I Was Born Ruined

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Eat a dick,” I snap, turning around and walking backwards, so I can flip him off. Gaz glares at me, but he doesn't move to stop me. We're not at that point yet, where he's using his anger and hatred for me to exert control. Not yet. We'll get there; Cat will get there. But everyone is still grieving, frozen in time, stuck in melancholy like Pompeii was forever frozen in ash.

  But I’m tired of being stuck, so I leave and head for the old foreclosed Victorian where all the good parties are. Being drunk or stoned or fucked has got to be better than being sad. Nothing is worse than being sad.

  My bodyguard of the day is Colton Young aka Sin, and he doesn't give me much of a head start. At first, when he was assigned to watch over me, he tried to stay back and pretend he wasn't there, like he was giving me some semblance of privacy. Or just avoiding me, maybe.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, and I shrug, smoking a cigarette and thinking how at sixteen I'm so goddamn cool. The wind lifts my skirt, but I don't care because I've put on panties that I want everyone to see.

  “To party,” I say with a shrug. I can feel that white-hot anger surging through me. I know why it's there and where it's come from, but I don't know what to do with it. I just miss my sisters. I just want my sisters back. My life thus far, it hasn't been pretty, but even with all the shit my parents put us through, we had each other.

  Now … I'm all alone.

  And it pisses me off.

  “At the Artefact?” Sin asks, and I pause, glancing over at him idling on his bike next to the curb. His hair is shaved short, but only because the guys in the club have been mercilessly teasing him for the purple Mohawk. I miss it, but I'm not about to tell him that.

  “How do you know about the Artefact?” I ask suspiciously, and Sin laughs.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he snorts, kicking the brake into place and leaning back, crossing those finely muscled arms over his chest. He’s tattooed in glorious Americana, a Route 66 sign in the crook of one arm, the Statue of Liberty on the other. I can't look away from the swells of his biceps, the wicked curve of his smirk, and those eyes, charcoal flecked silver that burns with hidden embers, long doused but still piping hot. “I'm not that old. I used to party there, too.” Sin shakes his head and looks away, in the direction of the old house. The brass plate near the crooked front door reads Jensen Manor and Inn, an Artefact of Historic Downtown Ashbury. But artifact is spelled all weird, like it's British or something. I don't even know. “Besides, you think the club doesn't know where all the seedy hot spots are?” He looks me up and down, like Gaz did, but his assessment is decidedly more pleasant. Less hatred, more appreciation. He thinks I’m hot, huh? I wonder with a smirk, doing my very best not to think about our kiss in the cemetery. That wasn’t flirtation, that was something darker; that was desperation. “You want to party, huh?”

  “Duh,” I say, thinking I'm seriously fucking killing this. I probably look like an idiot. Sin gestures with his head for me to climb on his bike.

  “If you want to party for real, get on.” He waits for me to take up the spot behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and breathing in his scent. Sin smells like hot leather and cinnamon gum, laced with tobacco, cloves, and fresh male sweat. I fucking love it. He smells like trouble, and I’m all about trouble right now.

  “I could bottle your smell and sell it,” I murmur, sitting up a bit and leaning forward to press a kiss to his ear. Sin stiffens up and his tattooed fingers curl around the handlebars of the bike.

  “You think so?” he asks, his voice pitched in a deep purr, like he’s getting ready to break into an angsty metalcore song, something written for his dead sister. My skin prickles, and I feel this almost tangible connection between our broken souls. He has a dead sister; I have dead sisters. We’re birds of a feather, me and him.

  I don’t answer, and after a moment, Sin kickstarts the engine, and we take off, turning around in the middle of the street and heading back in the direction of the Death by Daybreak Clubhouse.

  The clubhouse.

  Oh. Am I old enough to be invited to the clubhouse now? I feel a sharp thrill in my blood as we weave through side streets and then crawl through roads flanked by forests, sun-dappled and cool with shadows. It’s a decent drive, far enough from the city that the suburbs can’t hear the parties.

  Or the screams.

  Half an hour later, we pull through the gates and head across the compound, towards the bar. Men and women mingle outside, under strings of white lights. There are kegs and empty hard liquor bottles, raucous laughter and fucking, all under a cloud of screaming metal music. The California chapter of Death by Daybreak is in town, and they're having a bit of a celebration. It's only been six months since my sisters died, and the party feels like a betrayal. I turn that sadness into anger real quick, let it burn my blood to ash.

  Sin pulls up in a space near the front, and I climb off, noticing several of the club-whores giving me wicked once-overs. Better not start shit with me though. They know who my father is.

  I feel like a princess when I strut up those stairs and grab a beer. Cat is nowhere to be seen, but Beast is staring at me from across the room. He doesn't hesitate to make his way over. My heart thumps wildly, but I don’t pay it much attention. Beast is hot, so what? There are, like, a dozen guys in here that fit that description. Maybe you’re just scared of him? my unconscious mind whispers, but I brush her assessment off. Most of the men in Cat’s club are afraid of their Enforcer; I never have been. Can’t say why. He’d kill me if my father asked him to, that much I know for sure. And yet … I can’t seem to summon up an ounce of fear for the big man with the ice-blue eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice like spring runoff, freshly melted and wicked cold. Doesn't bother me. I'm wicked hot, so all it does is cool my overheated skin. I pop the top on my beer and drink some while he stares at me. His hair is sandy, like it was once light brown but all that sun has bleached it. It matches his short beard, well-groomed compared to other members of the club. I usually hate beards, but it looks good on Beast.

  “Partying,” I quip, and later, when I remember this moment, I’ll wonder if he thought I was beautiful or stupid. If he looked at me like a woman or a nuisance. “Word is this is the best place in town.”

  “It is the best place in town for that,” Beast replies smoothly, letting me drink the beer even though he doesn't look particularly happy about it. “But it's no place for you. Does Cat know you're here?”

  I shrug, but I honestly don't care. My father's barely talked to me since the murders. Besides, this is how he brought me up, bathed in cigarette smoke and fucking and the stale smell of beer. This is what I know. It's what I'm destined for, so why not embrace it?

  I finish my beer and grab another, and still, Beast doesn't stop me. He watches as I walk away, looking for Sin. I find him in the main room, up close and personal with a young blonde that I don't recognize. Seeing him leaning over her like that infuriates me, and I find myself marching across the room and grabbing him by the arm.

  “I wander off for a beer and you lose focus?” I ask, and he blinks gray eyes at me, like he has no idea what I'm talking about. Of course, the confusion in his gaze fades considerably when I slide my palms up the front of his chest and curl my fingers together behind his neck. Lifting up on my tiptoes, I press my mouth against his. There's a slight hesitation at first, and I feel a zing of hurt travel through me, amping up the angry-pain that's swirling around inside my chest.

  But then Sin's mouth opens, and I find it just as hot as my blood. His tongue slides against mine as he puts his hands on my hips and squeezes tight, pulling me against his chest. The men and women around us erupt in cheers and hoots. Well, everyone except the blonde, but fuck her.

  Sin's mouth claims mine in a way I didn't know I needed. He takes away my stress and replaces it with lust. It burns as hot as my rage, and I find myself pressing against him, encouraging him, begging him for more. He gives me wh
at I ask for, kissing me and holding on so tight his fingers are likely to leave bruises. I don’t care. It feels too damn good, like I’m losing myself in his embrace.

  And that’s what I want: to let go of my emotions completely and never find them again. I’d happily drown in Sin’s ministrations.

  We break apart for a moment, my breath fluttering like a butterfly's wings, my lips stinging.

  “I need another drink,” I whisper as Sin releases me, a noticeable bulge in his tight, dark denim jeans. Maybe I can finally lose it tonight? I think, hating my virginity with a passion. No idea why. It just feels … false. Like, it’s supposed to be this big fucking deal, and yet, all I want is to know if I can find oblivion in sex the way I can find it in alcohol.

  But if I am going to lose it tonight, I want another beer first. Makes it easier to hold onto my bravado … and my anger. My melancholy is like a specter, flitting at the edges of my vision, threatening its intrusion. I refuse to let it in.

  I can feel Sin’s eyes on me as I saunter away and grab another brown bottle, popping the top as he moves over to stand beside me. He even puts his forearm on the wall and leans over me like he was just doing to that other girl.

  A flip has been switched, and I love it.

  I'm not Cat's daughter right now. I'm not a kid. I'm a red-blooded woman in the DBD clubhouse in a short skirt and heels. I feel my lips curve into a smile.

  “What's that expression for?” Sin whispers, his voice barely audible above the din. I look up and find his face so close to mine, I think about kissing him again. But nah, I want to keep him on his toes. This whole flirting thing is seriously floating my boat tonight. It's the outlet that I needed, the one that I was looking for.

  I don't care if it's healthy or not, only that in the moment, I feel okay. And that's worth my soul right now. I'm tired of feeling sad and weepy and broken. I hate it.

  “Just enjoying myself,” I reply, shivering as he reaches down with a single inked finger and traces my clavicle. It feels so good, I can't stop myself from making a small sound, one that draws Sin's mouth to the side of my neck. He kisses his way down my skin, tasting me. Sensations overwhelm me, unfamiliar urges taking over my body. Despite my upbringing, my heritage, the fact that I was born of the devil … I'm still a virgin. “Hey,” I tell him, putting my palm against his chest and pausing our heated little moment. “I need to use the bathroom real quick.”

  Sin nods and steps away, watching as I scurry off in the direction of the back hall and the bathrooms. I've got my purse with me, so I slip into the first door I come across with the intention of refreshing my makeup. I'm not scared about what's happening with Sin: I'm excited. My virginity isn't a trophy I'm clinging to, waiting for some white-washed jock asshole to come and win. No, it's just another part of my life, and I'm ready to move forward with something different.

  I pause with my back to the bathroom door.

  “Sorry, didn't know this one was occupied,” I say when I find Cade Grainger leaning over the counter, cutting lines of white powder on a mirror. He barely pauses to look up at me, but he does smile as he lines up the coke with a razorblade.

  I've never seen that asshole smile before.

  It really throws me for a loop.

  “You want a line?” he asks me, his voice like the rumble of a beast, like one of those motorcycles outside the front door. He sounds mechanically vicious, but … in a good way. I take a step forward, still holding my purse and my beer. I've smoked plenty of pot and cigarettes, had plenty of alcohol, but I've never moved past that threshold. I've never wanted to. Before Queenie and Posey, I wanted to get as far away from all of this as possible. But now, I couldn't care less whether I live or die. So what does it matter?

  “Sure,” I say with a shrug, stepping forward and setting my purse on the counter next to the mirror. Grainger barely looks up at me as he plugs a nostril with his finger and snorts a line. I watch how he does it, so I don't look like a complete idiot. After he's done, he swipes the remaining powder up with a finger and rubs it on his gums.

  “You new around here?” he asks me as I lean over the counter, and I pause, glancing up at him from behind a sheet of dark hair. Oh. He doesn't recognize me. The asshole seriously doesn't recognize me. Am I wearing that much makeup or is he just an idiot?

  I decide I don't care either way.

  Instead of answering him, I smile mysteriously and bend down, mimicking Grainge as I press one finger to my nostril and inhale. It's a weird fucking sensation, and I end up coughing as I step back and rub at my nose. I swear, I can taste chemicals in the back of my throat, like that cleaner Queenie used to scrub the bathroom with that made me feel lightheaded. Or maybe like medicated eye drops. Yep, that’s what that taste is.

  Grainger laughs at me, hooking an arm around my waist as he leans down and snorts another line. Meanwhile, my head is buzzing and I feel like I'm swaying on my feet.

  “You're beautiful, you know that?” he tells me, and it's the only nice thing I’ve ever heard him say. I turn my head up to look at him, and even though I know it's a line, I don't care. When he bends down to press his mouth to mine, my lips are buzzing and a groan slips out unbidden. It's not an inquisitive, questing kiss or even a claiming mark. No, it's just … a whirlwind of lust and heat and debauchery. Kissing Grainger is like sipping shadows. I can feel that darkness flowing into me and taking over.

  Or maybe that's the cocaine working its magic?

  Grainger turns me to face him and then pushes me none too gently against the wall, stepping in and leaning down with the practiced perfection of a man-whore. It's nice though, all this choreographed romance being thrown my way. I wonder how long it'll take this idiot to realize who I am?

  Wrapping my arms around his neck, I kiss him deep and I don't worry about Sin. It's not like we're anything at all to each other anyway. He's probably already forgotten about me. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he abandoned me. If he’d been at the house that day, guarding me and my sisters …

  Remember to save most of your hate for Cat, my mind whispers, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that if Sin—or Crown, or Beast, or even this asshole who’s kissing me right now—were told to be at the house, they would’ve been there. It was Cat who called them off, who made a strategic error in this fucked-up game against the mafia.

  Grainger presses his scalding hot mouth to mine and slips his tongue between my lips, taking complete control over the moment and owning me with his fingers, the press of his hips against me, the tease of his cock against my stomach. I'm pretty fucking tall, especially with my heels on, clocking in at a healthy six feet. But Grainger is even taller, and I love it. He towers over me, penning me in against the mirrors and kissing me until even I can't remember my own name.

  His hands wander down my curves, fingers clamping over my hips. He works my mouth with his dark magic until my nipples are pebbled to hard points and I can feel a hot wetness between my thighs that makes me want to squirm. He tastes like cigarettes and spiced rum, and when he slides his tongue along the side of my jaw and goes for my throat, I go weak at the knees. It's suddenly hard to stand up. In fact, it's suddenly hard to think about anything other than being on my back with this huge biker asshole between my thighs.

  As if he can sense the weakness in my knees, Grainger wraps his right arm around my waist and holds me in place, using his left hand to sneak up along the fishnet tights on my thigh, teasing the strands with his finger. He snaps one against my pale flesh and chuckles. I swear that sound is of the devil himself.

  “You want to do some more blow first?” he asks, but he doesn't stop his ascent up the inside of my leg. Each movement he makes knocks me back into that velvety darkness, those shadows. My eyes flutter closed, and my head buzzes with drugs. I feel good right now, so damn good, like I could take on the world.

  The club’s sergeant-at-arms teases the tip of one finger along the length of my silken panties, stroking wetness into the fabric until my
clit is as hard and pebbled as my nipples. I'm wanting so bad in that moment, and I like it because it's a greedy, wild need that I'm feeling, lust that obliterates my worries, my pain, my thoughts, shatters them to jagged pieces.

  When he slips a finger beneath the fabric and teases my opening, it's slick, hot heat that greets him.

  “What a treat,” he snaps, sliding into me and sending bursts of white-hot flame to burn behind my eyelids. It feels good, this foreign feeling of entry, this newness that makes my whole body tingle. It's the first time anyone's ever touched me like that. I've had boyfriends before, but they never got this far. I never wanted them to. Compared to the weak flickers of flame they teased me with, Grainger is like the sun, almost too hot to touch.

  He penetrates me with that first finger and even though it's slightly uncomfortable for a moment, the pleasure soon takes over. My fingers curl together behind Grainger's neck, tugging him close to me. He's kissing and sucking on my neck, encouraging my hips to work against his hand. When he presents that second finger, stroking my clit with his thumb, I gasp, and the darkness inside of me lights up with stars. At first, I struggle against the brightness of that light, but then it gets so hot, so white, so fucking intense that it blinds me to the world.

  Grainger lets out this breath that tells me everything I need to know. It’s thick with male triumph and barely suppressed need. Apparently, I’m going to have my first time in a dirty bathroom at the clubhouse.

  Seems fitting, considering my lineage.

  My eyes open, and I focus on the sun and moon tat by Grainge’s right ear, feeling this inexplicable warmth swirl up from my spine and into my limbs, turning my fingers and toes numb.

  “Don’t stop,” I whisper, and he smirks at me.

  “I have no intention of stopping,” Grainger growls, pushing deeper, curling his fingers in just such a way that I lose all control over my own body. I’m a slave to that pleasure, and I’m happy to acquiesce to it. My memories are obliterated, my melancholy starved. I’m escaping into pleasurable oblivion, enjoying every second of that fucking ride … and then strangely, unexpectedly, that feel-good emotion takes over me and I explode, showering Grainger’s hand with heat that confuses us both for a moment.