Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,23
for the rump. I yank my hand back and fiddle with my nails as I wring my hands together on my lap. “Um, sorry,” I say. He has a firm butt, one that I wouldn’t mind getting a handful of if it were mine.
“Let’s get to the issue at hand. You aren’t in any state to go anywhere, Dawn. No offense, you look like shit and you can barely walk.”
“You don’t understand.” I look to Reaper, then down at my hands, and then up to Skirt nervously. “I need to get to my son. He’s in the hands of a very dangerous man. You have to let me go. He has seizures. He needs me.”
“That’s how you knew to tell me what to do.”
“Yeah,” I reply sadly to Skirt. “Unfortunately.”
“This man,” Reaper starts. “He do this to you?” Reaper’s finger traces an invisible line down my body. “And don’t lie to me, Dawn. I hate liars.”
“He does. Don’t lie,” Skirt warns and then gives me a small shake of his head. I’m trying to get a good look at his eyes, but I can’t see the color. I’m trying to think back to when I saw him outside, but I was so consumed with fear and rage that I didn’t really pay attention to him.
His lip is busted because of me, probably his balls too.
“Dawn?” Reaper snaps his fingers, and the kind expression he had on his face is gone, replaced with annoyance.
I flinch out of habit, waiting for the blow to come. I prepare myself by squeezing my eyes shut and tensing my body.
“Oh, Dawn.”
I recognize that tone. It’s pity.
“I ain’t going to hit you, Dawn. Ever. That’s not my cup of tea, and any man here who ever lays a hand on a woman is dealt with.”
Dealt with.
No need to fill in the blanks there.
“My son’s name is Aidan. He is epileptic. I’m the only one he can depend on. He is in danger, not just because of his medical condition, but the man who has him. My boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—thinks he is the father.”
“Sounds like you say he isn’t,” Reaper puts two and two together.
I’m not ashamed about getting pregnant from a brief fling, but I wonder what Skirt thinks about me now. I don’t look at him. I shouldn’t care what he thinks, but I do. I don’t want him to care that I’ve slept with multiple people.
“What’s this guy’s name so we can track down your son?” Reaper asks, getting out a pen and paper.
“You’re going to get him for me? Really?” Tears sting my eyes as I sit forward on the edge of my seat. I want to launch myself across the table and hug this big, scary biker man.
“You need to rest, Dawn. I’m serious about that. Plus, this sounds like a Ruthless job. Name,” he repeats again, and a tiny speck of fear drops in my stomach since he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who likes to repeat himself.
“Cohen O’Roarke,” I say, prying my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
“What the fuck did ye just say?” Skirt seethes and is suddenly in front of me, caging me in with his arms. His hands grip the arms of the chair, and as he leans in, I lean back. His hot breath caresses my cheek, and the brush of the heavy puffs feels dangerous, promising harm if I don’t obey.
The pure hatred in Skirt’s eyes has me trembling.
“Skirt!” Reaper bellows to get Skirt away from me. “Back down.”
“I need to know. Did ye just say Cohen O’Roarke? The Irish fighter? Is that who ye said?” His voice is calm, but it isn’t light and kind; it’s deep with rage. My heart is soaking up his anger and transforming it into terror. A tear slips down my cheek as I wait for the inevitable.
A knee to the face.
A kick in the ribs.
A violent face fuck that leaves me in tears and gagging.
“You’re scaring her, Skirt! Look at her. She’s shaking.” Reaper grips Skirt by the collar and yanks him backward with so much strength, Skirt slams against the wall. The plain white drywall cracks and dents from Skirt’s shoulder, showing just how fragile everything is around these men. “I said get the fuck back!” Reaper screams until his voice breaks.
“I’m sorry,” Skirt says, gripping the sides of his hair. He rolls his body, his back flattens against the wall, and he slides down it until he’s sitting on the ground, head between his knees.