Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,26

Out of all the fucking ways to get to him, I have to get to him through Dawn.

Dawn. So fucking beautiful. Strong. Sassy. A mouth I want to silence with a kiss. Son-of-a-bitch, she’s going to be the fucking death of me. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. She’s been around the bad life for far too long for me to pull her into mine, into the club’s. If she finds out that I’m just another O’Roarke, fighting until I see blood, she’ll hate me.

She is better off hating me than loving me, anyhow. Hatred is stronger than love. Sure, many things are built out of love, but hatred, that’s the one emotion that towers over the rest. It looms over fucking houses, marriages, kids, and whatever else people like to pretend they are building based on love.

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