Page 64 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I snort, wishing I had the guts to ask for more. More blow, more booze, more … of what he gave me in the bathroom? Leaning back into my pillows, I tuck my legs underneath me, my skirt hiking up and revealing a whole hell of a lot of my torn fishnet tights. Grainger’s eyes catch the movement, and I see his pupils track the movement of my hemline. “You ever heard the Bible quote about making man in God’s image?”
“Do I look like I’ve heard many Bible quotes?” Grainger asks, lifting his gaze from my thighs and letting it linger on the curve of my waist, the swell of my breasts, and then finally landing on my face. Is he … checking me out? But nah, this is Cade Grainger. He’s a fucking jerk. No, no, he’s the King of Jerks. And yet, how could I possibly mistake the lustful glimmer in his eyes? “Well, what the fuck does it say?”
“Are you always this goddamn rude?” I snap back, feeling heat suffuse my chest. It’s a different type of heat from what Sin brings though, a burn that makes me slightly uncomfortable. “I was getting to that.” Exhaling sharply, I push my hair back from my face and try to imagine Reba’s Southern drawl in my head. “Genesis 1:27: Let Us make man in Our image, after Our likeness, to rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, and over all the earth itself and every creature that crawls upon it.”
I exhale sharply, surprised that I remembered it word for word. Maybe I shouldn’t be, considering how often Reba quotes it to me. She’s a real character, that one. And one of only a few people who know how to sit beside me in my darkest moments and wait it out. If she knew what I were up to tonight, she would not approve.
“What does that have to do with you wanting to get fucked?” Grainger asks, and I grit my teeth. I swear, I hate everything about him: the sound of his voice, the way he plays with his lip rings, the stupid shit he says.
“You are so frigging impatient,” I grumble as he pulls a silver bullet necklace out from under his shirt and unscrews the top. The hell is that for? Ignoring him, I continue on with my story. “Let me make Gidget in my image, after my likeness, to rule over the depraved and the ruined, over the broken, and over the darkness itself and every asshole that crawls around in it. That’s the devil’s version of that quote. And by devil, I mean Cat.”
“Wow, clever,” Grainger says with an eyeroll. “Is this what you do in your spare time, fuck-up the Bible with your sinful, little tongue? You think you’re poison because of your dad? If anything, you should feel lucky to be made in his image. The man’s a legend.” Grainger gestures at me with a tattooed hand. “Here, use those long witch nails of yours and make yourself useful.” I narrow my eyes, but I have no idea what he wants, and my face must show it. He scowls, and holds the open bullet necklace out to me. “Use that long-ass fucking pinky nail of yours to pick up a bump and snort it.” Grainger spits the words at me like I’m a moron, and mimes the motion. Oh. There’s like, fucking cocaine in there.
Running my tongue across my lower lip, I do what he says, scooping up a bit of white powder under my shiny, black pinky nail, and snorting it like I do this every damn day. My brain lights up with colors, and the drug burns like fire through my sinuses. Oh my God, that feels good. “My turn,” he says, voice low and dark.
I dip my nail back into the bullet, scooping up another tiny portion; butterflies take over my stomach when Grainger grabs my wrist in a rough grip, lifting it to his face, and running his tongue along the length of my finger before taking the hit. He releases me abruptly, snatching the necklace back and tucking it away again, like there’s nothing brewing between us, no violent, turbulent heat simmering like virulent sin.
There so fucking is.
“Cat’s too lenient with you, if you ask me.”
“Did I? Ask, I mean. You can fuck all the way off.” I lean back into the pillows and cross my hands over my belly, enjoying the fresh surge of a glorious, glorious high. I could float away right now, drift off and never come back, and I’d be happy to say goodbye to this hell on earth.
“What you need is a good spanking,” Grainger says, and I’m not entirely sure that when he says it, he intends the double meaning. It comes out anyway, and there’s this sudden, tangible heat in the air. My eyes lift to his, and he glares right back at me. “It’s true,” he growls, leaning in toward me. “Somebody should throw you over their knee, and give you a good smack.”
