Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,27

system to set me free.

“Grow the fuck up, Skirt. Talk to me. We aren’t kids anymore. Man up, turn around, and fucking talk to me.”

The bag in front of me rocks left to right, right to left, and for about an hour now I’ve been imagining it’s Cohen; right now, I’m imagining it’s my best friend.

My ex-best friend.

I turn my head until I only see the wall to my right since Poodle is standing behind me. “What the fuck did ye just say?”

“I think you heard me, Skirt. You hard in the ears now? Or just in the head?”

I turn around slowly, my chest heaving, my body boiling, my fist aching to plummet him. “Ye have a death wish, James?” I call him by his given name, letting him know where we stand now.

“Not as much as you do, Rohan.”

We circle each other, just like fighters do in the ring. The only thing Poodle has on me is that he hasn’t been hitting a bag for an hour. My chest heaves, and my muscles burn, twitching. “Ye realize I’m trained in fighting or did ye forget?”

“I didn’t forget.” He cracks his neck and then pulls up his fucking hair.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to get yer pretty mane messed up, would we?” I run my hand down my hair and bat my lashes. “A real bitch fucks with his hair,” I sneer, then spit on the floor next to his boots.

“A real man fights with his fists, not fucking brass knuckles.” Poodle fakes a left hook and hits me with a right.

Shite, it makes my ears ring. I shake my head and wiggle my jaw back and forth. There’s a familiar burning sensation spreading along my jawline. “Not bad,” I say, impressed, and lick the inner part of my cheek where the blood is gathering. “For a poodle.”

His lip curls with anger, but he doesn’t charge me again. He’s smart when it comes to fighting. I had no idea. I spit again, getting the damn iron out of my mouth.

I don’t swing my fists; instead, I swing my leg to the side and knock him off his feet. Poodle hits the mat with a hard thud, and his hair comes out of its tie, so I grab ahold of it like bitch reins. “Is that what Melissa does when yer fucking her? Holding on to yer hair to control ye? Cause that’s what this shit is for!” I rear his head back and smash it against the mat, watching speckles of red flow from his mouth.

He wraps his legs around my waist and rears his head back, busting my nose. It’s enough for the hold I have on his hair to loosen, and he rolls out from under me, smashing his palm against my nose. A river of blood flows down my face as I holler in pain.

“To have been trained by the best fighter in Scotland, you’re real shit,” Poodle taunts, landing a blow in my stomach.

I double over, groaning when puke rises up my throat. It’s a vulnerable position to be in. A fighter never bends over like this because it leaves room for—

A sick crunch sounds when his knee connects with my face, and I stagger back, the world caving in around me as my head spins.

All I taste is blood.

I fall to my knees, tired, exhausted—the fight leaving me. I leave myself open for him to finish me off, but he falls to his knees in front of me. He grips the back of my neck and lays his forehead against mine. “You’re a fucking dumbass if you think you can go in a ring and fight one of the greatest fighters who ever lived thinking with your emotions, Skirt. I don’t know shit about fighting, and I just took you down. I know how you fight. You’re a killer. I’ve seen it. If you can’t win against little old me, how the fuck can you beat Cohen?”

I pull from his grasp, not ready to be brother-brother with him just yet. I wipe my nose on my arm, streaking blood along my freckled, tattooed skin. “Fuck ye! I’d just been beating on a bag for an hour. I’m tired.” It’s a sorry ass excuse.

“Yeah? How’s that going to go when you’re seven rounds in the ring?”

“That’s different,” I hiss and pound my fist to my chest, the gloves soft and forgiving the blow.

“How?” Poodle flips his hair over his shoulder, looking like he belongs in a Head and