Page 35 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
I won’t let myself falter twice.
Maybe if I’d been this on top of my shit the last time the mafia was in town, my sisters would be alive? I’m not taking any chances this go-around. I’ve already learned my lesson, been bitch-slapped so hard by life that whatever damage I just took to the head from my fall is nothing. Less than nothing.
I raise my weapon up, move the barrel from the man’s face down to his knees. I can’t fire anywhere else for fear of hitting Fem. With a single twitch of my finger, I blow a hole in my attacker’s leg and he howls like a banshee. Doesn’t stop him from lifting his weapon up and putting it to my dog’s side. With a whistle, I call Fem back and he releases the man with blood staining his white lips. The mafia asshole takes another shot and ends up hitting a girl in the shoulder, a girl I don’t even know.
By coming here, I killed a teenager and wounded another.
This is my fault.
This all my fucking fault.
Carefully, but quickly, I line up one more shot on the man’s arm and shoot. He drops the gun as blood sprays across the floor. I’m jostled by girls shoving past on their way to the exit, slipping and sliding in crimson puddles, as mindless as impala being chased by lions. They don’t even know what the real threat is or where they’re going, only that they want to run, get out, escape.
I stand there until they’re all gone, leaving me with nothing but the creaking swing of the screen door, the moans of the injured girl, and the screams of the man on the floor at my feet.
The Magnum is still in my hand when Grainger shoves his way into the cabin, followed closely by Beast. The look Grainge throws me is acrimonious rancor. It’s like he wants me dead or something.
“Motherfucking son of a bitch,” he snarls as Beast moves over to stand beside me, his sapphire eyes dark with the taste of a hunt. He’s mad. Oh, you bet your ass he’s mad at me. But he doesn’t show it with a freaking temper tantrum like Grainger. Instead, my father’s enforcer—the man in charge of keeping the rest of the club in line—gives me a once-over to make sure I’m okay, pulls out a gun of his own, and puts a round through the skull of my attacker.
“Thought you might need an informant,” I whisper, my voice much shakier than I want it to be. I engage the safety on my pistol and let it hang loosely by my right side as Grainger growls instructions into his radio, and a sea of bikers descends on the cabin.
Give ‘em fifteen minutes or so, and they’ll have the blood cleaned up, the bodies gone, and the cops greased. How they’re going to deal with the death and serious injury of two Christian camp teens, I have no idea, but this is one moment where I’m glad I’m not in charge of the Death by Daybreak Motorcycle Club.
None of that is my problem.
What is my problem … is the heavy mantle of punishment that’s going to fall on my shoulders.
That is, if the guilt of what I’ve just done doesn’t overwhelm me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the bloodstain spreading across the floor near Carol Briggs’ bunk. She’s her mom’s only daughter, a woman who was so shamed by having a child out of wedlock that she dragged her and her kid up from the Deep South to hide in the forests of Oregon.
What. Have. I. Done?
“We already have three,” Beast says, his voice like thunder. It shakes me to the core. And it scares me, too, because I don’t want to see the lightning strike. Should I start counting down the seconds to see how far away the storm is? “Let’s go.” He steps over the body toward the door, expecting me to follow along behind him.
Grainger, however, is not so hands-off. He storms over to me, through the blood and the gore, and he gives me this look that’s carnal fucking hell. With his teeth gritted and his umber eyes flashing, he reaches out and grabs my arm, yanking me toward the door.
“I don’t need your help!” I snarl, jerking back from him and slipping in the blood. I go down hard on my ass in hot, sticky red and feel my heart clench and shudder in my chest. Turning my head to the right, I see the girl with the wound in her shoulder, eyes rolled back in her head, moaning and moaning. I want to help her, but there’s no time for that. It’s best that I go with the club and get them the hell out of here, so this girl can get medical attention.
