“Heard rumors you might be showing up here tonight,” he says, looking at me with a steamy but wary sort of gaze, like he’d enjoy recreating that night at church camp, but doesn’t know if he’s willing to trust me again. I stomp up the steps, leaping over the hole, and landing with a satisfying flutter of dry, dead leaves. Trevone hands me a beer without my having to ask for it. “Surprised you’re willing to show your face.”
“Oh?” I ask with a raise of my brows, popping the top on the bottle and slugging nearly all of it in one go. Trevone looks on appreciatively, and then grins, handing me another. “And what rumors precede me now? Have I poisoned the volleyball team’s Gatorade? Fucked the entire football team?”
“Definitely not the entire football team,” Trevone says with a cocky half-smile. I swear, somewhere in the darkness, I can feel Crown watching me. For a moment, I’m tempted to kiss Trevone and see what happens. Dating Amber, huh? Well, if Crown wants her as his old lady, I’m sure she’ll jump at the chance. That woman’s been slobbering for a position in the club for years with no takers. “But rumor has it all that craziness up at camp is your fault. Well, your father’s fault anyway. Also heard you were bringing me a birthday gift.” His smirk tells me all I need to know about that gift.
My stomach twists into a knot, but I cover up the feeling by finishing my first beer and a substantial portion of my second. Trevone watches me, but I’m cool as a cucumber. I’ve spent years perfecting the concealment of my emotions. A little thing like this, it doesn’t mean shit. Especially since I’m not going to have to put up with it for much longer. That knot in my stomach gets a little tighter, but I can’t think too hard about it. Running is my only option. Saving that … that kid, is my only option. Rather, it’s the only option I have that I’ll be able to live with for the rest of my life.
“Funny how rumors work, huh?” I ask, feeling the beat of the music in the bottoms of my feet. “Sometimes they get things dead wrong.” I pull the cocaine out from inside my jacket and see Trevone’s eyes widen. “And sometimes they get them dead right.” He snatches the drugs in mid-air and grins at me. “You know how to lay out a line?”
“I’m guessing you can teach me?” he asks, and I shrug, setting my beer down and getting out a pack of cigarettes. I smile with red-red lips as I cup a hand up against the wind, and light up.
“Of course I fucking can. I’m an outlaw’s daughter, aren’t I?”
Only a noob lays out lines with a credit card. That much I do know from being around the club. Razorblades are where it’s at, according to Cade Grainger. Fucking Grainger, I think as I serve up lines of coke to the entire senior class of Ashbury High. Dena, especially, is excited to the point of squealing. You’d think I was passing out free Louboutins, and not highly addictive and illegal narcotics.
I am most definitely going to hell, I think as I down another beer and light up another cigarette. Despite Crown’s warning, I’m not at all tempted by the drugs. I’ll stick to my lesser vices, thank you very much.
Glancing up from the old coffee table, I spot Reba in the back of the room, watching me. She is quite clearly pissed the hell off, her arms folded over her white and red cherry dress, hair twisted up in a chignon. She looks like she’s on her way to a cotillion, not standing in the crumbling living room of a long-abandoned house. Rap music blares from Johnny R.’s speakers, making what little glass is left in the windowpanes shake.
When she turns away in a huff of red hair and skirts, I stand up and follow after her, certain that there’s not enough blow left for anyone to get into too much trouble.
Reba’s waiting for me when I round the corner and find her in the archway that leads to the old dining room. Leaning my shoulder against the rotting woodwork, I cross my arms over my chest, the alcohol buzzing in my head like a swarm of bees. I wish they’d sting my brain until I was so full of venom, I forgot who I was and where I was going. To an early grave, most like.
Stan comes on over the speakers, a little old-school Eminem to rouse the crowd. I can hear them all rapping from here. The melancholy vibe of the lyrics suits my mood perfectly.
“Really, Gidge, you’re a drug dealer now?” Reba asks, spinning back around, red curls bouncing. Her green eyes are full of tears; they might as well be an ocean between us, a salty sea that capsizes every ship I try to send. I can’t build relationships here, with the club and the mafia. That lesson’s something I should’ve learned long ago, when my sisters’ shiny coffins were lowered into the dark shadows of the earth.
“Cat says jump, I ask how high.” My voice is dry and far away, almost tinny. Too much booze, too much nicotine, too much bullshit. My heart feels heavy, my skin clammy. Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow. Cat isn’t going to give me much more time.
“You …” Reba starts, cocking her head to one side, her pretty Southern perfection contrasted against the ragged old glory of the Jensen Manor, all of that sprawling urban decay making her seem even more untouchable. But even the righteous bleed. That much I’ve seen with my own eyes. Goodbye Reba, I think as she takes a step toward me and pauses again. “You’ve never once cared what your father had to say,” she reminds me, and I give a tight smile. What can I really say? I still don’t? That I’m going to disappear and never talk to her again? “What’s going on, Gidge? You know I don’t believe any of that stuff you said to me in the driveway.” She reaches up to touch the soft fabric of her white cashmere sweater, probably reaching for the bruises on her back. I’m sorry, I really am. I hadn’t meant to push her that hard.
“Really? Because you should,” I start, but my words are slurred. And it’s not just the alcohol, it’s the grief, too. Reba and Fem are the only people in my life that I still care about. What am I going to do without them?
“Jesus Christ, Gidge!” Reba shouts, slapping a hand over her mouth. My eyes widen. That’s literally the first time I’ve ever heard her curse like that. If this were any other situation, any other day, I’d be teasing her mercilessly.
Instead … “Can you take Fem for me?” I ask, and her brows go up. She reaches up to fiddle with her pearl necklace. Again, not the best time for jokes. “I’ll put him in the backyard tomorrow and let Nellie know you’ll be by to pick him up.” My mother’s far too stupid to put two and two together. I’ll just have to be sure that whoever’s on guard-duty in the morning—piece of shit Grainger, I think—doesn’t hear me tell her that. The asshole’s too smart for his own good.
“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.
Kian.
Fucking Kian.
“What the fuck?” I whisper to the empty air, settling down next to the wall and splaying my palm over the words. There’s more than just a date—a date that’s about, uh, seven months before Queenie’s death. And she was eight months pregnant when she died, I think tracing each letter with a fingertip. “Queenie and Kian, like Romeo and Juliet. I’ll love you forever, baby.” Every I is dotted with a tiny daisy. This is all Queenie’s writing.
Scrambling to my feet, I light up another cigarette and pace the floor a few times, those words turning over in my mind again and again.
Like Romeo and Juliet.
The club versus the mafia, feuding families, not unlike the Montagues and the Capulets.
Letting my body fall against the far wall, I lean my head back and close my eyes. Queenie … Kian. Those words from so long ago echo in my skull like a trapped bullet, cutting me to pieces. “This is for Kian.” Kian, who died before Queenie, at the hands of the club, Cat’s doing.
A memory flickers in the back of my mind, a fight between my father and sister that I blocked out with a pair of earbuds, just like Queenie had always taught me to do. The fight came right before she announced to the rest of the family that she was pregnant. Did Cat know first? Did he know the truth? Because if he did, and he went after Kian anyway …
A choked-off scream escapes my throat when Trevone opens the door and stumbles into the room. My heart’s pounding so fast I can barely breathe, my pulse racing too fast for comfort. It’d be so easy to close my eyes and drift away on a cloud of adrenaline and alcohol.
“What do you want?” I ask as he grins at me and puts a hand up on the wall to stay upright.
“Tina disappeared with Kellen,” he slurs, naming his on-again, off-again girlfriend and best friend with a slight sneer on his handsome face. “Thought you might want to hook-up?” With a roll of my eyes, I push off from the wall. No fucking way do I have time for Trevone Hundley and all this high school bullshit.
Not when I’ve just seen evidence that Queenie and Kian really were an item.
Cat would’ve had to know. Queenie would’ve told him. After all, how else would Cat even know Kian was the father of her child?
“Fuck off, Tre,” I say, pushing past him and then pausing as he stumbles and trips on the mattress, crashing to the floor … and not getting back up. Dropping to my knees beside him, I check his pulse and see that he’s still breathing. There’s vomit on his mouth though, and his eyes have rolled into the back of his head. “Holy shit,” I whisper as I hear footsteps on the stairs, Crown sweeping into the room behind me.
“Get up. I’ve called the police. We need to be out of here before they arrive.”
“What the fuck have you done?” I choke out as Crown moves over to stand beside me, reaching down to wrap his long fingers around my arm. He pulls my shell-shocked ass up as I stare unblinking in Trevone’s direction. What have I just done?! I knew the drugs were laced with … something. I mean, Cat didn’t send me here for no reason. But Crown told me he wouldn’t hurt kids. And you believed him?! my mind screams as I allow Crown to drag me out of the room and down the hall. As we go, we pass several other students, passed out on the floor. One of them looks to be having a full-blown seizure.
“All we did was supply some of the mafia’s dirty product,” Crown says, mouth flat, face neutral, like he doesn’t give a shit that kids could be dying in here. I try to jerk my arm from his grip, but he pulls me close and looks me dead in the eye. “If you fight me, the cops will show up and we’ll both be arrested … or killed in a shootout. Is that what you want? If we leave now, the paramedics can get in here faster.”
“You lied to me. You’re supposed to be the nice guy,” I whisper, hating myself because I knew. I knew. I fucking knew, and I did it anyway, just so that tomorrow I might get the chance to run. I sacrificed the lives of my classmates for my own. I really am thoroughly entrenched in the annals of hell.
Crown pushes some of my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. His green eyes are dark and empty of emotion, just two shadowed hollows in a handsome face.
“That’s your mistake, Gidge: there are no nice guys.” Crown pulls me after him, and I don’t resist. He has a point. What will I gain from staying here, other than jailtime or, more than likely, watching Crown have a standoff with the local cops. I’ll get more people killed, and after Carol Briggs, I think I’ve already done more than enough of that.
Good thing I’m already planning on running away, or else I’d be a serious pariah. The other students, they’ll never trust me, not after feeding them bad drugs.
I stay up all night, with Crown lording over me, denied a phone, a computer, a TV, so that I can’t check the news. There’s no way to know who’s alive, and who’s … not.
“You’re as bad as the rest of them, just as much a monster,” I whisper, my voice hoarse as I lay on my side and stare at that handsome face, just a mask for yet another one of my father’s demons. Crown ignores me, his expression so blank that I start to wonder if I imagined that moment in the bathroom. Did that really happen? Was there truly fire between us? Shit, maybe he is dating Amber, maybe he doesn’t give two fucks about me at all?
After a while, I fall into a troubled sleep and wake to Cade Grainger smoking a cigarette in my do
orway. He doesn’t look at me when I sit up, rubbing my sticky eyes and fighting off a hangover. Fem hops onto the bed and licks my face, giving Grainge the side-eye. If the asshole tries to come over, my three-legged dog will turn him into a three-limbed asshole.
“And here I was thinking you were one of the worst ones,” I grumble, drawing those brown eyes my way. Grainge plays with his lip rings and then cocks his head at me, his rust-red hair slicked back in the center, shaved down the sides.
“What could’ve possibly changed your mind?” he asks, but not like he cares. No, more like he’s mocking me. “Crown isn’t the angel you thought he was?” Grainger’s wicked mouth curves into a cruel smile. “Isn’t that fun? Now you know that behind all the lectures, all that upstanding citizen bullshit, he’s just as bad as the rest of us.”
My eyes are narrowed, but between Queenie’s posthumous message and the sea of bodies I saw on my way out of the Artefact, I don’t have a lot of witty repartee left in me. Turning my attention to the window, I can see Nellie’s Escalade and Cade’s bike in the driveway, that’s it. Good. I might have a pounding migraine and a conscious rife with guilt, but hey, phase one of my plan should work out nicely.
Get Fem in the backyard, talk to Nellie, get Grainger to take me to the clubhouse.
If there is a god out there somewhere (doubtful), then I guess he or she is listening because Grainger turns to me and slides his smoke from his lips with two inked fingers, offering it up to me. I take it gingerly, careful not to make contact with his skin. Even with everything going on in my life, I can feel that tension between us, hot and sticky and ready to catch fire. My body throbs with remembered pleasure, and my cheeks flush.
“Cat wants you at the clubhouse today.”
My brows go up.
I Was Born Ruined Page 24