Page 95 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
“Take Fem for you?” she asks, her voice high and tight. I notice her hand hovering around her throat. There was this true crime show I watched once, where the host broke down body language for the viewers using police body cam footage. A hand to the throat apparently means the listener doesn’t like what the speaker is saying. Guess Reba isn’t too happy with me right now. “Why would I need to take your dog, Gidge?” Standing up straight, I dig around in my pocket and light up another cigarette. “Is this because of the mafia?”
Lifting my face up, I look at Reba, really take in her every feature, wondering if I’ll ever find a friend as good as her. I hope so. That is, if I live long enough to make new friends. Pulling the smoke from my lips, I exhale and close my eyes.
“Please don’t ask me questions you know I can’t answer.” My eyes meet Reba’s, but I don’t know what else to say. Goodbye? No, I can’t say it aloud. If I do, she’ll hound me until she gets an answer. Passionate about the things she loves, that’s Reba Keller. Heh. The things she loves … including me, huh? “I’m sorry for pushing you,” I whisper, and then I turn and head down the hallway toward the staircase.
Reba follows me, calling out my name, but the music’s just switched to some awful mumble rap bullshit. Gross. Sprinting up the stairs, I check the old bedrooms until I find one that doesn’t have teens fucking in it. That’s a seriously hard friggin’ task.
The last room on the right—what used to be the master bedroom, I think—is empty, so I slip inside and slam the door, locking it behind me. There’s a mattress in here, but it doesn’t look near as old and decayed as the rest of the house. Probably got dragged in by some horny kids looking for a good time. Flopping down on the edge of it, I ignore the questionable stains and put my head in my hands, cigarette smoke trailing from my lips.
What’s the plan, Gidget? How are you going to get to Grey without anyone seeing? On top of that, how are you going to get away if you do free him?
My mind is working on overtime, desperately searching for answers. There is no alternative plan; this is how things have to go tomorrow. I have to leave, and I have to take that kid with me. If I don’t, then I may as well have pulled that trigger on him because he’ll be dead before the week is out.
“Fuck,” I growl, lifting my head back up and tossing my cigarette in the corner. It’s just my luck that it happens to catch a pile of debris, starting up a small flame. Standing up with a groan, I storm over and crush the embers out with my boot, pausing as I notice the partially open closet door. There are names scrawled all over the wall in there. It’s called the hook-up wall for a reason. It’s tradition around here to, after a hook-up, come in and scrawl your name on the wall along with your partner’s.
I’ve looked at it before, searching for Posey’s name—it’s on there several times—but maybe I was too drunk or high to realize there are names on the baseboards around the room, too, and not just in the closet. Dropping to my knees, I shove piles of old Solo cups and dried leaves away from the wall, wishing I had my phone, so I’d have a fucking flashlight. Instead, I’m forced to rely on my lighter, the flame dancing as I crawl my way along the stream of names carved into the old wood molding.
The dates in the corner are far too old to be from Posey’s or Queenie’s time, but I work my way around until I find some from their high school years.
My fingers trace letters, coming across Posey’s name not once, not twice, but three times.
“Jesus,” I grumble, realizing that her name’s in here a good dozen times over. I’m not one to judge. Hell, it really was Jesus who said that he who is without sin should chuck the first stone, right? And ain’t nobody’s free of sin. We’re all draped, dressed, and doused in it. Me, though, I’m one of a few who revel in it.
Just when I’m about to give up and head back downstairs for another beer, my fingers trace across a familiar Q.
See, Queenie always wrote her name with a specific flourish, a Q whose tail twisted into a flower, and a matching I with a dot that bloomed the same way. My hands start to shake, the flame on the lighter bouncing around as I lean in close to look at the date … and the name sandwiched between it and Queenie’s scrawled signature.
