them all.
I strap the box of tongues on the back of my bike and make sure they are secure. They’re on ice and in a special box so they stay nice and cool. I want them to make it to NOLA okay. My swamp kitties must miss me.
Sigh. I miss them.
I swing my leg over the bike, throw on my bucket helmet, and crank the new beast of mine. The wind is cool against my cheeks and arms. I should’ve grabbed my leather jacket. Pulling out of the parking spot, I press the button I had installed on my bike for the gate and watch it swing open.
The vibration of the engine grumbles, tingling the spot under my balls and my cock starts to lengthen. Riding my motorcycle turns me on more than anything I’ve ever found. Porn doesn’t even do it for me. Nothing really does. I’m starting to wonder if something’s wrong with me. I’m not interested in sex.
I trust my hand.
It gets the job done. I don’t need anyone else to do it for me.
Never have. Never will.
I don’t do… people.
When the gate is open enough, I crank the throttle and speed forward. The fences surrounding