Page 58 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
“Sir,” Crown begins, and it’s the closest to defiance I’ve ever heard from him. My mouth pops up, and my heart pounds. Not sure why. Maybe it’s because I can still feel Grainger and Sin behind me, their anger a palpable cloud in the smoky air? Or maybe it’s Crown’s long, warm fingers wrapped around my arm, making my flesh pebble with goose bumps?
“Crown, you stupid or something? I said leave the girl alone.” Crown releases me like he’s been burned, his nostrils flaring, full mouth flattening into a thin line. Now he’s pissed at me, too. Well, good for him, he can deal. I rub my palm over the spot where he grabbed me, glaring daggers in his direction. “Besides, the mafia’s in town again. Wouldn’t want her getting raped and killed like her sisters.”
My eyes widen and bile rises in my throat. I spin to face Cat, but he’s already walking away. I can hear Crown move up behind me.
“Gidget,” he warns, but I’m already moving, rage pumping hot in my veins. How dare he?! How dare he talk about my sisters like that?! If I can reach Cat, I’ll kill him. But Grainger and Sin get in my way, each taking hold of my arms as I let out a scream that’s swallowed up by the metal music blaring from the speakers.
“Fuck you!” I screech, but Cat is already turning the corner, ignoring me like he usually does. Crown moves up beside me as I tear my arms from Grainger’s and Sin’s grips, unshed tears blurring my vision, my teeth gritted so hard my jaw hurts. “Your president’s a fucking monster,” I snarl at the three of them, using my shoulder to shove past Crown and head back into the throng that’s gathered near the bar.
I’ve downed an entire beer before I realize that Sin is standing next to me again. Oh, right. He’s supposed to be my bodyguard. I guess he won’t let me too far out of his sight tonight, huh? Curling my fingers around the neck of my bottle, I take a deep breath and hazard looking over at him.
He’s still pissed.
I’ve blown my chance at fucking him, haven’t I?
“Why don’t you tell me how stupid I am for letting Grainger get to me?” I whisper, the colors and sounds of the room blurring into background noise. The coke has seriously set me on edge. I feel like fighting somebody. Mostly, I feel like murdering Cat.
“Lines of blow, Gidget? Seriously?” Sin scoffs like he’s disgusted with me, reaching up to run his fingers through his nearly non-existent hair. There’s just a purple fuzz that’s left. Seems to bother him, so he drops his hand by his side and shakes his head. “Were you guys fucking in there?” The question holds such a punch that I pause and look over at him. Sin’s eyes are ringed in liner, the silver color that much brighter because of the dark, lurid shadows all around us.
“We were getting there,” I admit, and he makes this frustrated sound that I can’t quite place.
“You’re sixteen—and just barely at that,” Sin snaps, as if that makes any difference. My mother is fifteen years younger than my father. The rotten apple doesn’t fall from the tree, right? This is my destiny, this hellhole of drugs, alcohol, sex, and crime. This is my future now. “He’s old enough to be your fucking dad.”
“Really?” I ask snidely, sneering. I don’t mean to, but Cat’s comment and Crown’s overprotectiveness have really pissed me off, and I need someone to take it out on. “And you would care, why? What’s it to you?”
Sin opens his mouth to reply, and then snaps it shut at the last moment. He purses his lips and looks away from me, refusing to take the bait. I know that somewhere in his past, there’s a tragedy lurking, digging its ugly claws into the edges of his mind. He lost a little sister; he used to see me as a little sister. But what does he see me as now?
Pushing away from the counter, I weave my way into the crowd and try to lose myself to the loud music and the churning bodies, the stink of sweat and beer and weed. Several of the men find their way to me, admiring the new girl in the short skirt. None of them recognize me either, but at least none of the old-timers try to dance with me. Anyone over thirty-five that tries to touch me is getting a boot in the balls.
Sin stays at the edge of the room, arms crossed over his firm chest, scowling so violently that none of the club-whores try to flirt with him. In fact, he’s putting off such rage-y vibes that a small space clears around him. But I can feel his gray eyes watching me, taking in my undulating body with unwilling appreciation. He wants to hate me, to be mad at me, but he can’t do it.
