Page 28 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
“You're the only person I know who can tame four burly biker boys and then want to do arts and crafts afterward.”
“What can I say? I'm a woman of many talents.”
Reba's mouth twitches again as we head out of the bright haze of sunshine and into the shady coolness of the lodge. Honestly, it's as nice as any ski resort I've ever seen: vaulted ceilings, a fireplace that's as tall as I am, and brown leather couches covered in teenagers I've never met before in my life.
“This weekend is free for anyone to sign up, whether they're a part of the church or not,” Reba explains when she sees me dubiously scoping out the competition. Several of the girls eye me the same way; the boys look at me quite differently.
“Converting all the lost souls in Lane County?” I joke, but this time Reba doesn't smile. She just gives me another warning look. “Sorry,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. Because even if I'm not here to buy into Wesley’s proselytizing ways, I appreciate the offer of escape. Reba's taking a huge risk by bringing me up here.
There is always—always—the possibility that one or more of the boys will come after me and make a scene.
“Daddy,” Reba says politely, pausing behind the pastor as he leans over a wooden counter and speaks quietly to the girl on the other side. Slowly, Pastor Wesley glances back and notices that I'm standing there, too.
His mouth turns down in a frown, and I smile.
“Reba,” he says carefully, “you're late.”
“I had to make a pit stop,” she replies, raising her chin and daring him to defy her. Although Reba's oddly obedient to her parents, she also has certain things she won't relent on. One of those being passing the word of God along to anyone who will listen. She still believes that one day, I will convert. And I have a feeling that she'll never stop trying.
“I see,” is all that he says, giving me a once-over with eyes crinkled in disgust and a mouth that's turned into a thin white-pink line. Fine. Pastor Wes doesn't like me? I don't give a shit. I'm just here for the scenery and the peace and quiet.
Feminist steps forward and sniffs the man's knee, the edges of his lips pulling up in a snarl. Hmm. Maybe he just doesn't like men in general? I wouldn't blame him. What happened the other day with Gaz was not the first time. Both my father and his son have been known to land a punch or a kick on my dog.
Told you.
They're fucking cruel.
“Well, I need your help organizing the bonfire for tonight. There are brand-new boxes of hymnals in the back that need to be passed out. And we need to get some of the boys on chopping wood.”
“Oh, I'm excellent with handling wood,” I chirp, just because I know it'll piss him off. “I'll round up some people and get right on that.”
Wesley just stares at me like I'm demon spawn (which, technically, since I'm Cat's daughter, I am), and then watches as I turn and snap my fingers, calling Fem along behind me.
It doesn't take long to gather up a bunch of boys (guess sexism runs strong here and none of the girls want to help) and head outside to the wood pile. It feels good to pick up an axe and sever phallic objects with it. I could psychoanalyze that desire, but why bother? There's no doubt in my mind that I've got issues.
About halfway through the pile, I realize that Trevone's arrived—posse in tow—and is making his way over to me. Tina looks pissed.
“Hey, Gidget,” he says, leaning against a tree and watching me for a moment. I can't decide if I like him better for not trying to step in and take over … or less. Does that make me a hypocrite?
“Hey,” I reply, raising the axe over my head and severing another log. Splinters fly and I feel this little tingle run through me. It feels good to be doing something with my hands, something productive. Or maybe I've just been cooped up so long that chopping firewood's become fun to me. How sad is that?
“Didn't know you were religious,” he tells me, coming over to stand on the opposite side of the stump.
Trevone's eyes trail the length of my body, from my black combat boots all the way up to the black tank with the mesh neckline—and the bright red bra underneath. His smile is slick and polished, like he's aware that he's the hottest guy at the high school.
But like I said, me and high school boys … it's just not right.
I want men.
Note to self: see a fucking psychologist.
“I'm not,” I respond evenly, rubbing the back of my hand across my sweaty forehead. “I just needed to get out of the city for a while.”
