I snort. What would he know about calm?
I pace the length of the room. A shadow falls over me. I look back to see Tyrant smirking at me. “Jose said you were a hot little piece.” He yanks on my hair.
“Stay the hell away from me.”
“Or what?”
“I’ll scream.”
“Yeah, and I’ll tell them your crazy ass attacked me. Go ahead. Try it.”
He’s right. He wins. Hector wins. I’ll always be the loser.
“You know he told me about your kid. How your baby died.”
“What?”
“You didn’t know?”
“What do you mean? Tell me. Please.”
“Your little bastard was born addicted to drugs with half of his organs missing. Putting him down was a kindness.”
“No. You’re lying.”
“Do you really think they’re going to let you walk away?”
My mind flashes to the night I went into labor. Did I really hear my baby cry, or did I imagine it? I’m going to be sick.
“If you don’t believe me, call and ask him to tell you the truth.” He leers at me, and I run past him, grabbing Lunatic’s knife as I go. There’s no one around as I rush down the stairs and out the front door.
The sunlight nearly blinds me as I run into the trees. I can’t breathe. My baby died. All this time Hector has been lying to me. I have nothing. No reason to live. I sink to my knees as violentsobs shudder in my chest. I killed my baby. My mind envisions my helpless baby born with half a heart. I did that. I let them drug me. Use my body. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t protect my baby.
I can’t.
I can’t breathe.
I don’t deserve to. I clutch the blade in my right hand and cut my left wrist, followed by my right. I collapse in the dirt and pray for the first time in years for the ground to open and swallow me up. I stare up at the clouds between the treetops. Black dots float before my eyes, and I stop fighting. I give up.
“Daisy. Can you hear me?”
“You’re going to be okay.”
No. No. No. I don’t want to wake up.
Three Days Later
I do a slow blink. My eyelids feel heavy and crusty.
My throat feels raw, as if someone took sandpaper to it.
Everything hurts. I wipe at my eyes, blinking several times as the room comes into focus. Not the room. There’s a wrinkled and dimpled ass barely covered by a red lace thong right at my eye level. I stare at the blurry sight of a tramp stamp tattoo. A heart with wings that looks like it was inked in a jailhouse.
“Am I in hell?”
“Lonerock,” a gritty female voice answers, sounding like someone who has smoked one too many cigarettes. The ass rises from the bed and disappears behind black leather pants.
I sit up and stretch as the woman looks me over. “You look like shit, but it’s good to see you awake.” She pulls on a black leather vest like Lunatic and his club wears. My heart squeezes tight at the thought of him. She twists her silver-streaked hair into a messy bun on her head and turns to face me. She’s got a president’s patch. I stare at the patch.
