Tongue's Target (Ruthless Kings MC Las Vegas #10) - K.L. Savage Page 0,59
her, there might be hell to pay. And there is no hell like a woman pissed off.” Doc grins, patting the wound gently.
Damn, he’s right. I have to give her a choice unless I want to sleep outside with Happy.
“So where did you go? You’re all busted up,” Doc notices the cuts on my arms and the one on my face. “Do you have any glass I need to get out of there?”
“Probably, but I don’t care about me. Take care of her.” I bite my thumb nail and shake my leg. The chair I’m in starts to squeak from the vibrations my leg is causing. I’ve always had issues voicing what I want to talk about. Sometimes, it takes me a minute to gather my thoughts and what I want to say, and other times, it’s because I don’t want to say anything at all.
“I’m going to guess you went and saw your brother. You had questions, he had answers. And you didn’t like them.”
“What are you, Seer?” I snort, ripping a hangnail from my thumb.
“No, but he did call me and tell me.” Doc has a knowing expression on his face, one that is smug. He’s enjoying this. “Told me to be prepared for a busy night. Damn, he wasn’t wrong.”
“He could have called me.”
“You fuckers never answer him.” Doc cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders before hunching over and starting on the other half of the heart.
I open my mouth to defend myself, but nothing comes out.
He’s right.
“Maybe if everyone got their head out of their ass, a lot less discourse and more understanding would happen, but no. We have to be prideful and beat our chests. It’s shit like that pushing people away,” Doc confides. “So prove me wrong. Tell me about your brother.”
“I can’t, Doc. Not right now, please. And he isn’t my brother. I need everyone to stop calling him that. Remember everything he did on Halloween? He’s still that man.”
“Mmhmm,” Doc hums, clearly wanting to say something, but doesn’t, which means he has a different thought process.
My mind is too fog-dense to care more than I’m capable of in this moment.
I’m lost.
Until Daphne wakes up, I’ll linger in the dark, tucked away in the corners of my mind, and hope she’s able to find me.
Two days later
Holy Moly.
If someone told me I got hit by a sledgehammer or by a truck, or a horse kicked me in the chest, I’d believe them. The sheets under me are slick, different from what I’m used to on Tongue’s bed. I rub my hands over them, pinching the material in my fingers, then pop my eyes open when I know undoubtedly that these are not Tongue’s sheets.
These are silk.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My throat is raw and sore, as if I swallowed a thousand razorblades. My eyes are glued shut from the crust of sleep, and I squint them together, bring my fist up, and rub. I squint as my vision adjusts. I blink a few times to clear the blur and when my eyes finally focus, I notice I’m in a room that looks a lot like the master suite that is being built in our house.
I tug my arm and cringe when something jerks above my elbow.
An IV?
Since when?
I take a good look around the room. It smells of sawdust and paint. The bed is huge, and I’m nestled on the right side of it. There is a walk-in closet and an oversized black claw-foot bathtub near the window so we can look out toward the mountains.
Wondering if I’m in our room, I lift my lashes and blush, a fever drifting through the marrow of my bones when I see the mirror above us.
Oh yeah, this is our room.
I hold my breath and push myself into a seated position, grunting as the skin on the left side of my chest pulls. I cry out from the pain and slump against the bed.
I want to get up, use the restroom, and brush these fuzzy teeth. I feel disgusting.
The door is kicked open and the gold knob hits the wall, denting the new paint. Tongue is there. Shirtless. Chest heaving. His chest hair is covered in saw dust.
Someone send help. I can’t breathe.
“Comet, you’re awake.” He runs over to my side of the bed, tracking in wood chips. When he kneels, I get hit with a fresh wave of sweat and pine with a hint of leather.