Page 47 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
“Cat wants to talk to you,” Grainge says as he parks, knocks the kickstand back with his boot, and turns to glance at me over his shoulder. There’s a look there that’s impossible for me to read.
“Not about us fucking?” I ask, genuinely concerned, and a spark flares in Grainge’s eyes.
“For shit’s sake, Gidget, why don’t you just scream it?” He climbs off his ride in a fury, stalking up the dirt path that winds behind the clubhouse while I stare at him. I know what’s back there, what’s up there, and I don’t want to go.
Once, when I was five, I wandered off into the forest during a game of hide-and-seek with my sisters. I stumbled upon the cutest wood cabin … and my father dragging a body out the back door. A body that was not in good shape, covered in blood and still tied to a chair. I know what happens in that building, and I’m not going anywhere near it.
Standing up from Grainge’s Indian Chief Classic—which I have to grudgingly admit is hot as fuck—I stumble back and end up slamming back-to-chest into Crown. He doesn’t look happy when he turns me around and looks down at my face.
“You’re white as a ghost,” he says, and he sounds concerned but really, how much could he possibly care considering just three days ago he watched my dad put a gun to my forehead and pull the trigger? “Are you okay, Gidget?”
“What am I doing here?” I ask, and I’m both ashamed and relieved to hear my voice shake a little. It means I’m afraid, sure, but it also means I’m not ready to give up and die, not just yet. Not yet. There’s still fight in me yet.
My eyes meet Crown’s soulful green ones, and I can see that he’s not happy about me being here either. Club business is club business, and even as Cat’s daughter, I’m not privy to it. So why am I standing on this dirt and gravel driveaway with sweat pouring down my back?
“Don't be scared, Gidge,” Crown says from beside me, and if I were a naive soul, I might just believe him. He's very convincing with his tousled brown curls and his stupid smile. But there’s also a haunt in his eyes, a specter, a ghost of a future yet to come. Chills prickle across my skin, making my hair stand on end.
I look between Grainger and Crown, and I can't get a read on their moods. That's what scares me. I can fool myself all I want by pretending I know these two men.
I don't.
In fact, they're worse than strangers. Strangers are distant, figurative things, people that pass by in the night like ships. These men, they're the kraken that lurk just beyond the bow, monsters swimming in an inky black ocean. I swallow hard and brace myself. If my dad were going to kill me, he'd have done it already.
Doesn't mean there aren't worse things than death. Trust me: growing up in this community, I know there are. I've seen them.
“I want to go visit my dog,” I announce, and I'm proud to say that I keep my voice even, strong, resistant. I still sound like that rebel girl that convinced Grainger to lay out a line of coke for me when I was sixteen.
He's a bad man; Beast is a bad man; Sin and Crown are bad men. Cat is the worst.
“You can see your dog after,” Grainger grunts, lighting up a cigarette. I really don't like the way he says the word after. It's got an ominous ring to it that chills me to the very center of my core, my molten hot core that burns with so much rage. Wonder if there's really such a thing as spontaneous combustion. If there were, I'd very much like it to sweep over and consume me, burn me to ash in the wind.
“Come on,” Crown says as I look up at him, into a kind and handsome face. I can see how he used to be a cop. I imagine that once upon a time, he thought he could save people. Now he's nothing but an outlaw among outlaws.
My hair blows in the wind, obscuring my view, and I glance away, toward the old cabin where my crazy Uncle Benny used to live. My grandma had it built for him when she realized he was never going to be able to live on his own.
The trees sway like dancers, getting jiggy to a tune that I can't hear. All I can hear is the violent throbbing of my pulse, making my ears sound like the ocean.
“Jesus,” I grumble, but Cade Grainger just makes a sound under his breath, drawing my attention back to the tumultuous umber of his eyes and his hair, bathed crimson in the sun-dappled shadows, turning it the color of blood.
