Page 19 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
At least … Grainger and Sin do.
I dig my nails into my forearms until the pain pushes the memories away.
“Ryan Reynolds,” I say, even though I actually sort of hate his face.
Dena and Chardou laugh; Amiya stares at me as strangely as she did that day at the lake. Reba … she scoffs and glances away.
“What are you doing after school?” Dena asks me, lifting her chin in my direction, like a princess acknowledging a peasant.
“Going back to my place to get high,” I say, because I'm not sure that I can take another night sitting in my room with Crown outside in the hallway, leaning against the wall and trying to make conversation with me. “Why?”
“Aren't you going to invite us?” Dena asks with a sharp smirk, the cruelty in it highlighted by the bubbly pink color of her mouth.
“Sure,” I say, because screw Cat. He can keep me in, but he didn't say anything about keeping my friends out.
And if they're there with me … then I won't be tempted by Crown … by Beast … Sin … Grainger. I won't be tempted to take a dip in that hot, awful well of sin. That toe-curling, sin searing, burning ache. One man with his hands wrapped around my heart, that's painful enough. But four? How am I supposed to survive fucking four?
Maybe … I'm not.
Supposed to survive, I mean.
Maybe I was never supposed to.Crown doesn't look too happy when I climb in the back of Dena's convertible, but as promised, I go straight home and lead the girls out to the back deck, to the pool I barely use.
“This is a really nice place,” Dena says, pretty grudgingly. “I thought your dad was …”
“A criminal?” I ask and hear Crown grunt from behind me. The girls all jump—except for Reba—but I just pretend he's not there. “He is. What do you think pays for all this shit?”
“Gidget,” the vice president warns from behind me.
“Who the fuck is that?” Chardou asks, looking back at Crown like she wishes he were naked and lying out in the sun on one of Nellie's wooden Adirondack chairs.
Honestly, I kind of wish the same damn thing.
“Him?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder like Crown isn't one of the hottest men I've ever seen in my life. If he were any less hot then maybe I wouldn't have gotten myself into trouble with him. Maybe I wouldn't have lost my virginity to four fucking bikers on the same night. “That's Crown. He's a dick; ignore him.”
I move over to the edge of the pool, reach my fingers under the tattered Misfits shirt I'm wearing (yes, I actually do listen to them) and pull it off. As soon as I do, I swear, I can feel Crown's eyes boring into my back, running over my body like spotlights.
“That's the introduction I get?” he says, sauntering over to the edge of the pool and making me grit my teeth. I sort of want to punch him in the nuts, but I'm not sure that touching him below the belt in any capacity would be a good thing. Beyond that, he could definitely kick my ass if he wanted to. His arms are as wide as my fucking waist. “Oh, but I'm so much more than that.”
Crown looks me in the face, those mossy green eyes of his sparkling with mischief, and then slowly, agonizingly, he takes his cut off, setting the leather vest on one of my mother's chairs. His chocolate brown hair glistens with auburn highlights in the sun, gently tousled and lightly curled against his forehead. It’s the hair of a model, not an outlaw biker. The asshole could star in a shampoo commercial.
“Don't,” I whisper, but my heart is beating like crazy in my throat and my skin is pebbled with goose bumps. My nipples are like rocks, and down below, a fire is being stoked by long lashes and a strong jaw, a face stubbled with dark hair and a smile that could kill a girl, stop her heart right in her chest.
Good thing I'm more than just a girl.
Crown reaches his fingers down and takes hold of his shirt.
“Take it off!” Dena shouts, heading over to the diving board and climbing the stairs. With a whooping shout, she dives in and splashes water across the fancy brick surround.
“Oh, I intend to,” he says, that manic grin of his making me seriously reconsider punching him in the junk.
“What's your game?” I whisper, but Crown just tears his shirt off and … well, just like I said. Heart, officially stopped.
This time, it's me looking at him like I want to jump his bones.
Shit.
“If Cat comes back and sees you swimming—” I start, but Crown doesn't care. He continues stripping, kicking off his boots, tearing his belt out of the loops, peeling tight denim down his muscular legs. They're sprinkled with dark hair and blanketed with tattoos. I swear, there's not a guy in the whole damn club that isn't covered in ink. Even my mom has a full sleeve. Sort of clashes with her new pretend Betty Crocker/trophy wife mentality.
