Page 31 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
I roll onto my side and do my best to fall asleep, letting the soft breathing sounds of the other girls lull me into a false sense of security. It's so peaceful out here, the night sounds of crickets and frogs drifting in through the open windows, the breeze rustling the branches of the trees.
If it weren't for Feminist, I'd have never known that something was wrong.Two years ago …I hate funerals.
All the black clothing, the shiny coffins, the parade of bikes to honor the dead.
The dead.
My sisters.
“I hate you,” I tell Cat, a veil covering my face to hide the tears. I’ve been crying nonstop since it happened. It feels like I’m still in that pantry with blood leaking under the door, like I’ll never escape that dark, closed space. Every time I close my eyes, I relive it. Even the smallest blink, the simplest flutter of lashes flashes me back to that space, that moment.
There are so many things I could’ve done differently.
If I’d grabbed the gun from the rice bag right away, maybe I could’ve defended Queenie?
If I’d pushed her into the pantry and locked the doors, maybe she’d be alive and it’d be me lying in that coffin on that stupid pink silk that doesn’t matter because she’s dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.
Nothing will ever change that.
“Shut your trap, Gidge,” Cat grumbles, staring across the cemetery toward the forest beyond it, like he, too, wishes he were anywhere but here. “I’m not going to take shit from you in front of the club.” His hands tighten into fists on his jeans, but that’s the only sign that he’s suffering. Or hell, maybe he just doesn’t like the light drizzle settling on his head? That’s how upset Cat looks right now. As in, not at all.
Maybe he doesn’t give two fucks?
“Why? Because then they might start to think about what a failure you are?” I growl, interrupting the monotonous drone of the priest. We’re not even Catholic, so I don’t give a crap about some guy in white robes spewing quotes from a book I don’t believe in. Any chance I had of believing in God went out the window when my sisters died. No loving creator would allow that sort of thing to happen to such sweet souls.
“I’m cutting you slack because of the circumstances,” Cat growls, dropping his dark gaze on me. “This is your last chance to quiet up.”
“A motorcycle club president who can’t even protect his own daughters,” I snap, and Cat lunges up and out of his chair. He grabs my wrist and yanks me up, only to pause when a big, warm hand lands on his shoulder.
“Prez,” Crown says, his voice both soft and hard at the same time. He’s protecting me from my dad? This is a first. Usually, nobody bothers. My father back-handed me once in front of his crew and not a single man raised a fist to defend me. Some badass bikers they are: must take huge balls to throw around a sad, confused teenage girl.
Anyway, if anyone were to stand up for me, it’d be Sin.
And yet … he’s nowhere to be seen. I think he’s taking Queenie’s and Posey’s deaths harder than Cat.
“Let me handle her,” Crown continues as Cat throws him off with a scowl, giving me a look that’s equal parts love … and hate? Anger? Resentment? I have no idea. When he stormed in the front door with his posse behind him, toting guns and tattoos, cigarettes and scowls, he found me kneeling in Queenie’s blood, petting her hair back from her forehead.
I was crying when they ripped me away from her body.
And then Cat was screaming at me, demanding answers that I didn’t have.
How could I let this happen? Didn’t we know where the guns were? Why were my sisters gone when I was still standing?
Questions I couldn’t answer, questions that he had no right to ask me.
Years later, I’d realize that, and my hatred for him would morph from antipathy to violent, transcendent rage. It would burn so hot, it would turn me to ash from the inside out, just like the gray flakes floating through the cold, cemetery air like dirty snow.
Forest fires, burning far away, drifting down and poisoning everything.
Not that it matters: everything here is dark, tainted, unsavable.
“You fucking better,” Cat snaps, curling his lip at me, the double coffins behind me laden with white roses and covered in ash and drizzle. “Before I lose my temper.” He stalks off with my brother trailing behind him like a trained dog. Two seats over, Nellie puts her face in her hands and weeps, smearing mascara behind her veil.
“Come on, Gidge, let’s take a walk,” Crown says, gesturing for me to follow along behind him. He turns, flashing the logo on the back of his cut. I stare at the eclipse for a moment before I get up, pausing next to Queenie’s coffin and tickling my fingers against the shiny, wood surface. They buried her with her unborn baby. I wonder sometimes if I’d called 911 instead of Cat, if maybe the paramedics could’ve saved her child.
