Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,7
to Circus, Circus.”
“That dump? Why?”
“Money. A job. Just snatching a drop and leaving.” I hand Ellie the little pup, and he growls, wiggles around, and tries to bite her finger. “Aye, none of that, Chaos.” I use my commanding voice, deep and threatening. Chaos stops wiggling and then pees, right on the floor as Ellie holds him up by two hands. “You little shite,” I growl. I swear, he laughs. If a dog could fucking laugh, this little arsehole does. “I’ll deal with you later. You got piss on me boots! No one pisses on me boots!” I turn on my piss-soaked boot and march through the main room with Poodle right behind me.
Pirate is on the couch, drinking his sorrows away. I’ve always wanted to know what happened to the poor bastard for him to be like he is. He always looks so lost, vacant, like he’s drowning his body in rum to feel whole again.
I step over the empty bottle on the floor and make my way to the front door and swing it open. The air is cool since fall is approaching, but it’s still dry, and the sun is hot.
“After maybe we can get a beer and talk,” Poodle offers as we get on our bikes. He’s been reaching out like that for a few days now.
“Maybe,” I reply. I hook the black bucket helmet under my chin and crank my Harley. The engine grumbles loud, drowning out Poodle’s next words, and I pull away. Dust and rocks kick up in a cloud behind me, and I know he is pissed. I’ll need to meet Poodle halfway soon, or there will be nothing of our friendship left.
Braveheart opens the gate and waves at me. Tim traded in his glasses for contacts, and he looks like a whole new man. He even put a tiny bit of muscle on his bones recently so he doesn’t look like he’ll blow away in the wind.
When the gate creaks open enough, I hit the throttle and speed down the dirt road. Reaper finally got all the potholes fixed after a few of us bitched enough about having to fix our bikes every few months from the suspension coils giving out. Poodle catches up beside me, but I don’t look at him.
This isn’t about friendship right now. It’s about work.
When we get to the end of the road, I take a right toward the Vegas strip. Poodle and I ride side to side, speeding down the road with our bikes roaring through the air like angry beasts. The wind slices through our cuts causing the leather to flap. Poodle’s hair is swaying behind him, shining like new polished oak. The man cares more for his hair than he does his bike; that I can bet my life on.
We are going around sixty-miles-an-hour when something up ahead rolls from the dead bushes along the side of the road. The closer we get a figure comes to view, and when he or she falls, they crumble in the middle of the lane I’m in.
“Shit!” I panic. I can’t turn left because Poodle is in the way. I can’t go straight or I’ll run over whoever is in the road. I yank the handlebars right at the last second, and my bike flies into the desert. I struggle as the bike sways, struggling to control the machine. The bike wins on the last effort as I try to straighten my front wheel out, but the front tire hits a rock, and I fly over the handlebars and land on a cactus. “Motherfucker!” I scream when I feel the needles pierce my arse. I roll over from the small plant, barely able to catch my breath; not just from the air leaving my lungs, but the damn cactus stuck to my backside.
The sand is hot under my palm, and my vision swims from the disorientation of hitting the ground so hard. “Fuck,” I curse when I see my bike. The entire front end is bent. Who the hell just falls in the middle of the road? Whoever it was, they owe me repairs on my bike. I hold my ribs and somehow stand. I balance most of my weight on my good leg and limp since the pricks of the cactus pull my skin on my right butt cheek. I’ll never hear the end of this. Doc is going to have a field day.
“Skirt! You okay?” Poodle hops off his bike and jumps over the