Page 24 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
None of us know who the father is.
But I wish I did.
“I'll cook,” I say with a sigh, because although I'd rather starve than make food for my asshole family, I'd rather take care of Queenie than perpetuate my grudges and bullshit.
“Thank you, babe,” she says, giving me a kiss on the forehead and heading for the stairs. “I'm gonna go lie down for a bit.”
I nod and grab an apron off the wall, one that Queenie made herself. She's been really into sewing since she got pregnant. She says that she's nesting.
“Fine. But don't expect anything edible.”
“Love you, Gidge,” she calls playfully as she makes her way slowly up the stairs.
Later on, I'd wonder … if I'd been a little more selfish, would she be alive? Because then it'd have been me that was upstairs, me that saw the first man crawl through the window with his guns and his knives. Queenie would've been in the kitchen; I could've protected her and her future child.
“Love you, too,” I whisper, but only loud enough that I can hear it.
I start by plugging my iPhone into the dock on the wall and setting The Agonist up to blast through the speakers into the kitchen.
Yet another mistake.
Loud music.
Loud music hid the screams.
Yanking open the wide, steel doors of the fridge, I start to dig through all the groceries that Queenie's stocked, and find something that I might actually be able to cook. I decide salads with pan-seared chicken could be manageable. I mean, I just throw leaves on a plate, a breast on the stove, and then cut it up. Right? That's how Queenie does it.
Grumbling under my breath, I rock to the music and start to cook, feasting on more salty crackers as I drench a pan with olive oil and drop a few raw chicken breasts into it.
It's only when I turn back to the fridge to grab a beer that I realize that Posey's not by the pool anymore.
I pause for a moment and then take a few steps forward, pushing open the door and glancing around. Last time she disappeared in the backyard like this, I snuck out and caught her climbing the stone wall behind the property. It used to be that Cat and Nellie let us get away with murder. But since Queenie got pregnant, they've started acting a little … off. Pose can't bring guys into the house anymore, so she sneaks out a lot.
I roll my eyes and turn around, only to see Queenie stumble into the room, bright red blood dripping on the floor in front of her, staining her white t-shirt above the big, round bump of her belly.
At first, I think she's having the baby, that something's gone wrong.
Then I see the knife.
“In the pantry,” she mouths, and I can barely hear her because of the music. Racing over to the iPhone, I quickly turn it off and spin, finding Queenie's red-brown eyes wide and terrified. “Pantry, Gidge,” she says again, almost ferociously.
“Queenie—”
“Now,” she snarls, her face as white as her teeth. Queenie stumbles against the wall and glances over her shoulder. I hear laughter. And footsteps.
Backing up, I grab hold of the pantry door and open it, gesturing for her to join me. I don't speak again; I can hear men's voices coming down the staircase. Growing up the way I have, I know what that means.
I duck inside, and the doors close behind me just before I hear the sound of a lock sliding into place.
Queenie's locking me in.
When we moved into the house, the realtor told us the previous owner had put a lock on this door to keep her kids from getting into the snacks.
Fucking weird, right?
Fucking lucky for me though.
But not for my sisters.
Not for my fucking sisters.
Boots pound into the room and I hear Queenie make a strangled cry, the force of her body slamming into the pantry doors knocking a few cans onto the floor. I know there are guns around the house—a whole shitload of them—but in my panic, I suddenly can't remember where they are.
Scrambling on my hands and knees, I start to dig through the food in the pantry. There's a massive bag of rice in the corner which is weird because everybody in my family hates rice.
That's it, I think, feeling a small surge of hope as I tear the plastic bag open and dive into it with my fingers, getting a dusty film all over my sweaty hands. Buried deep in the bag, I find my dad's Magnum and check the magazine
It's loaded.
I stand up and move over to the door, trying to peek out through the small slats.
“On your knees,” one of the men says, cool as a fucking cucumber. He doesn't care that he's just stabbed a pregnant woman. My sister. Queenie. The most important person in the world to me.
