I AM DRESSED IN SIN
(C) C.M. Stunich
I’ve never been a stranger to pain.
In all reality, I don’t know who I am without it. That constant sting inside my heart, those shadows in my soul, the incessant soliloquy inside my brain, that’s what I’m used to. Without it, I’m just … Gidget, an outlaw’s daughter, a broken girl with no hope for a future.
So when I wake up in agony, I’m not surprised. After all, I flipped Crown’s bike and smashed it into a mafia-owned Cadillac. Good for me. Hope I killed one of the bastards in the process.
With a groan, I try to turn on my side, and find that I’m already sitting up. I’m not in a bed, like I first thought. Instead, I’m strapped to a chair inside a dark room with stained glass windows and a ceiling that’s easily fifty feet high, rafters decorated with pigeons. Their dark eyes watch me as I come to, blinking away cobwebs of memory.
“Good morning,” a feminine voice calls out, drawing my attention over to a dark-haired woman in a red velvet chair, her long legs crossed at the knee, her eyes sparkling as she takes me in. “You must be Gidget Kesselring.”
She stands up, her black dress slit all the way up to the hip, her long, elegant fingers dressed in glittering rings. Who the fuck is this? I wonder, searching my brain for memories of those pictures that Cat showed me, an entire catalogue of the Grey Wolfe Mafia. There were no women in that list. Then again, from what I know of organized crime, the wives are usually just as involved though not in an official capacity.
I don’t bother to respond or ask where I am, or what’s going to happen to me.
I know what’s going to happen to me.
My heart thunders and cold chills take over my skin. I am so fucked, even more so than I’d have been at home. Cat might’ve put a bullet through my brain, but … I’m looking at a long session of torture and death here, probably rape, too.
The wounds I sustained in the accident haven’t been tended, and I can taste dried blood on my mouth when I run my tongue across my lips. My right shoulder, the one that absorbed most of the impact from the fall, is completely numb. Dislocated, probably, considering that I can’t move the fingers of my right hand.
“Did they send you in to talk to me?” I ask, lifting my heavy head up to meet her eyes. It takes a lot of effort, but I’m proud of myself for managing it. One of my lids is swollen so bad I can’t quite see out of it, focusing on the woman with my left eye instead. “Because I don’t have anything to tell you. If you know anything about club culture, you’ll know I’m not privy to shit.”