Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,3

his window, I smile when I see how worn it is from my hands opening it throughout the many summers over the years. We never walked through the door. “Good times, Conor. Good fucking times.” Once, Conor slammed his fist right through the glass for no reason at all. He cut up his right hand, the one that gave a mean right hook. He didn’t care.

Damn it, I miss him.

I ease the window open and pause when it scratches against the wood. I cringe and wait for the hallway light to come on, but it stays off. I exhale a relieved breath and open it the rest of the way and slide inside. Water drips onto the floor, and I make a mental note to clean it up before I leave.

Rain pours in sideways and it floods the floor. It’s a damn hurricane out there. I close the window and turn on the lamp beside me. A rush of emotions floods my chest, and when the tears come, I can’t hold them back. I’m surrounded by Conor. His bed is unmade, clothes are on the floor, and his fighting gear is hanging on a hook. I take off my boots and socks and pad my way over. I run my finger over the black gloves and then notice a picture of us on his nightstand. His first win in the cage.

“Fuck ye for dying, Conor. Fuck ye,” I say to the empty room that smells like him. It isn’t fair. Opening his closest door, I grab one of his suitcases and shove the gloves inside, the picture of us, and then I throw all of his damn kilts in there too with his shirts. We are the same size, so I’m going to wear them.

I slip on the puddle of water, and my hands reach out in time to grab onto the back of the computer chair. I steady myself and try to brush the tears out of my eyes, along with the water dripping down my face from my hair. I need to dry off. I can’t see shite. I undress, the clothes plopping with a wet smack on the floor. I steal some gym shorts and a plain white shirt from Conor’s drawers. Next, I run into the bathroom and snake a towel from the rod, pausing when I see the cap off the damn toothpaste and the clothes around the laundry hamper.

He always was a slob.

I never thought I’d get to view the ‘last times’ my brother had and it’s … sodden. I can’t handle it. I dry off my face, including the damn tears, and dry off my hair, then I mop up my mess on the floor. I’m scooting along the floor, sliding by the computer desk again when I see an envelope sticking out under the desk calendar. I tug it and see my name written on the front in my brother’s handwriting.

“Oh, ye asshole. Of course, ye have parting words.” I rip the envelope open and look toward the bedroom door, listening to make sure no one is awake. Unfolding the paper, I read:

Rohan,

I knew ye’d find this. Ye’ve always snooped in me room. I read somewhere that I needed to have me affairs in order. I didn’t want lawyers involved. That’s a bunch of useless shite. Every cent to me name is underneath the loose floorboard we used as kids. It’s yers. Do me a favor. Go to Vegas. Win big. Live yer damn life for yerself, for once, and I’ll be there.

I’m sorry I lost. I love ye.

-Conor

If this is the reward at the end of the road, it still isn’t worth every tear.

Chapter One

SKIRT

Present Day

Oh, fuck yes, apple pie.

I love it when Sarah makes apple pie. She refuses to tell me her secret ingredient, but I’ll figure it out one of these days. I refuse not to figure it out, especially when she makes me my own pie.

“Damn it, Skirt. You either need to wear pants or learn to wear fucking underwear. Your white ass with red hair blinds me,” Slingshot averts his eyes and plops down in one of the kitchen chairs, rubbing his eyes awake. It’s nearly noon, but Slingshot has been pulling long hours at King’s Club lately. He’s allowed to be tired.

I straighten and hold the circular pan to my chest and peel back the aluminum foil. “Whatever, Slingshot. Ye like it. Ye love it. Ye want some more of it,” I singsong. That Tim McGraw