Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,71
weeks than I knew in my entire life, and I hope this time, love is strong enough to lead him to me.
If not, I’ll die. As long as Cohen has his way, he will be the one to murder me. I can’t allow that to happen. I need to fight for my son. I can’t give up now. I’m tired, so tired, so fucking bone exhausted that it causes me pain, but I have to push through it. I have to dig deeper for the will to live.
I clutch my hand to my chest and shut my eyes when we hit a pothole and the jostle causes the knife wound to throb.
“Sorry about stabbing you, bitch.”
I hate that he calls me bitch. He always has, as if it’s a pet name or something.
“You were really pissing me off.”
I keep my lips sealed, not wanting to entertain his sick mind. We drive twenty minutes in the opposite direction of Vegas. The city lights flicker in the distance and turn into a faint glow the further we get. When we come to an abandoned warehouse on the left and motorcycles parked all around, I swallow.
Death lives here.
And I’m about to knock on its door.
The building is old, the half the roof is sagging, and it looks like it’s about to collapse any second. A bunch of bikers are outside, smoking, and by the smell of it, it isn’t cigarettes. The Ruthless Kings don’t smoke pot; they drink, a lot, but I’ve never seen drugs. Now I see the stark differences between what a ‘good’ MC is compared to a bad one.
“Get out.” Cohen pushed my left shoulder, and I hit the passenger side window with the other half of my body.
“I’m going,” I say weakly, and step out of the van in nothing but a t-shirt and torn panties. I’ve experienced pain. I’ve known fear. I’ve lived and breathed it every day of my life. I’ve been through abuse, tears, and broken bones, but staring at the men in front of me, I truly believe everything I’ve ever gone through won’t be as bad as what I’m about to experience here.
One man is older, burly, and as he walks toward me, I notice his hairy shoulders and thick mustache. He sucks on a roach, the ember lighting up in a faint orange hue before blowing out the murky cloud in his mouth.
“Told you I’d deliver. Isn’t she fucking hot?” Cohen says, throwing an arms around my shoulder and grabbing my ass. “I’ve been in this cunt, Prez. There ain’t nothing like it.”
“You’ve done good, Conrad.”
“It’s Cohen.”
“What the fuck ever,” the Prez says, inhaling his weed again as he circles me like a shark. Hands roam down my back, and he hums in appreciation. “Damn, boy. You really out done yourself. She’s a fine piece of ass. Bitch will do well here.”
“We have a new toy, Prez?” another man asks from the dilapidated porch, leaning against the rail. He has long legs encased in blue denim jeans, and he isn’t wearing a shirt; just his cut. He hops down from the porch to get a closer look, and a different man turns around and walks inside. That’s when I see the logo on the back.
It’s a growling two-headed dog, and in red words above it says, “Hellhounds MC.”
“Looks like it,” the Prez finally answers his brother when he’s done inspecting me. “I can’t wait to get in here. All the other bitches inside are going to be so fucking pissed.”
“Whores,” Cohen says as if it’s an excuse, and all the men roar in laughter.
“What do you say, bitch? How about you go inside and get comfortable with your new surroundings, and I’ll be down in a few to welcome you home.” The Prez rubs his cock against me, and instinct takes over, like the idiot I am.
I kick his shin and rip out of Cohen’s arms and run. The hounds howl to the moon and give chase. I don’t get very far either. Someone wraps their arms around me and bites my earlobe, dragging me back to the hounds to feast.
“Better calm down, bitch, or I’ll have them fuck all your holes right here and now,” the Prez growls into my ear. I kick and scream, doing my best to get out of his arms, but all he does is laugh. “Looks like we got a fighter, boys!” The Prez whispers, “I love breaking the fighters.”