Ruby: Black Hawk Gems Book 3 (Black Hawk Gems MC) Page 5

  I hobble to my closet, sharp pricks running through my body with every movement. Sometimes I wish I could just turn off the feelings. Go numb. It’d be better than feeling like I’d been run over the previous day.

  Like always, I pick out a pair of black jeans and a dark blue sweater that hangs off my body enough to not bother the injuries. Slowly, I get dressed and slip into my black converse.

  I still need to make breakfast for my father. The clock on my bedside table reads 7:02. I have to leave here by 7:30 to get to school in time for the first period, and today, since I’m slower and my barely intact body is throbbing like an open wound, it’ll take longer.

  Quick as I can, I cook eggs, toast, and bacon. It’s a simple breakfast, and I can’t find the energy to make anything more complex.

  When I finally pile the food on the plate, I notice it’s 7:46. Crap. I’ll be late. I grab a glass and pour juice, then set the plate and drink on the table. If I don’t get out soon, he might come down before I can leave. I can handle being late to school, but facing my father? Nope. I can’t do it today.

  My senses are on full alert, eyes darting and ears catching each sound as I head to the door. Minutes later, I finally step onto the sidewalk, thanking God I didn’t run into my dad this morning. I wouldn’t be able to take another beating so soon. I wish I could get through to him, make him better. There were times I tried during the first month he hurt me.

  My begging and crying did nothing.

  It still does nothing.

  It’s as if his heart is wholly hardened to me, even when it isn’t even my fault.

  My side throbs while I walk, but so does the rest of my body. I’ll just stay away from people today, especially Sniper. I need to keep away from him, anyway. Follow the rules, Ana.

  But I don’t want to. I want to be normal. I want to do or say something without worrying that it’ll cause repercussions later.

  Sniper... he made me feel safe for once. I don’t want to ignore him, but I have to. I have to, for my sake and his. If my father found out- I’d rather not think about it. He might even try to hurt Sniper if he’s angry enough.

  Sighing, I shake the dark thoughts from my mind. I sigh again when I notice that there’s no one in the school parking lot. Class must’ve started already. I shuffle my way inside, not bothering to stop at my locker. I’m twenty minutes late for class when I arrive at the door.

  I knock, push the door open, and freeze when everyone turns to stare.

  “Miss Willows, you’re late,” my teacher announces, giving me an exasperated glare. I nod, and he picks something up off his desk. “Detention.” He places the pink slip in my hand, and I turn, exiting the classroom.

  I guess a tardy is a detention in this school. In detention, I’ll be able to stay away from groups of students that could bump into me or unknowingly hurt me. At least, I hope so.

  Soon, I reach the wooden door that reads DETENTION. There never seemed to be tons of people in detention at my last school. I remind myself I should be fine for one day. Grabbing the door handle, I turn it and push the door open. Immediately, I search the room and find no one but the teacher. I guess I’m-

  “Ow,” I gasp as someone slams into my back, gravity yanking me to the floor. Fresh agony rockets through my body on impact. I groan. Why today?

  “I’m so sorry,” his voice says. I bite my lip to stifle another sound. When I lift my head, my eyes connect with blue eyes and an apologetic frown. Then I notice his friends watching me from over his shoulder. From this angle, me on the floor and them standing, they look like giants.

  “Let me help you,” he suggests, gently grabbing my arms and lifting me. I wince, but cover it with a small smile. I need to pay attention to my surroundings because he came out of nowhere. I didn’t hear him or his friends behind me.

  Once I’m on my feet, Sniper steadies, then releases me. I guess ignoring him will be more challenging than I thought. I turn away and scurry to a desk far from the door. Please don’t sit by me, I silently beg.

  Naturally, Sniper doesn’t read minds, so he sits in the empty seat right in front of me. His friends fall in around us, moving the desks a bit to create a circle, which makes me feel trapped. To get out, I’d have to go through them, and because they’re enormous, I don’t think it’d end well for me.

  My eyes dart from one guy to another and notice how they’re all wearing those leather vests again. Do they always wear those?

  They notice my gaze, and each guy greets me, either with a hey, what’s up, or head nod.

  “Ruby,” Sniper greets. There’s that name again. What in the world? He leans closer and tucks some hair behind my ear. “You’re looking especially beautiful today.” Heat creeps up my neck and spreads across my cheeks, and a weird sensation pricks at my heart, too. Beautiful? If only he knew what I looked like without makeup.

  Bruises and cuts are not beautiful.

  “Why’d you call me that?” I regret the words as soon as they come out. I shouldn’t have said anything.

  Sniper chuckles, “Because your hair is a stunning shade of red, and every time I speak to you, your cheeks turn red.” I quickly lift my hands to cover my cheeks, causing Sniper to chuckle again. His friends also laugh, causing my face to heat even more.

  Ah, this is terrible. I’ve never had this much male attention, and the things Sniper says are making my heart all gooey.

  Stop it, Anastasia.

  Wanting the attention off of me, I look up at Sniper. “Is Sniper your actual name?” Everyone stops and looks at me. Is it a big deal to ask that? Should I take it back?

  As soon as I open my mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer, he leans forward. “No, my name is Clarke,” he replies. “Why?” I shake my head and look away. Clarke. I like that, definitely more than Sniper. I mean, Sniper is a nice enough name, I guess, but Clarke is just… better?

  Glancing up, I find him still looking at me, so I avert my eyes.

  Ugh. Why can’t I just look him in the eye?

  “Um-” I start, not knowing what I want to say. “I like your actual name,” I mumble, embarrassment filling my cup so much it overflows. I’m sure my face resembles a fire hydrant now.

  When he doesn’t respond, I lift my head to find him watching me with deep concentration. “Thanks,” he finally says. I nod, unable to speak.

  Finding this as an end to the conversation, I pull a book out of my bag and crack it open. The guys seem to get the message, thank goodness, and settle in their seats, talking to each other. I can feel eyes on me, but I don’t lift my eyes. I just read or try to, anyway. Whoever watches me bores holes into my concentration, distracting me, which leads to reading the same line fifteen times.

  “Are you going to read all day?” I look up to find the blonde guy with tattoos on his arm ruffling his fingers through his hair, a smile playing at his lips. His question is curious, so I nod and look back down at my book. “Why don’t you t-”

  “Ink, leave her alone,” Clarke interrupts, making me smile a little. It’s nice to have a buffer. Not that I think Ink is terrible. I just think it’s nice to have someone be my shield. I wish I had a guard like this at home, but I squash the hope. I know better than to hold onto it. No one’s going to protect me there.

  Ink sputters at his friend, “B-but I wanted to talk to her!” Clarke smacks the back of his head, telling him again to leave me alone. I tilt my head forward and let my hair create a curtain so they don’t see me smile.

  The guys continue talking, and sometimes they laugh, which makes me want to listen in, but I force myself not to. Even then, I hear the words ride, King, club, and beast, but I try to keep my attention on my book. Eavesdropping isn’t polite.

  I can still feel Clarke’s eyes on me now and then, but oddly, it doesn’t bother me. I kind of like it. He seems nice enough to become-

  No, Anastasia.

  I can’t do that. I can’t know Clarke. Based on my last punishment, my father is getting more and mor
e violent. He might actually kill me if I get to know Clarke. If he found out that I’ve even talked to Clarke, he’d be furious. It doesn’t take much to get my father mad, though, and this would get him beyond angry, like burning, passionate fury coming out of his ears, angry.

  I glance around the detention room. The teacher sits at his desk, working on something and not paying us much attention. Hopefully, the school won’t call home, this being my first detention and all. Neither of my parents would be happy if they got that call. Dad would punish me, but Mom would probably glare disapprovingly, assuming she was actually home.

  I look down at my book again. I’m on the same page I was on earlier.

  Sighing, I close my book and my eyes, then lean my head on the window to think. about a normal life. I wish I didn’t wake up every morning in fear of pain. I wish I had a loving family. I wish I could come to school and have friends. I wish I could get to know Clarke because he seems like someone I might be friends with.

  I wish.

  ~*~

  “You may leave,” Mr. Dixon, the detention teacher, announces as the last bell of the day rings. Quickly, I gather my things and rush out of the room. Finally. Being so close to these guys all day has been nerve-wracking, but comforting. The feelings warred inside me all day, but I finally landed somewhere in the middle when I realized they wouldn’t bother me after Clarke told them to leave me alone.

  The nervous feeling hit me every time Clarke moved. I was on pins and needles, waiting to see if he’d speak to me again. He didn’t. He respected my silence, which was nice of him.

  As I maneuver the hallway, I dodge people. The dull throbbing in my side has bothered me all day, so I glance around to see if anyone is near me while walking toward my house. When I don’t see anyone, I lift my shirt to look at my cut’s bandage. There’s a thin, dark red line seeping through the scratchy fabric, meaning I’ll have to clean and re-bandage it.

  A loud roaring rumble startles me, causing me to jump and let go of my shirt. That’s when a motorcycle pulls up to the curb, and the guy riding pulls his helmet off then runs a hand through that sandy brown hair.

  Clarke.

  “Need a ride?” He asks, grinning at me. How is this guy everywhere? I look ahead, then back at him, shaking my head.

  “N-no, I’m fine.” Clarke gives me an ‘are you serious’ lift of his eyebrow while he cuts his bike off and kicks the stand down. I watch as he climbs off and walks to me.

  “Come on, Ruby.” I shake my head again. I shouldn’t ride with him after what happened. But he doesn’t take that answer. Clarke moves quickly and grabs my hand, making me gasp. He stares for a second before gently pulling me towards him. “You live far away.” He stares, this time, into my eyes.

  There sure is a lot of staring going on.

  “Let me give you a ride.”

  Biting my lip, I peer through my eyelashes at him. It’d be less painful to just ride with him, I think; unless my dad finds out about it- that would only cause more trouble. I glance down at my feet. To risk it or play it safe?

  “Just this once?” I ask, sending up a silent prayer that Dad isn’t home. This is a very bad, terrible, horrible, stupid idea, yet when Clarke shoots me a bright, genuine smile and nods, I can’t help it. I succumb.

  I step up to the motorcycle, following Clarke’s example of how to mount. Stretching to get on hurts some, but I ignore it. And once we’re both on the bike, Clarke grabs my arms and wraps them around his waist.

  The movement pulls me, without causing further harm, to where I’m flush against his back. It takes an awkward second to figure out what to do with my hands. In the end, I just clasp them together and try not to feel like a fool. I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to him or another guy before. Not close enough to touch like this, pressed against one another, my front to his back and my thighs clamped around his hips.

  It’s intimate.

  So, I guess this is why guys refuse to ride with guys.

  The bike roars to life, sending vibrations through my body. A calm warmth washes over me, and I relax just enough to lay my cheek against Clarke’s back. The vibrations don’t hurt my injuries, thankfully, and the ride is smooth. Much better than walking.

  The wind whips around us, so I lift my head and let the breeze kiss my face. This must be how freedom feels. How it feels to not be captive.

  “You okay back there?” Clarke yells over the wind. I nod, realizing quickly that he can’t see me.

  “Yeah.” I lean into him again and enjoy the rest of the ride. I’d love to do this more, but with the never-ending threat looming over my head, it won’t happen. It was just this once.

  Soon, Clarke pulls onto my street and parks in front of my house. When I look at the driveway, neither of my parents’ cars are there, meaning my mom is still out of town, and my dad is probably still working. Thank you, Jesus.

  “Thanks for the ride, Clarke,” I murmur once I’m off the bike and awkwardly biting my lip. I don’t know what to do. Do I just walk away or say something else or… or…

  Clarke takes my hand, smiles, and leans in. For a second, I swear I stop breathing as his lips gently brush my cheek. No pain comes from the touch, just tiny sparks of warmth.

  “You’re welcome, Ruby,” he whispers. I can’t move. I’m frozen, stuck, as a shiver wracks my body. I just watch him, unable to move or speak, even when he pulls away from the curb. He just… Did he just?

  Holy cow.

  Reaching up, my fingers touch the spot where Clarke’s lips had been. A buzzing, fluttering feeling appears in my stomach, making me smile.

  I wait until he’s out of sight before heading inside. I still need to check my injuries and try to find medicine.

  I grab an apple when I pass the kitchen to have something on my stomach to take some medicine. When I reach my room, I set my bag down by my bed and walk to the bathroom. I bought a first aid kit back when everything started and occasionally sneak off to buy new ones when I need more supplies. I keep it under my bathroom sink for situations just like this.

  This one is relatively new, so it’s packed full.

  Carefully, I pull my sweater off with slow, measured movements. My eyes catch a dark line on the material, and I sigh. That’ll need to be washed with stain remover, so I make a mental reminder and unroll the fabric around my waist. One, two, three layers drop to the floor before the dressing is finally off.

  Turning the water on, I let it soak into my washcloth before ringing excess out. I wipe away the blood on the cut. The other day, when I first cleaned it, I did some makeshift stitches. The day unraveled the thread which caused the cut to bleed. I can’t go anywhere else because they’d ask too many questions, and like I said before, Dad won’t do it.

  I press the rag just hard enough to staunch the bleeding, walk out of the bathroom to the mirror-door, and go through to the library. I have a mini-fridge, so I walk down the hallway and over to it, opening the freezer section and grabbing a few ice cubes.

  That’ll do it. I don’t need many pieces, but I’ll have to refill my ice trays—another thing to add to my mental ‘to do’ list.

  As I walk back to my room, I hold the ice against the cut and move it around to numb the area. It’s not the best option, but it’s the only one I’ve got right now, and believe me, some numbness is better than none. Re-stitching the cut is the best bet since I was in a rush from about to passing out the first time.

  It’s going to hurt like hell, but you can do this, Ana.

  Finally, I remove the ice cubes and toss what’s left of them in the sink. I grab a needle and thread from the kit, quickly shove the line through the needle’s eye, then I pinch the skin of the cut and start sewing it together. It burns. A hell of a lot. I bite my lip to keep from crying out as the needle pierces and drags through the tender skin.

  Because tears blur my vision and roll down my cheeks, I have to slow down to wipe at my eyes with my arm and shoulder instead of my bloody hand before I contin
ue to sew slowly.

  Please stay this time. I silently beg the stitches a few minutes later when I finish.

  To push the dizziness away, I take a few breaths and hold on to the counter. When I’m stable enough, I set the needle on the counter and wipe up the excess blood from the white surfaces, pouring bleach when I need to. “I hope I don’t have to do that again,” I mutter. Leaving the medical supplies on the sink, I shuffle over to the shower, turning it on. I need to wash, then I want to sleep.

  Stripping, I step into the shower. Warm water sprays and washes over my back as I use my arm to shield my bandage. I probably should’ve taken a shower before I re-sewed the stitches, but I didn’t think about it.

  The water causes my bruised skin to prick and tighten uncomfortably, so I stand as still as I can while waiting for the temperature to change. The water warms slowly. A steady pulse pushes my body to a deeper state of exhaustion where the only thing left to do is to lean against the wall and hope my muscles relax.

  Washing my hair, I find, isn’t the easiest action either because lifting my arms up high hurts. Still, I force myself through the process before thoroughly rinsing off to step out of the shower. My towel hangs on a hook by the door, so I wrap it around my body, keeping pressure off my wound.

  Back in my room, I quickly dress, pulling on loose clothes. The last thing I need right now is to irritate my wound. Next, I wrap my hair up with a twist of my towel and trudge back into the bathroom.

  First, I wrap new gauze around my stomach four times and secure it. After that, I apply soothing cream to the most prominent and visible bruises I have- mainly the ones on my stomach, chest, and face. The bruises on my arms and legs are visible, but they’re not as fresh or darkly colored as the others. I apply a small amount of cream to my arms and legs to finish.

  I’ll need to get more cream soon too. The bottle is a little on the light side, which means I’ll have to make a trip to the store. Also, I’ll have to find a store close enough to get there and back before he arrives home from work.

  I let out a sigh, wipe my mess up, and chunk everything into the trash beside the sink. Is this all my life will be? Will I be able to survive long enough to turn eighteen? Or will I die by my father’s hand before then?