by K. L. Savage
I’m sorry I lost. I love ye.
-Conor
If this is the reward at the end of the road, it still isn’t worth every tear.
Chapter One
SKIRT
Present Day
Oh, fuck yes, apple pie.
I love it when Sarah makes apple pie. She refuses to tell me her secret ingredient, but I’ll figure it out one of these days. I refuse not to figure it out, especially when she makes me my own pie.
“Damn it, Skirt. You either need to wear pants or learn to wear fucking underwear. Your white ass with red hair blinds me,” Slingshot averts his eyes and plops down in one of the kitchen chairs, rubbing his eyes awake. It’s nearly noon, but Slingshot has been pulling long hours at King’s Club lately. He’s allowed to be tired.
I straighten and hold the circular pan to my chest and peel back the aluminum foil. “Whatever, Slingshot. Ye like it. Ye love it. Ye want some more of it,” I singsong. That Tim McGraw song has stuck in my head for days. No matter how much I listen to it, I can’t get enough of it.
“Please stop. No country music.” He cradles his head in his hands, then peeks through his fingers at me and cocks his head. “Hey, Skirt?”
I toss the foil in the trash and take a clean fork from the drawer and dig in the pie. “Aye, Slingshot?”
“Is that a new skirt?”
I give him a twirl and lift my leg in the air like I’m some hottie getting kissed. “It is. Thanks for noticing.” I give him a slight curtsy. The guys like to give me shit for the kilts. Half the time I wear them because I like giving them shit and the other part of me actually warmed up to the idea of wearing a kilt. My brother, Conor, was right. The kilts are freeing.
And I’ve always not worn underwear; I like my dick being able to breathe.
Slingshot rolls his eyes and laughs. “Can I have a piece of pie?”
“Fuck off. Get ye own!” I hug my pie closer and turn around, giving him my back, then scoop another bite in my mouth. Apple, cinnamon, sugar, vanilla, and something else. It’s heaven.
“Please? I’m starving. I won’t ask again. And why is it that your accent isn’t as strong anymore, only when your mad? I kinda miss you bellowing your Scottishness everywhere.”
“First off, I don’t bellow.” I cut him a piece of pie and place it on a small plate, then pour him a big cup of coffee. “Second, I moved from Scotland to America when I was a wee boy. Ye know that, Slingshot. Now, it’s just there sometimes. It’s no big deal.”
“You’re not trying to hide it, are you?”
Slingshot hit a little too close to home. I’ve done my best to put Scotland behind me. I’m not trying to hide my accent, but I don’t want to flaunt it either. Being in America so long has diminished it naturally, so that helps.
“No, I’m not. The longer I’m around ye fucks, the weaker my accent becomes. It’s called acclimating to your surroundings.”
“Acclimating? Big word for a dumbass,” Slingshot teases.
As he dives his fork in to get a chunk of pie, I snatch the plate away from him. “Ain’t no man call me a dumbass and gets me pie.”
“Aw, Skirt. Come on. I’m sorry. You know I was just kidding,” he says, licking his lips as he stares at the pie like it’s his salvation. He’s practically salivating for it.
“Do I know? That’s not very nice, Slingshot. I’m sharing my apple pie, the pie Sarah poured blood, sweat, and tears into, then you insult me?”
“I hardly put blood, sweat, and tears in it.” Sarah enters the kitchen with a jollity smile on her face. Her hair is a mess, and she wipes her lips just as Reaper follows behind her with a glaze to his eyes telling me he just got lucky.
“Morning, Prez,” I greet. Slingshot reaches for the pie, and I lift it out of his reach, giving him a look that tells him not to even bother.
“Skirt,” he pouts.
Slingshot isn’t the kind of man to pout, so I’m enjoying this a little too much.
“Prez, he won’t give me my pie!”
“It was my pie first!” I defend myself, keeping the pie out of reach of Slingshot’s greedy hands.
Reaper groans and lays his head on Sarah’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Seriously, guys. Can’t you figure this out on your own? It’s pie, not a fucking check for a million dollars.”
“Might as well be. That pie is worth a million,” Slingshot sulks and slumps in the chair, crossing his arms over his bare chest.
“Fight me for it.” I give him a shit-eating grin, knowing he’s never going to fight me. No one would. Recently, I’ve had to use my fighting skills for the club, and everyone has seen the beast that lurks beneath.
Reaper snatches the plate out of my hand that holds Slingshot’s pie and slides it across the table to him. “We don’t have time for this kind of bullshit today. Skirt, I need you and Poodle to make a local run for me. Okay? You’re getting a duffle bag full of money from the Circus, Circus.”
“Why the hell are we going to that dump?” I ask, shoving a bite of apple pie into my mouth at the same time as Slingshot. We stare at each other as we eat, unblinking. “You chew like a cow,” I tell him.
“You are a cow,” he says back.
“You act as if it’s an insult.”
“Will you two shut the hell up? Eat the damn pie. You’re giving me a headache with your bickering.”
I listen to the Prez, not wanting to press his buttons. He’s been on edge lately ever since Sarah started IVF treatments. They have been trying their hardest to have a baby, and now they are at the last resort before it seems to be hopeless. The treatments are rough on Sarah; emotionally, she’s always all over the place.
I hunch over the table, my arms bracketing the pie and my fists clench, ready to punch anyone in the face who tries to take this pie from me. I don’t bother asking the other question on my mind. Why the hell am I getting paired with Poodle? He’s my best friend, but I’m still mad at him for not being honest with me about his life, who he was, the kid he had, the girl he loved that died, and the fact he was—is a killer. He knows everything about me.
My brother’s death, my skill for fighting, the reason I haven’t been home since five years ago—everything. He obviously doesn’t view our friendship the same way as I did. It hurts. He was my first friend when I found the club. I confided in him.
I won’t question Prez on his reasoning to pair us together. Poodle and I work well when it comes to club business; that hasn’t changed, but our friendship has. I’m carrying a chip on my shoulder. I’m holding a grudge. It isn’t right; I know that. I haven’t been able to count on people since my brother died, and I expect my MC brothers to be those people, especially Poodle. All these years with him, I feel like I don’t know him at all.
“Because the owner is paying us to be the security detail for the tournament he’s hosting there in a few weeks.”
I nearly choke on my damn pie. “Tournament? I’m sorry, what? Circus, Circus is the place you go if you want a viral infection, Prez. Place is a dump.”
“Not for long. Once people see the Ruthless Kings are involved, people will start going there more. More people, more money, more money, renovations for Circus, Circus. Good business? Better name for the MC with the Vegas locals. That’s what matters. So if new clientele comes along wanting to do business with the Ruthless Kings, business that could be good for the club, we’re going to fucking do it, got it?”
My cheeks flame a bit from the slight scolding he’s giving me from my questions. “Aye, Prez. Got it.” My stomach turns when I think about going to Circus, Circus, the place where I’ve been fighting to make some extra money and to get the anger out of me. It’s legal-ish.
The club knows I’m good at fighting, but they don’t know I do it professionally. I want to keep it that way. It will bring attention to the club and what we do. The last thing we need is people looking in too close to who we are.
In the ring, I’m Rohan.
At th
e MC, I’m Skirt.
Two different people, two different lives, two different reasons for living.
Fuck, I really don’t want to go to Circus, Circus. If I see Maximo, he’s going to ask me to fight this weekend. I make him money, but Maximo, while he puts on a show for the hotel and casino, he isn’t a good man. He has his hands in many illegal things, and I know if I bring that trouble home to the clubhouse, Reaper will hand me my ass. Poodle has scars from defying Reaper, so does Tool, a damn heart carved in his chest. I sure as hell do not want that to be me.
I’m not supposed to be doing anything the club doesn’t know about. My brothers are always supposed to be involved, but it’s just fighting, so what’s the harm in doing something for myself?
I polish off the pan of pie, licking my fork clean, and Sarah grabs the empty plate from me. “I would have done that, Sarah. You don’t have to clean up after me,” I say. She’s been doing that a lot lately, cleaning up after the men like a momma bear. Reaper’s worried about her. Sarah hasn’t been the same ever since she miscarried, and now with struggling with getting pregnant, she’s gotten depressed.
Reaper is going to take her on a trip to see Boomer soon. Apparently, he has been in contact with the pyromaniac, and Boomer is just as concerned. Reaper wants to get her away from Vegas for a vacation, hoping it will get her back on track mentally.
“It’s not a problem, Skirt. I enjoy doing it.” Sarah bends down and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and I feel like a schoolboy all over again.
“Shucks,” I say, rubbing my heated cheek. I’m a bit bashful around women. Always have been, always will be. I have a secret that I haven’t told anyone. It’s embarrassing, and I don’t like to talk about it, but I’ve never been with a woman. I’ve messed around, blow jobs, hand jobs, making out, eating pussy—I’ve done all that.
I’ve never wanted to fuck a cut-slut, never wanted to fuck a woman I’ve met at a bar; never been that kind of man. I see the guys do it with the whores around here all the time, and it doesn’t appeal to me. I guess I’m a bit of a romantic when it comes to sex. I can’t be like Pirate or Slingshot or Bullseye, where they pass around the girls all night.
I want someone who is mine, not everyone else’s. I’m weird like that, I guess. If any of the guys ever found out I was a virgin, I’d never hear the end of it. Badass bikers who don’t blink at carnage, who kill in a blink of an eye, who have no mercy—we are the kind of men that fuck.
“You’re so cute, Skirt,” Sarah says, kissing my cheek again. I blush harder; no doubt the skin of my cheeks match the hair on my head. “Look at you blush.”
“Stop kissing the man. Only kiss me.” Reaper snags Sarah around the waist and pulls her tight to his side, laying a protective hand on her hip. “Those lips are mine, doll. Don’t you forget it.”
Like she could. She has Reaper’s name tattooed on her collarbone, a wedding ring, and an ol’ lady patch. There isn’t much else he can do to claim her as his, and every man in the club knows it. Respects it.
Sarah rolls her eyes and sits on his lap. “You know my lips are only for you.”
Reaper whispers something in her ear, and Sarah giggles. Slingshot takes that as his cue to leave, as do I. Once Reaper and Sarah get in their little bubble, there is no yanking them out of it unless someone is hurt, or unless Reaper is pissed off at everyone for annoying him.
Which is more often than not.
“I’m going to find Poodle, and we will be on our way.”
“Keep me updated, Skirt. Any problems, you call me immediately.”
“Aye, Prez.” I nod and go in search of Poodle. The closer I get to his room, the more I hear little yaps of the Pi-doodles Lady gave birth to a few weeks ago. I knock on the door, and Ellie swings it wide open. Her blonde hair is cut shorter, to her chin, and she has a big smile on her face showing a dimple in her cheek. She’s a pretty gal. Poodle will have his hands full with her when she is of age, especially with the guys around here.
“Dad is in the other room,” Ellie informs me at the end of a laugh when one of the puppies rams into my leg.
“Right. I keep forgetting that you switched rooms. Sorry, Ellie.”
“It’s okay.” Ellie looks down and points to my boot where a little fluffball is growling, tugging at my boot string. “I think he likes you.”
The pup is short, stocky, white all over with a tan pouf of hair on top of its head. I can’t tell if it’s so cute it’s ugly, or if it’s so ugly it’s cute.
“He’s the only one that hasn’t found a home.”
“Really? Why?”
“He looks different than the rest,” Ellie says, and damn if that doesn’t break my heart.
“I’ll take him,” I say without hesitation. I pick him up, and he licks my nose. All I can smell is puppy breath. I can’t stand the idea of this pup feeling like no one wants him. He seems like pure chaos.
Hmmm. Chaos. That seems like a pretty good name.
“Didn’t know you were looking for a puppy,” Poodle notices from behind me.
“I wasn’t. He needs a home. I have a house and a yard for him. I’ll pay when we get back from our run. Reaper wants us to go 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 secon
d, 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 brush on the side of the road.
“Who the hell was in the road?” I should have them pluck the needles from my arse. That will teach them not to get in the way of bikers. I grunt in pain as I trudge through the desert plants on the road, and don’t ya know, they’re all fucking sharp and sticking me.
“Don’t know,” Poodle says. “I wanted to check on you first.”
“I have needles in me arse, Poodle. How the fuck do you think I’m doing?” I snap as I fall to my knees on the road. My hand grabs the shoulder of the person, and I flip them over onto their back. I gasp.
“Holy shit!”
It’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. She’s black and blue all over. Looks like she got her ass handed to. Her hair is filthy. I can’t tell what color it is. Blood is caked in it. She has cuts on her chest and arms.
She doesn’t look like she’s breathing. I lay my ear against her chest and sigh in relief when I hear her heartbeat. It’s strong.
