Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,79
and he has a rug covering most it, but the edges are peeling and black, giving away the mold growing in here.
“You have to listen to me or this won’t work.”
“I’m an ol’ lady. I know how it works.” I step inside the bathroom, and he enters with me, slamming the door behind him and locking us inside.
I step back and crane my neck to look at him. He’s intimidating to say the least. Over six-four, wide, built like a Mack truck, and now that he’s in this small space with me, door locked, I wonder if he’s going back on his word.
His wingspan is bigger than the width of the bathroom as he presses his palms on either side of the wall. “You’re an ol’ lady? To who? Where? Tell me everything.”
“You don’t know? Cohen didn’t tell you where he got me? How can you be an FBI agent and not know of the chapters around you?”
“Because I don’t look at shit like that. My plate is full. We were just supposed to be passing through, but a few brothers liked it here. It lead me to Cohen, and Cohen got me a new lead, even though it meant it was your son, and now you’re here. What chapter are you affiliated with?”
I still don’t trust him. “I’m not telling you anything, Mercy.” The last thing I want to do is be loose lipped to a guy who claims to be an agent. Even if he does have a badge, I’ve learned lying comes easy to a lot of people.
“Smart girl. You’re learning.” He leans in again. “But if you tell me, I can let them know where you are. I’m sure your guy is going out of his mind with worry.”
I want to tell him. I’m torn. What if Mercy ambushes Ruthless? “If you really want to know, you’ll figure it out for yourself. I’m not giving you any ammunition.”
“You might survive this, Dawn,” he says, impressed.
I hold my head up high and turn on the shower. “You might too.”
“I need to go out there.”
“No.” I wrap my hands around his wrist and stop him from walking out that door. “Please, don’t leave me alone showering with men like Cohen waiting to get me. I’m ‘yours,’ remember? Can’t you stay?”
His eyes soften around the edges, and he flops the toilet seat down and sits, the hard plastic groaning from his massive weight. “Yeah, I can do that.”
I step in the shower and close the curtain, thankful that the material is black and not clear. I toss the shirt over the rail and it lands with a sick, wet plop on the ground. The water flows dark pink as the blood is washed from my skin. I bite back more tears as my eyes tingle with the emotion I’ve been holding back.
I’m about to break—no, shatter.
And Skirt isn’t here to pick up the pieces.
“Thank you,” I say to Mercy, and he gives me a grunt in response. Any man outside this room would get in the shower and force me to their will. Mercy doesn’t do that. He sits there, waiting patiently, and gives me the peace of mind I need by protecting me.
He shows more mercy than he thinks he does, and I’ll be forever grateful to him being a light in a really dark, twisted, fucked up, haunted tunnel.
Chapter Twenty
SKIRT
Church is heavy.
I’m sitting at the table, mourning, my head bowed and my hands clenched tight into a ball. This cannot be my reality. Last night I had her in my arms. She was right there. I felt her. She was safe. I remember her warm skin pressed against mine, the sound of the words of love falling off her lips; all of that was real.
The guys have never seen me like this. My eyes are red-rimmed, and I know bikers aren’t supposed to cry. We aren’t allowed to be soft. There isn’t room for emotion when it comes to big decisions concerning life and death.
I’m loving Dawn in ways I never thought I’d be able to do. If I lost her, the absence of love would be too much to bear.
Bikers can fucking cry too.
We aren’t heartless. Those bastards are the ones who feel the most. The tough exterior doesn’t mean shit when the interior is in strife. Havoc might swirl in our lives, be we like the calm after the storm just like everyone else.
“Skirt,” Reaper breaks the silence by saying my name.