Page 37 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
“Get in your room,” he growls, letting go of my pants and giving me a small shove in my lower back. I’m proud of myself for managing to keep my feet as I storm toward my room, suddenly full of rage as well as hate. “And get used to it because you won’t be leaving it for months.”
“Despite what you may think,” I quip as I pause at the door, turning and baring my breasts to Grainger’s hungry gaze, “you are not my father, so stop acting like you are.” With my usual, rebellious flare, I slam the door closed as hard as I can, but Grainge catches it. He shoves his way in and yanks it closed behind him.
“When have I ever acted like your father?” he asks me, stepping forward and expecting me to move back. That’s just proof that he doesn’t know me at all. How could I expect him to anyway? We spent a few months hanging out on and off, smoking pot together, getting drunk. Once, Grainge sat back and watched me snort some coke.
And then there was that night …
That horrifically beautiful nightmare, that dream made of shadows.
“Get out of my room,” I snarl, looking down at my bloodied toes, pressed against the steel-toed fronts of Grainge’s boots. I can feel him staring at me, this hot, achy feeling creeping over my naked flesh. If only his big, hot hands would palm my breasts, trace down the curve of my waist to my hip. That would make the pain go away, wouldn’t it?
“So you can sneak out the window again? Fat fucking chance.” Grainger pulls a multi-tool from his belt and heads over to the door, opening it and starting in on the hinges.
What. The. Fuck?
“What do you think you’re doing?” I snap as I cover my breasts by crossing my arms over my chest. Finally, finally I’m starting to get real boobs. I may never be as big as Queenie or Posey, but … that’s okay. I pause next to Grainger and watch in horror as he removes my door from the jamb, screw by agonizing screw.
“Cat’s orders,” he barks as I stare at that little moon tattoo on his hairline. If Cat said I was in for a world of hurt, he means it. The fact that he sent me home unmolested means he’s either planning something or he’s so pissed he doesn’t know what to do with me. If he sends Gaz again … Fuck, I just hope my dog is okay.
“He wants to strip me of my dignity now as well as my freedom, huh?” I ask, but Grainger doesn’t answer. No, he’s too busy taking away my last level of defense against Cat and Nellie. A door might not seem like a big deal, but in this house, with this crowd, it’s huge. My throat closes up and I take a step back, purposely flicking the button on my pants in a way that draws Grainger’s attention. The zipper comes down next, and I oh-so carefully peel the bloody leather over the generous swells of my hips.
Without another word, I kick the pants off and challenge Grainger’s dark gaze with one of my own. His is filled with violence, lust, shadows, pain … I wonder what mine looks like? Does it reflect back like a wolf’s eyes in the dark? Do I look like a predator, too? Or is it just Grainger that looks that way?
I turn and head into the bathroom, not bothering to switch the lights on, and climb in the shower before the water is even warm. The ice cold spatters hit my back as I stare at the shadowy porcelain floor. The freezing spray reminds me of that day in the cemetery, with ash instead of leaves swirling in the wood, shiny coffins, dead girls.
I feel like a dead girl right now, standing in a shower of melancholy and regret.
Grainger moves over to the doorway, rimmed in light from my beside lamp. I can see him through the plastic shower curtain. The bottom is frosted, but the top isn’t. Can he see my breasts from there, or is it too dark? I tell myself it doesn’t matter either way, but I want him to come after me because I’m too chicken shit to go after him myself.
Too afraid to fuck the hurt away because once that’s gone … then what’s left?
What if I’m just empty inside?
“I’m not supposed to take my eyes off of you,” Grainger snarls, like he’s just so damn pissed about that statement he can barely remember to breathe.
“I don’t think Cat meant to stare at me naked in the shower,” I quip, because even when I’m falling apart on the inside, I can pretend that I’ve got it together on the out. Reba … She’ll never talk to me again after this, no way. Not a chance in fucking hell. I’ve ruined the one positive relationship I had in my life besides the one I have with my dog. There’s not a single other person around that I don’t hate.
