Page 1 of Never Trust the Living (Battle Crows MC 7)

PROLOGUE

Are girls called ‘chicks’ because they produce eggs, or love cocks?

-Dory’s secret thoughts

DORY

Eight years old

The dirt was making me itch.

I could see a fine sheen of it on my hands, and I knew that I needed a shower three days ago.

Yet, I’d still been sent to school, with not only dirty hands but dirty clothes.

I was embarrassed.

I’d been embarrassed for a year now, since I realized how much different I was from other people.

As in, how I always came into class dirty, with my hair in the same messed up ponytail I managed to get it in myself, while the other girls came in in pretty dresses, beautifully done hair, and sometimes even makeup.

“She can’t get lice because she doesn’t ever take a shower,” I heard one of the kids say. “At least, that’s what my mommy says. That lice don’t like dirty hair. That’s why I only wash my hair three times a week, instead of every day like my daddy. Do you think she knows that her hair is ugly?”

I knew that my hair was ugly.

I knew that my clothes were dirty.

I knew that I lived in the slum of slums trailer park.

I knew that my mother didn’t work or clean up around the house. I knew that my daddy did work, but he was even less clean than I was.

I also knew that our water had been turned off so many times that at this point, it was more of a surprise to find the water working than not.

“Her brother’s never dirty.”

That was from another little girl.

And the mention of my brother sent shivers of fear through me.

“I hear that their mommy and daddy are being investigated by CPS,” another whispered, obviously unaware that I could hear everything that they said. “But my mommy said that she was going to get moved to a foster home. They were trying to find someone to take both her and her brother.”

That was news to me.

“Girls,” my teacher, Mrs. Martin, snapped. “This will be the last time that I’ll tell you to stop whispering to each other, or I’ll be sending you to the principal’s office. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mrs. Martin,” all three girls said in unison.

Then they glared at me as if I was the one to get them in trouble for talking.

Which couldn’t be further from the truth.

I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t make eye contact. I for sure didn’t tattle.

Because tattling was the first thing that would get me backhanded by my father or my mother.

And if anyone had anything to tattletale about, it would be me.

The bell rang, and I couldn’t get out of the class fast enough.

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