Page 11 of I Was Born Ruined (Death by Daybreak MC 1)
“I'll talk to you if I goddamn well feel like it,” he says, and that's why I've been avoiding him.
Because I hate him.
“Let's not make God wait, shall we?” Reba says, standing near the foot of the church steps and looking at Grainger like she'd kill him if the Bible didn't explicitly say not to.
“I'm not going in that fucking building,” Grainger says, lifting his glasses up so I can see the soul-deep umber color of his eyes. They kill me, those goddamn eyes of his.
“Why? Afraid you'll catch fire?” I ask, moving back a few steps and wondering how the hell I managed to get permission from Cat to attend church. The only church he attends is the one in the back of the clubhouse, the secret meeting room for him and all his boys to sit around and act like they own the world.
“Because I'm not exactly excited at the prospect of being surrounded by a bunch of self-righteous assholes who think they have all the answers. If Cat hadn't asked me to bring you here, your ass would be locked up in a fucking tower.”
“Oh, fairytale references,” I say, clapping my hands in a slow, sarcastic way that makes Grainger grit his teeth. He bites down so hard on his lip rings that he draws blood. “How manly.”
“Your dad lets you get away with too much shit. Maybe I'll suggest a leash next time I see him.”
“Maybe he'll say yes—after all, seems like you're already wearing one.”
“Really?” Grainger asks, taking a position up on the left of the stairs and planting the rubber sole of his boot against the wall. He lights up a cigarette and scoffs a harsh laugh in my direction. I squint as the sun catches on the silver crescent moon of his belt buckle. “You want to go there, sweetheart?”
I grit my teeth and try to ignore him, heading up the steps in a pair of red flats and skinny jeans, missing my leather pants and high heeled boots already. But Cat … he's on the warpath right now. If he sees that the pants Beast burned the other night in the backyard aren't the only pair of skintight black booty huggers I've got in my closet, he might just raid my room.
Or have the guys raid my room.
I don't ever want any of those bastards in my fucking room.
“He taints the air he breathes,” I tell Faith as we step inside the small foyer, onto a sea of faded burgundy carpet and walls the color of that salted caramel ice cream I've been obsessed with all summer. The room smells like the stale floral perfume my grandmother left on her dressing table when she died, the bottles that even now, ten years later, are still sitting there collecting dust. When Queenie and Posey were murdered, and the four fuckers from hell were dragging me around the city like a dog on a leash, I spent a lot of time at my grandma's place, digging through boxes of mementos. At one point, I popped a gold top on a bottle filled with pale pink fragrance, and gave it a sniff.
I almost choked to death on the stench.
“It smells like ancient history in here,” I say, but in the back of my mind, I'm just glad that it doesn't smell like Grainger, that blazing sensuality that radiates off of him like light from the sun. He's got this fiery bite to his scent, like cumin and saffron, black pepper and vanilla. It's too much.
“Just get on up here and take a seat,” Reba says, putting her arm through mine and tugging me down the fairly sparse aisles to the front row. Even though her relationship with her dad is rough, Reba says the one thing that he knows how to do is inspire others.
I'll believe it when I see it.
“I told you,” Reba whispers as soon as she gets my butt situated on the faded, threadbare cushion of the front right pew, “no Grainger. Why in heck is he here?”
I sigh and lean my head back against the wood, dark hair hanging like a sheet behind me.
“Cat won't talk to me,” I whisper back, staring up at vaulted ceilings and wood beams dripping with cobwebs. “As usual,” I add, because there's nothing unusual about my asshole father withholding information from me. I'm not part of his club, not privy to his secrets. “But whether it's just a punishment for the bonfire or some new threat, I've got the boys around the clock.”
“Can't you ask Leroy to give you a different bodyguard?”
I lift my head up and tuck strands of black-on-black hair behind my ear. Both my sisters were blonde, but somehow, I ended up with Cat's—Leroy's—hair color. What a drag.
“And then he'll want to know why,” I say, biting my lower lip, filling my mind flood with the memory. “What am I supposed to tell him then? That Grainger and I—”
