Page 90 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
“I’ll see y’all tonight,” I drawl, mimicking a bit of Reba’s Southern flair.
The girls back off, but Crown reaches down and grabs my arm, inked fingers curling around my pale flesh and sending flares of heat through me. I lift my eyes to his, and find a critical expression on his face.
“Where are you going?” he asks me, and I smile. Girls’ locker room. One place you can’t follow me. At least I’ll get a moment of peace, a slice of privacy I’ve been severely missing this past week.
“To the gym,” I quip, flipping my dark hair and pulling from his grip.
My boots are loud as I walk away, and I can feel him following me, all the way to the door.
But not inside of it.
Nope.
Just like he won’t be following me when I make my great escape. I need to be careful though. One mistake here, and I’m dead. Whatever Cat needs me to do at this party tonight, I’ll have to do it, no matter how horrible it is.
And that terrifies the shit out of me.
Dance with the devil to escape the pits of hell; it better be worth it.“Why did you tell them I’d be going to the party?” I ask, staring down at my bed and the few pieces of clothing I have left. Hardly enough to put together a respectable outfit. Cat has seriously fucked my style.
I don’t look at Crown when he moves into the room to stand beside me, pointing down at the torn black Metallica t-shirt that I inherited from Gaz. The last thing I want to do is wear my brother’s old tee, but … its authenticity is unchallenged. This isn’t a Hot Topic knock-off, this is real merch that Cat got from a concert in San Francisco, some place called The Stone. “September 18th, 1982, best night of my life save the night I joined the club.” Cat has never included marrying my mother or having his four children in his best night of my life speeches.
Piece of shit.
“Maybe that, with the dark jeans, boots, and the jacket?” I’m not sure if Crown is trying to be helpful or if he’s mansplaining my outfit to me. Tossing some hair over my shoulder, I give him my best narrow-eyed look. It’s a look I inherited from Cat, one that can crumble men like trees in a snowstorm. Not Crown though. I think he’s immune after all this time hanging around Cat. “You know I can’t tell you why Cat wants you to go. Only … that he does.” Crown reaches under his vest and pulls a small plastic-wrapped package out, tossing it over to me.
It’s an eight-ball of coke.
My eyes snap up to Crown’s, and a spike of fear shoots through me along with Beast’s words. “We don’t sell to kids.” And as far as I’ve ever known, the club doesn’t. Too risky. Kids start overdosing and dying, people start asking questions. Death by Daybreak isn’t above taking shots at law enforcement, but if at all possible, they practice avoidance first.
“What is this?” I ask, and then wave a hand dismissively when Crown gives me a sad, sardonic little smile. “I know it’s fucking blow, Crown, but why are you giving this to me? Makes me real suspicious-like,” I drawl, sampling Reba’s Southern accent.
Crown sighs and runs his fingers through his curly hair. Fuck, that hair. It’s begging for me to touch it. I smell leather and suede and violets as Crown circles around behind me, moving over to my desk and picking up a framed photo of Queenie and Posey. His knuckles are white as he clutches it in an iron-grip, strength better reserved for holding a Magnum or the handlebars of an Indian Chieftain Classic, and not just a simple woodshop-made picture frame.
Something’s wrong.
I mean, the mafia’s in town, and they’re frequenting the casino, and they’ve lost their heir to the throne. Clearly, a lot of shit is wrong, but giving me an eight-ball of coke and telling me to attend a high school party at the Artefact … that’s all sorts of messed-up.
“You don’t like this either,” I continue, pressing the vice president of DBD. He’s a good guy, underneath all the drug running and weapons smuggling and kowtowing to Cat. Huh. Or maybe not? “Crown, what is this shit laced with?”
He glances over his shoulder at me, eyes shadowed with darkness, like the forest in a wild storm, evergreen at midnight. His curly brown hair tumbles over his forehead, and he shoves it back with an angry, inked hand.
“I don’t ask questions of my president, Gidge, and you shouldn’t either.” He sets the picture down, and then turns fully to look at me, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. “When is it going to be enough for you? How far do you really think you can push your father?”
