Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,31
learn how to breathe again.
I’m not sure where Skirt is taking me, but I’m going to trust him. I have no one else here I can trust. I may as well try my luck with the nicest guy of the group that calls themselves ruthless. Not Ruthless enough to find my son, though.
We seem to walk forever. His boots pound against the floor, and then a door opens and the sun heats my skin; the warmth feels good, comforting, but not as comforting as Skirt’s embrace. He isn’t supposed to have this effect on me. No man can have this kind of hold over a woman so quick. I’ve made that mistake once, and I can’t afford the lack of judgment again.
The familiar feeling of rising with every step jars me, and that’s how I know Skirt is going up a set of steps. An awning of shade blocks the sun, stopping the scorch of light from burning my skin in such a short distance from the clubhouse to wherever we are going.
A long creak squeaks as Skirt opens another door. The air dries the sheen of sweat on my flesh, and something soft is under me in the next second. I wipe my eyes and look around. I’m in a cabin sitting on a black leather sofa. Logs make up home instead of plain drywall. No pictures hang, nothing personal.
There’s a TV on the wall, big and wide, set on a glass stand. There’s a wooden coffee table than has yet to be stained, and I wonder if Skirt made it. It looks handmade, but people can buy things like that left and right these days. I sniffle, wiping my cheeks again when Skirt lays a blanket over me.
“Thank you,” I say in a small, weak voice.
“Aye,” he answers and tucks the blanket around my body. He’s close, and my eyes catch his as something quickly passes between us, but then he pulls away and clears his throat. “I’m going to pour myself a drink. Ye want one?”
“Yeah. What do you have?”
“Just whiskey, babe. It’s all a man needs,” he says.
There’s a mini bar on the far side of the wall, and the shelves are full of different whiskeys. He gathers two scotch glasses from under the bar and adds a square chunk of ice into each. I watch as he scans the shelves, deciding which whiskey will do for the day when he finally plucks one off the shelf and pours until each glass is nearly full.
Christ. I can’t drink all that. I’ll be drunk.
That sounds good right about now, anyway.
Skirt carries two glasses in his hand and sets them on the coffee table, then plops on the couch next to me. He stretches his defined arm over the back of the couch and sips the amber whiskey down his throat. His skin is pale, but with the freckles and tattoos, it seems darker than what it really is.
He sighs in contentment and leans his head back against the couch, closing his eyes. I reach for my drink and take a large swallow.
Bad choice. Horrible choice. It burns. My eyes are watering for another reason now. I can barely gulp it down my throat before I’m coughing. My nose is burning, and I want to gag. This shit is disgusting.
“Shite, Lips! Ye can’t drink it like that. This stuff will grow hair on ye chest.” Skirt pats my back as he stares at me, a slight twinge of a smile on his lips.
“I know. I can feel the hairs spurting from my skin.” I cough so hard I think I’m about to lose a lung. Forgetting it’s whiskey in my hand, I take another sip to clear my throat, but all the harsh liquor does is burn my airway. “Shit, I forgot.”
“Ye crazy. How can ye forget?” He takes the drink from me and sets it on the coffee table. “Yer something else, ain’t ye?” he asks, his sky blue eyes lock onto mine, and his thumb wipes my cheek. He seems to do that a lot. Always wiping my tears away. He’s the only man that ever has.
Besides my son.
“Aidan,” I say with a brokenness I’ve never heard from myself.
“I know,” Skirt says. “I’m fucking sorry, but I’m telling ye right now…” His hands lay on either side of my face, his touch so gentle my bruises can’t even feel him “I’m going to find him. I’ll make it my personal mission. Okay? He won’t take Aidan