Doc (Ruthless Kings MC Book 7)

by K. L. Savage

  I feel the ridges, the puckered, angry skin. He trembles and turns his head away to look out the window. Heat rises from his skin, and my fingers slide against sweat. This is why he doesn’t like his back touched, but he’s letting me. “The cuts.” I realize what he means now. I continue to gently rub my fingers over the ridges, and the longer I touch, the more he sweats and shakes, like he’s reliving every single tear of his skin.

  I rip my fingers away, and he gasps, holding his hand to his chest as he struggles to catch his breath. Beads of sweat dribble down his temple, and he pales. “I never want to hurt you. Why did you do that?”

  “Because I want your touch. I don’t want to shy away from you.” He leans his head on the window that’s drenched with condensation from our body heat.

  I cup his face with my hands, rub my thumb across his bottom lip, and press a whisper of a kiss against him. “Let’s go home, Eric.”

  He nods, lifts me, and places me onto the seat, and then buckles me in. He puts the truck in drive while blaring the air conditioning to cool his skin. He’s sweating through his shirt and running his fingers through his damp hair.

  Watching him, I feel happier and less confused after talking to him like that. The last time I felt this good was when I was packing my bags in the trailer to go to college, but then Dad sold me. I bet my bags are still on my bed because my dad doesn’t ever change anything.

  We pull into the driveway, and I let out a relieved breath that we are home. I forget all about the shit stain that my dad is.

  Home.

  What a foreign word.

  “What the fuck?” Eric hisses as we hear shouting coming from inside the clubhouse. “Shit.” He slams the truck in park and climbs out. As always, he opens my door and helps me out. The shouting is loud and dramatic, but I can’t decipher what anyone is saying. There are multiple people talking. “Stay behind me, Jo-love.”

  I nod and clutch onto the back of his shirt but then immediately let go and drift my hands down to his belt loop. I curl my fingers in as we make our way up the steps of the porch. The front door is open, dented from the bullets. We step inside, and Tongue is back, sitting on the couch, drenched in blood.

  His face, hair, clothes—everything is red.

  “Holy shit, Tongue. Where the hell have you been? Do you need a doctor?” Eric asks as he darts to Tongue’s side, who is currently cleaning the blood off his blades. All four of them. He acts like he doesn’t have an issue in the world.

  “I’m good, Doc.” Tongue smacks his lips together and ponders. “Actually, I’m a little thirsty. Can you get me some water?”

  I hurry to the other side of the couch, away from the shouting match between Reaper and Bullseye. Bullseye isn’t the kind of guy to argue with Reaper. He has been acting out of character lately, and no one understands why.

  “You’re covered in blood,” Eric points out to Tongue.

  Tongue grins and then starts to clean out the grime under his nails with his knife. “I am, aren’t I? Feels good. You should have seen the tongues I cut out. I saved them. They’re in a bag. I’m sending them to New Orleans for my swamp kitties.”

  Eric is baffled and scratches the back of his head. “None of the blood is yours?”

  “No,” Tongue grunts, not giving us any other reasons as to why he’s finally here after missing for three days. No story. No nothing.

  “Maximo wouldn’t do that!” Reaper roars at Bullseye. The vein in his forehead is throbbing and looks like it’s about to burst from anger.

  “How can you say that? Did you see the bag of tongues Tongue just brought back. He said they were Maximo’s men. Maximo’s. This guy, he’s up to no good, Reaper.”

  “Stop fighting about it.” Tongue rolls his eyes and stands, then walks out the front door, vanishing in the night.

  “Is that…” I start to say when I see something bloody stuck to his shoulder.

  “That’s a tongue stuck to his back, yeah.” Eric rubs his temples. Reaper and Bullseye are having a stare off.

  This day isn’t getting any easier, and the more time that passes, the more tension builds in the club.

  “Ask him.” Tongue throws a guy through the front door, and he falls on his knees. He’s young, around my age, and beaten to a pulp.

  “You let one live?” Reaper asks. It’s his turn to rub his temples. “Why didn’t you just say that!”

  Tongue leans against the wall and the tongue on his shoulder slips off and plops on the floor. “Was looking for that.” He bends down and picks it up, placing it on his shoulder, and I hold back a bit of vomit.

  The baby doesn’t like that. Nope.

  He wipes his hands on his blood-soaked jeans and shrugs. “You didn’t ask if I left one alive.”

  “Tongue, that’s the shit you start out with.”

  “Well, I was gonna, but you started to fight, and I was tired, Reaper. I’ve been up for three days.” The tongue slides off Tongue’s shoulder again, and the man grins at it, as if it’s being playful with him before he picks it up again. This time he places it on his other shoulder.

  “I’m going to be sick.” I run to the bathroom and don’t have time to slam the door, puking into the toilet.

  “You okay?”

  I jump when I hear Tongue’s voice, and then I hear the slick slop of the tongue hitting the floor again.

  I puke again and Tongue, the sweet crazy guy that he is, pats my back and croons at me. He has no idea the reason why I’m sick is because of his obsession with the appendage on the floor.

  Time travel needs to be real because too much has happened in a short amount of time, and the clock needs to be reset.

  Tongues, blood, and bikers, oh my!

  Yeah, I’m not in Kansas.

  This is definitely Ruthless territory.

  We settled on shoving the guy in the playroom for the night and letting him brew in darkness. Tomorrow, we’ll interrogate him. Until then, I’m going to lay down with my girl, maybe end the day on a damn good note by eating her pussy if she lets me, and then I want to go to bed with the taste of her cunt on my lips.

  It’s been a long fucking day, and I want to feel something other than devastation.

  I want… elation.

  First, Tongue has to tell the story of where he’s been, why, and what took him so long to get back. All the club members are crammed in Church. Tongue is still drenched in blood. Slingshot curls his lip and rolls away from him, but Tongue grabs his chair and pulls him closer, then tosses an arm around him.

  Slingshot turns a shade of green when his face touches the tongue on the bloody shoulder.

  Knives chuckles, playing with his ninja stars. He aims one at the tongue and flicks his weapon. It lands smack dab in the middle of the… appendage. Tongue growls and plucks the star from his prize and throws it back at Knives. He catches the blade with two fingers. The man has scars all over his hands from his ninja stars, throwing them around and catching them like that.

  “Okay, stop. We’ve had a long fucking week, and I’m not in the mood for games. Bullseye, after this meeting, you’re staying behind. Tongue, get going. I don’t have all night.”

  “We got ambushed. Gunshots rang. I climbed over the fence to see who it was, but I didn’t recognize them. I followed them. We pulled into the casino, and I wondered if Maximo was behind it. I stayed in my shadows outside and waited. It’s why I wasn’t back for a while. Each guy who came out of the casino that was one of Maximo’s men, I’d ask them a question about the attack. If they lied, I cut their tongues out. Only one didn’t lie. So I brought him here. Whoever is behind it, is at that casino.”

  “It isn’t Moretti.”

  “Reaper, maybe—” Tool begins to say, but Reaper cuts him off.

  “Maximo is coming tomorrow to see his brother. Also, he’s bringing Natalia, Moretti’s daughter. We’re not to accuse him of shit. Not when he’s here. I don’t believe he’d do that to us, not while we care for his brother. We do business toge
ther. Skirt’s fighting makes us a ton of money. Maximo doesn’t want to lose that.”

  “Someone does,” Tank mutters. “Maybe another fighter or casino owner? And maybe Maximo’s men aren’t as loyal as he thinks.”

  The table is quiet as Tank, the quiet one, brings up a valid point.

  Reaper leans forward and places his arms on the table, nodding in agreement. He slaps the table. “That’s good shit, Tank. Real fucking good. Keep an ear down, all of you. Tomorrow, playroom, bright and early. Doc, four days off. Don’t want to see your face until then.”

  “No argument from me,” I mutter and stand, then drag my ass out of the room, but then I remember Tongue and all the blood. “Tongue, get tested. All that blood on you can’t be good. See me in four days. Don’t have sex with anyone.”

  “I don’t have sex,” he says so serious and in such a typical Tongue way, that I know he’s telling the truth. “No worries. I’ll see you, Doc.”

  “No wonder you’re fucking crazy. You need to get laid.”

  “Fuck you, Tool,” Tongue grumbles, but something flashes across his face. Not embarrassment. Tongue doesn’t get embarrassed. Tongue knows violence. But where was the violence born? None of us know.

  Without giving any of the men one last look, I head out toward the main room and pause, remembering the vacant looks on Candy and Jasmine’s faces in their deaths. Their funerals are in two days, and if shit keeps happening how it is, we might have to reschedule.

  Death doesn’t have a calendar, but sometimes, you have to find a way to work around it.

  I turn to the right and head out the front door, climb down the steps, and take a fucking minute to myself. No patients, no MC brothers, nothing. It’s just me, the desert, and the fucking glistening chrome shining off the bikes from the porch light. I tilt my head back and stare up at the stars, wondering how the hell they can shine so bright after the shit storm that’s come our way.

  Letting out a weighted breath, I trudge along the side of the house and still smell the burning wood from Skirt’s cabin. It’s been days, but the smell lingers, and I don’t think it’s going anywhere anytime soon. Skirt is still unconscious, but I think he will wake up in a day or so, and he will finally be able to meet his little girl, who’s still not named because Dawn is waiting for him to wake up. Mary is almost healed. Patrick we will wake up soon if he stops clotting, and Melissa… Well, I don’t know about her yet.

  Everything sucks.

  Well, almost everything.

  I open the door to my two-bedroom, two-bath house and see Jo is on the couch, brushing her long brown hair while listening to music on surround sound speakers. She’s fresh out of the shower. I can feel the humidity in the air and smell the sandalwood of my shampoo. Her eyes are closed, and she’s swaying as she combs through the tangles in her hair. I don’t know what’s playing, but it’s slow, relaxing, and all I want to do is dance with her after a day like today.

  I’m going to lose my mom, but maybe, the universe put Jo in front of me to help me through it. I close the door behind me and lock it, and I watch Jo for a minute. She’s effortlessly beautiful, the kind she doesn’t notice but everyone else does. She looks good in my home and sitting that plump ass on my leather couch. Her toes tap against the black shag rug, digging her bare feet into the long material. I do that all the time. It feels good.

  She’s made this house feel and look like a home.

  I push myself off the door with my foot and stroll to her side. I stop her from brushing her hair, and she jumps in fear. “You scared me, Eric!” Her breaths are heavy. I notice she changed the bandages on her arm after she showered.

  Fuck, I’m proud of her.

  I need her in my arms. Anywhere else is a place she doesn’t need to be.

  I hold out my hand without saying a word, and she gives me a questionable look. She places her brush on the coffee table. “What are you doing?” she asks, sliding her hand in mine. She stands, and I walk us over to the middle of the living room, and I spin her in a circle then yank her to my chest.

  And we dance.

  The song is passionate, raw, and I swear it’s a song for us.

  “Does spinning you hurt your arms?” I know the pressure of lifting her hands in the air from natural force of gravity can pull on the stitches, but it’s been a few days, and she should be feeling better. Still, I never want her in pain.

  She shakes her head, and I see she’s blushing. “What?” I ask.

  “I’ve never danced with anyone before.”

  “Me either,” I admit, twirling her across the floor again. “I can’t wait to discover more firsts with you.” Her hand is in mine, and I bring them between us and against our chests. Our hips move together, slow, sensual, and seductive.

  “Me too.” The words leave her lips sweetly, and I naturally lean forward to kiss her, but pause, liking the tension that’s building.

  Our mouths are an inch apart, and my free hand outlines the curves of her body until I grip her hip. I tug her to me so we are flush, and now we’re barely moving. We are swaying, but we aren’t dancing, not anymore.

  It’s morphed into foreplay.

  I dip her and she throws her head back, her hair cascading down toward the floor until the ends almost sweep across the rug. I bend down and kiss the middle of her chest. Her chest stutters from the caress, but I don’t plan to stop there. Dragging my mouth to the right, I lay another kiss on the swell of her breast before moving to the other one and doing the same. I’m rock hard, dying for the simplest touch from her, but I never want to push. I’ll dance forever if it means feeling like this.

  Her neck is slim with an elegant curve and protruding collarbones. I can’t help it. My tongue flicks out and traces the silky ridges, and then I open mouth kiss her pulsing vein on the side of her neck. Her hips rock against the erection straining in my jeans, and the sound of ecstasy that escapes me is also a first.

  Sure, I’ve gotten off, plenty of times. With my hand, with other women, but I’ve never felt passionate about someone. Caring for Jo has heightened all my senses, and every touch I receive from her is compared to how the body feels before an orgasm.

  Both of us are breathing hard from this erotic torture we’re giving each other. She lifts her head, and we lock eyes. I see the want and hesitation staring back at me. I wait. She controls this. Jo thrusts her hips down again, rubbing her pussy against my cock.

  My mouth drops open, and I look down to see her rutting against me, whimpering just like she was in the truck. Still, I wait. I wait to see what she wants to do next. Maybe she wants to orgasm by using me, and I’m more than okay with that.

  Jo’s been taken advantage of for too long, so it’s her turn to take.

  “Eric, please,” she begs and rides my jean-covered erection faster. I’m going to have denim burn if she keeps this up, but again, I don’t give a damn. As long as she is satisfied, that’s all I care about.

  “You have to tell me, Jo,” I say through clenched teeth as I feel a bead of pre-cum leave the slit and pool in my briefs.

  “I want you.”

  No sooner are the words out of her mouth that I rob her lips of them. I pick her up in my arms and carry her to my bedroom. Our lips stay locked, and her hands rub over my chest. Everything about this will be different. It isn’t some quick fuck; it isn’t some girl. I’m going to take my time. I’m going to let her touch me in ways I’ve never allowed another soul to touch me.

  Just like I’m going to touch her.

  I kick the door open, and the king-size bed sits in the middle of the room, waiting for me to lay her down in the middle of it.

  So I do.

  She’s everything this room has been missing. Everything is complete. I kneel between her legs and run my palms up the inside of her shirt, feeling the fragile ribs beneath me as I take off her shirt. I whip it over her head and almost come prematurely when I see her milky skin, big cushioned breasts encased in a black lace bra, but it’s the freckle ov
er her navel that drives me overboard. I bend down and kiss it then wet it with my tongue.

  I have a really weird want to be as close to her as that freckle is, which is impossible because I’m never going to be able to stick to her like that.

  Her hands run through my hair, then down the back of my nape as I kiss and nibble down her belly to get to the waistband of her jeans. She tries to tug my shirt over my head, but she can’t apply a lot of pressure because of the stitches in her forearms. I sit up and yank it over my head, and she bites her lip, staring at me with heated eyes as if I’m the sexiest man in the goddamn universe.

  That is until she sees my back and how ruined I am physically.

  Her fingers trail down my chest and through the chest hair to my abs. She tugs on the waistband, and I fall over her, clawing at her pants to see what’s meant to be mine. One hand skims her side and cups her tit. I groan as her nipple hardens under my index finger as I flick and tug it. I reluctantly lift my head from her jeans and see her rosy nipple poking through the material of her bra. With a savage growl, I yank the cups down and let her tits spill free.

  “Fuck me, you’re goddamn perfect,” I say, astonished that a woman like her exists. I suck one nipple between my lips and try to stuff as much of her breast in my mouth, wanting to fucking eat her with how good she feels. She’s withering against me, mewling, and once that tit is nice and wet, I move on to the next; all while pinching and roll the bead I just sucked raw.

  “Eric, oh god. So sensitive,” she arches her back and shouts, crying out my name as she orgasms. Her body spams, and her cries for me are loud, vocal, and just what I love in a partner.

  “Gorgeous. I can’t wait to make you do that again.”

  “Oh god, I can’t believe I came that fast. My nipples are so sensitive right now.”

  “It’s because you’re pregnant.” My voice deepens when I remember why she’s a soft trigger right now. I kiss my way down her chest and pay extra attention to her belly, so she knows her pregnancy doesn’t bother me.