Page 59 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
Interesting.
Every other song, I chug a new beer, looking for an even greater high. But with the blow in my veins, I can’t seem to get drunk. Or maybe I am, and I just can’t feel it?
Sweat pours down my spine, pooling on my lower back and sticking the hem of my skirt to my skin. With all the dancing, my breasts seem half ready to pop out of my top. Good. Let them. I don’t give a fuck. I feel light, weightless, like I’ve crossed the Veil into another world. Everything in this shitty clubhouse is shiny, sparkling.
Laughter bubbles up and out of my throat as the song ends and the crowd seems to draw away from the dance floor like a flock of birds. I shove sweat-drenched hair from my face and watch them go, curious to see what they’re all looking at.
Sin’s eyes follow me as I push through the crowd bottle-necking the narrow hall that leads to the front of the clubhouse. I walk right past him, flipping my hair as I go. It hits him in the face, but all he does is scowl, and then start to follow along behind me, the dutiful little bodyguard.
When I break through to the front of the cheering, screaming group, I find Beast, shirtless and flecked with blood and sweat.
There’s a circle in the center of the room, cleared of furniture and people, filled with Beast’s big body, and the body of his very muscular opponent, a man I recognize from around the club’s compound. Pretty sure his name is Dozer, or something as equally stupid as that.
Beast cracks his knuckles, rolling his head on his neck, his blue eyes an infuriating sort of calm. This isn’t a random bar brawl right here. No, it’s a match. I can tell from the money exchanging hands, the jeers of the crowd, and the look on the enforcer’s face. If he were truly angry, we’d all know it. There’s a reason his nickname is Beast.
Those cool blue eyes focus on me, and I see one sandy brow rise up. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from the man.
“Don’t you have a curfew or something?” Grainger asks, and I flick my gaze his direction. There’s a reason I’ve always hated him. We’ve hung out several times in the past few months, had a few beers together at the house when he was on guard-duty. And yet, he didn’t even remember my fucking face.
“Maybe. Do you have a short-term memory problem?” He’s staring at me with his mouth in a flat line, nostrils flared. I can see a muscle in his jaw ticking with anger. “Scratch that: do you have a short and a long-term memory issue? How could you not recognize me?”
“You look different,” he snaps, as if the whole situation in the bathroom was my fault. “Something about your face.” I lift both brows in surprise. There’s nothing much different about me. I’ve been wearing leather and miniskirts and makeup for six months or more. But then I realize that’s not what he means. My face … it’s the anger he can sense, that violent churning that’s taken the place of my melancholy.
Or, fuck, maybe Grainger isn’t that deep at all, and he’s just talking about my lipstick?
“Is that what made you stick your fingers inside of me?” I ask, and he cringes, gritting his teeth hard and looking around like he expects Cat to pop out and confront him at any moment. Ignoring the idiot’s frustratingly handsome face, I turn back to the makeshift ring and watch Beast face off against Dozer, his knuckles wrapped with red, his face a serene mask.
Even though I’m not afraid of Beast, I wouldn’t want to meet him in a back alley either. He’s the type you don’t see coming until it’s too late, like a tiger on padded paws. Crossing my arms over my chest, I let a cocky-sweet smile fall over my lips, noticing that his eyes flicker over to me. That’s the first time I truly realize both the power and the folly of my femininity, like a sweet honey that can bring both pollen and stings.
Beast notices me, reaching up to scrub his hand over the golden stubble on his jaw. He doesn’t smile back, but there’s a shift in his energy that I like. He’s noticed me, that’s for sure.
“I put my fingers in you because I thought you were an of-age, available groupie,” Grainger says finally, satisfied that Cat is nowhere near us, that the rumble of the crowd is loud enough to drown out his words. My lips purse, and I flick my attention back his way. “Jesus, are you stupid? Do you know how much trouble you could’ve gotten me in?”
“Are you fucking serious?” I snap back, cheeks heating. After the intimate moment we just shared, shouldn’t Cade be, like, nicer to me or something? He doesn’t seem to give a crap that he just took a little bit of my innocence into his inked hands. “It’s not my responsibility to announce my age or apologize if you find me attractive. You could really use a women’s studies class or something. Pig.”
