Page 32 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
Sin hesitates for a moment, the small silver hoops in his ears catching the light from the fire that I didn’t notice until just now. It’s actually quite cozy in here. You wouldn’t think it could be, considering the number of bodies beneath the floorboards. That, and probably hidden in the walls, little pieces of people who pissed the club off.
People like me.
“I believe you,” he tells me finally and then he, too, turns and heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob and glances back at me. “I’m glad you’re back, Gidge. Things were weird around here without you.”
Sin leaves the room, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.
Those four cocksuckers … they’re lying for me.
Lying to the club. Lying to Cat. Lying to their brothers.
For me. Because of me.
As I’d always suspected and, at times, feared, there’s something here.
Something that I can’t ignore, no matter how much I wish that I could.
After another nap, I wake up and spend several minutes trying to find my feet. I’m like a fresh-born foal, splay-legged and stumbling. With a curse, I end up falling against the stone edge of the fireplace. I must’ve lost a fuck-ton of blood. Must’ve had a transfusion of some sort. All of which would’ve taken place … here.
I wonder whose blood is in me? Every person in the club—and their wives and children—are tested, and records are kept for this very purpose. It isn’t prudent to go running to the hospital every time there’s a shooting.
Eventually, I get myself together enough to open the door, staring down a hallway with wood floors and a faded runner in burgundy with cream accents. The colors remind me of the ones back at the mafia palace, and I shudder. Ever heard the term pretty poison? That’s what they’re talking about, those writers with their fancy metaphors and purple prose bullshit. Sometimes, the gleam of sunlight on the edge of a guillotine is beautiful, just before it takes your head off. Sometimes, blood is beautiful, the color of rubies, even as it streams from your dead sister’s body.
I make myself move forward, using the walls on either side of me for balance. The stairs are another matter altogether. Even though it stings my pride a bit, I sit on my ass and scoot down them, like I did as a child, when Queenie and Posey were beside me. Queenie walked down the stairs with her head held high, hand on the banister, frowning at Posey who always slid down it recklessly enough that she was covered in scrapes and bruises.
I shove the memories back where they belong, into the shadows of my heart, and stand up, moving through the cavernous old house toward the kitchen. Someone is cooking. I have my guess as to who it is, but it’s still weird to walk around the corner and see my mother bent over the stove, tasting a spoonful of something steamy and sweet-smelling.
She doesn’t hear me at first, so I take advantage of that, leaning my shoulder against the doorjamb and watching as she moves over to the cupboard, taking down two bowls that used to belong to my grandmother. More specifically, Cat’s mother. I always found that a bit weird, that Cat had a mother at all. Like, wasn’t he just birthed into existence in hellfire and brimstone? The idea that he came out of a woman’s body is disturbing.
Nellie’s thin, weak frame scares me. I mean, she’s always been skinny as hell. Mostly from the coke and the occasional meth, the drinking and partying, and all the fucking. When she gave that up—after her daughters died—she started cooking all our meals at home and put on a bit of weight. Not much, just enough so that she lost that bony, druggy look.
She looks like a skeleton right now. I can see the blades of the bones in her shoulders, sharp enough to cut.
“Nellie.”
I say her name softly, so as not to startle her.
It does anyway, and she drops one of the bowls. It shatters on the floor as she clutches the other to her chest, spinning to face me. Already, there are tears on her cheeks. I don’t know how to respond to that. I’ve spent years hating Nellie, wishing she were dead, curling my lip at her and murmuring the worst possible insults I could come up with.
Now …
“Gidget,” she whispers, setting the bowl down on the counter and approaching me with this eagerness that makes me shift uncomfortably. My eyes slide to the side, searching for an escape from the emotional tornado that this woman has become. “Oh, my baby. My sweet baby.”
I look back at her just in time to wince in anticipation of a hug. Well, the start of one anyway. She lifts her arms and then pauses, like she can sense my hesitation.
