What Doesn't Destroy Us (The Devil's Dust #1)

What Doesn't Destroy Us (The Devil's Dust #1)

M.N. Forgy



I’m startled awake from a commotion coming from the stairs. The room is black and my vision is blurry from lack of sleep. I blink a couple of times and look for the clock on my dresser: 2:15am. You have got to be kidding me.

I roll back over and angrily close my eyes. I’m sure it’s my mother coming home late from work with Stevin. Stevin is my mother’s boss or co-worker, I’m not sure. Hell, I don’t even know what their jobs are. I don’t really care either. She’s also dating him, which I find very desperate. Their relationship is weird, and my mother is very private about … whatever they are. He’s rich and handsome and he’s the sole reason we’re living in this savvy apartment in the heart of New York. My mom has mentioned that he has a trust fund from his grandparents, and that his family is wealthy. I’m sure she only told me this as an explanation for moving from the dump we were in. She was a dancer at that time and I questioned how we could afford this new place.

Without warning, my bedroom door is flung open and slams against the wall, filling the room with a loud thud. The lights flicker on and my mother rushes to my bed, throwing the blankets off me. My eyes feel like they’ve been slapped, and I wince at the unwelcome brightness.

“What the hell, Mom!” I yell, still half asleep.

“Come on, get out of bed. Get dressed and pack a small bag.”

My eyes snap open and widen at my mother’s appearance. Her usually sleek, chocolate hair is a tangled mess and there is dried blood from a cut on her cheek. I’ve never seen my mother so distraught before, and I’m completely taken back by it.

“Stop staring at me and pack a bag. Now. We don’t have much time!” My mother snaps at me before I even open my mouth to ask what happened.

Why was she so beat up? Who did this to her? Where’s Stevin? And where the hell are we going? I have all these questions and no answers, but I know better than to ask. The look in my mother’s eyes and the tone in her voice is not to be reckoned with. My heart jump starts at the notion and I grab my suitcase.

I look down at what I’m wearing; a skimpy tee shirt and panties. I grab a pair of blue jeans; a blue, fitted t-shirt; and my black, knee-high boots. It’s not classy, but it will have to do. I run into my bathroom and brush my dark brown, wavy hair. Staring at my reflection, I notice my green eyes look sunk in from lack of sleep, making them seem dull. My eyes are my signature; they are very bright green, almost inhuman. I’ve been told my eyes are like pools of green ivy, whatever that means. I throw my hair up in a messy bun, and comb through my side-swiped bangs.

I throw some things I’ve gathered from the bathroom into the suitcase laying open on my bed, along with some extra clothes and shoes. I grab a few other things like my purse, iPod, and sunglasses and head downstairs.

My mother’s already waiting for me by the door. I notice the blood is clear from her cheek but her face is still red and a little swollen. She’s now wearing a clean white blouse that buttons up the middle. She always dresses to perfection, even in her worst hour, which could possibly be right now. I wish she would tell me what’s going on. Am I in danger?

“Come on, Dani, we are going to miss our flight,” she says, irritated.

“Mom, what the hell is going –“

She cuts me off by walking out the door of our apartment and into the elevator. I growl in frustration and follow after her.

My mom walks to the curb and yells for a cab. The cool breeze sweeps around plastering my olive skin with goose bumps. I look up at the tall buildings, taking in as much as I can; this might be the last time I see them.

A yellow cab pulls up and my mom bangs on the trunk. It makes a popping noise as it is released. She throws in her bag and yanks mine from my hand and flings it in, too.

“JFK,” she tosses at the driver, avoiding eye contact with me. “Quickly, please.”

The ride to the airport is silent. I have so many questions but am afraid of the answers I may get in return. I know I should ask, but can’t bring myself to speak the words. So I just stare out the window, silently saying goodbye to my life. Well, what life that I have. I have friends but nobody close enough to notice I’m gone. I have a job at the local coffee shop, but they’ll just replace me. Actually, being put in such a desperate situation goes to show that I really don’t have much to show for my life. It’s depressing. Having an overbearing mother does that to you. She doesn’t allow much of a social life, so, of course, finding friends in college that like to just stay in and watch movies is hard. Hell, I just celebrated my twenty-first birthday and it was depressingly typical; fancy dinner, wine and parents included.

We arrive at the airport and the cab driver gets our bags out of the car while mom throws some cash in his seat. I grab my suitcase and follow her. I slow my walk as she heads toward a big, burly man with a big gut, who has his arms crossed in front of his chest. He’s wearing torn blue jeans and a black t-shirt where tattoos seem to snake out and claim every inch of his hairy arms. My mother walks right up to him, her body language confident, so I double my step to catch up. As I get closer I see his leather vest has patches on it; the left patch reads ‘TRIGGER’ and the right reads ‘Ghost MC.’ My breath catches in my throat; ‘MC’ as in motorcycle club? I have seen enough documentaries and TV shows to know bike clubs are not a force to be messed with.