Текст книги "Reaper's Fall "
Автор книги: Joanna Wylde
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PICNIC: Across the street. Don’t want to come over unless we need to. Think it might set Marsh off?
GAGE: Hang back for now. Painter you anywhere near yet?
PICNIC: He’s behind us, should be here soon.
GAGE: K
That last message was ten minutes ago, so things must still be under control . . . or else they’d fallen to utter shit and they were too busy fighting to message me. Either way, I needed to get my ass over there ASAP.
Ellensburg was a relatively small town, so it wasn’t that hard to find the bar. Took a while to get there because the streets were choked with what felt like a thousand hot rods. Had to leave my bike parked down the street, too—didn’t much like that. Although to be fair, the bike was probably the least of my worries today.
Walking toward the bar, I saw Pic and the others across the street, looking over a line of custom choppers. They stood out from the crowd, of course—a motorcycle club in full colors always did—but they were keeping as low-key as possible. Pic caught my eye, but we didn’t acknowledge each other. Then I reached the old Banner Bank building, all brick and cut stone from the town’s earliest days. The bar made the most of the historic atmosphere, done up to look like an old-time saloon. I passed all the way through and out the side door to the beer garden, a fenced-off area they’d set up on the street.
Loud music played and a few people were dancing in the center of the tables. A girl caught my eye, jumping up and down, waving at me.
Sadie.
Fucking great.
“Levi!” she shouted, running to meet me. Just past her I saw Talia hanging all over Gage. Marsh and the others were off to one side, taking up more than their fair share of tables. At least they were somewhat isolated . . . A quick glance showed me that a group of cops was gathered just outside the fenced area, watching the Nighthawks closely. More seemed to be inside, although they weren’t in uniform. They gave off that law enforcement vibe, though, and I saw the way they clocked me the instant I walked in.
Not only was Marsh drunk and tweaking, the fucker was doing it at a cop bar.
Christ.
“Good to see you,” I told Sadie, pulling her in for a hug. She tried to kiss me, but I managed to turn my head just enough that she’d miss my lips. Even if it wasn’t for Mel, I didn’t think I could touch her—not after seeing her barf like a fountain. “Gage said he’d be here, suggested I come over to join you guys.”
“Where have you been?” she asked, frowning. “You just disappeared that night.”
“Jail,” I said shortly. Might as well stick to the truth. “Violated the terms of my parole, so they locked me up to teach me a lesson.”
She reached up, rubbing a hand up and down my chest.
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Levi!” Gage shouted, waving me over. Thank fuck. I sauntered over to him, Sadie in tow. He welcomed me with a hug, taking the opportunity to whisper a warning. “Shit’s ugly. We gotta contain Marsh or he’s gonna blow everything.”
Pulling back, I surveyed the group, nodding to the Nighthawk Raiders’ president.
“Nice to see you again,” I said. “Looks like a good time.”
Marsh smiled at me, but I saw something dark behind his eyes. Talia slithered up, then plopped herself on his lap.
“Were you really in jail?” she asked me, reaching for Marsh’s drink, chugging it.
“Yup,” I said. “Got out this morning. Parole violation.”
Her eyes widened.
“What’d you go down for?”
“Weapons charge,” I said shortly. Marsh frowned.
“How long was your sentence?”
“Three years.”
“That’s too long for a weapons charge,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
“It’s complicated,” I said, which was the truth. “Let’s just say it could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. Had priors, too.”
An overworked waitress came hustling up to us.
“You guys need anything?” she asked.
“We needed something half an hour ago,” Talia said, standing back up. She stepped forward into the woman’s space, thrusting her chest out. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“I’m real sorry,” she said. “We’re just slammed. I’m sure we can—”
“We deserve a free round,” Talia said. “This is your fault, not ours.”
Gage shot me a look.
“Baby, let’s go dance,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I want to feel you up against me.”
“I’m busy,” Talia said, and while she didn’t flip him off, she might as well have. She glared at the waitress. “Are you going to get us the drinks?”
The woman glanced at Marsh, then nodded her head quickly. “Sure, I’ll be right back.”
She backed away, making for the bar door.
“See, it’s all about how you talk to them,” Talia declared, and Marsh started laughing. “I’m ready for that dance now.”
She grabbed Gage’s hand, dragging him toward the dance floor. My eyes followed them. Ah fuck. There was a big guy wearing a bar T-shirt talking to the group of off-duty cops, pointing toward our group. Bouncer.
The men stood up and started walking toward us. I needed to do something. Fast.
“Marsh,” I said in a low voice, leaning into the seated man. “We gotta get out of here.”
He stood slowly, stepping into my space.
“Did you just give me an order?”
Seriously? The cops were coming and he wanted to play bullshit games?
“No, but those guys are police, and they’re headed this way,” I said urgently. “This is trouble none of us needs.”
Marsh narrowed his eyes. “How do you know they’re cops? You’re working for them, aren’t you?”
From the corners of my eyes, I saw his crew crowding in. Then Marsh was on me, his fist catching me hard in the stomach. I lunged for him, a sudden rush of adrenaline pushing me through the pain as people started shouting all around us. The Nighthawk brothers jumped in, punching and kicking me from every side. I was vaguely aware of Gage shouting, trying to reach me. More hits and then I went down, catching a foot in my kidney.
In an instant, the cops were on us and Marsh forgot all about me. I watched as he pulled out an ugly knife, then launched himself at one of them. Ah, fuck. Suddenly Gage was next to me, catching me by the arms to drag me back. A body flew by, knocking him over. I saw a flash of bright red blood spray through the air. Catching a chair, I started to pull myself up when someone hit me over the back of the head.
I pitched forward, and in the instant before I hit the ground I thought about Melanie. About our baby.
About the fact that I was almost certainly going back to prison.
I’d fucked up. Bad.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TWO WEEKS LATER
Dear Painter,
I got your letter asking me to come and see you before they send you back to California. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I even drove down to the jail once. I sat in the car for half an hour and then I turned around, because I’m just not ready to talk to you.
I don’t know when I’ll be ready.
I understand that you panicked—when I found out about the baby, I panicked, too. I cried on the bathroom floor because I was so scared. It’s a terrifying thing, to suddenly discover that you’re going to be a parent. But here’s the thing . . . you didn’t only panic. You took off and did something that you knew could land you back in prison. That was a choice you made and there are serious consequences. Now I’m having a baby by myself and you’re going to be gone for two years. Do you realize that we’ve only spent a few weeks together, total, in the entire time I’ve known you?
You asked if I would consider waiting for you. No. I have one person in my life right now who really matters, and that’s the one growing in my stomach. Four weeks spent together full of unanswered questions and secret trips away from me isn’t enough to build a life on. It isn’t fair to me or our baby to sit around waiting for a man who ran away from us. And yes, you say you regret it¸ but you also did something guaranteed to separate us. You don’t even have to choose to ignore your child. You’re gone by default.
And I think that’s what you really wanted anyway . . . to have this problem go away.
Now it’s gone.
I don’t hate you. For what it’s worth, I’m sad. I’d say you broke my heart but that’s not true—I can’t afford a broken heart. I’m a mother now, or I will be soon. If I’m going to take care of this baby, I can’t afford to put any more time and energy into a man who will always put his motorcycle club first.
I deserve someone who puts me first. So does our child.
Melanie
TWO MONTHS LATER
Dear Melanie,
I hope you’re doing well. I was disappointed that you didn’t come see me while I was waiting in the Kootenai County jail for my parole hearing, but I also understand. I appreciate the letter you sent, and I agree with you. You have every right to stay away from me and I don’t blame you for being pissed.
I’m pissed at myself, too.
Now I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I did. You may not be interested in hearing this, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all kinds of things. I should’ve been supportive when you told me about the baby. There’s no excuse, but I did want to explain. I had a shit time growing up and kids scare me. But the more I think about a baby with your eyes, the more I want it. I hope that you’ll give me a chance to be a father when I get back out of here.
I’m also sorry that I got myself thrown back in prison when you needed me the most. I’m sorry I won’t be there when the baby is born, and that when you’re tired and you need help I won’t be around.
I’ll never forgive myself for that.
Puck tells me that Jessica and Loni are helping you out a lot and that you’re doing good. He’s selling my bike and will get you the money as soon as he can. I hope you’ll consider using some of it to come and see me when the baby is born—maybe bring him to meet me. (Or her, if it’s a girl. I guess I assumed it was a boy, but I don’t care either way. I just want to meet him.) If not that, I hope you’ll send me pictures.
Maybe my life would be different if I’d had a dad. Maybe I wouldn’t be such a fuck-up. I promise you that if you give me a shot, once I get out I’ll be a real father for our child.
I still love you,
Painter
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
Painter,
So, I bet you never expected to hear from me, huh? Hunter was pissed when I told him I wanted to write to you, but then he and I talked about it some more, and when I explained why he understood.
It’s because we know what it feels like to lose a child.
I know your situation is different, because your baby is alive and well, but it probably feels like you’ve lost her. Maybe hearing more about her from me will help. (Hopefully you already know all this anyway, but I didn’t feel comfortable asking Melanie about it under the circumstances.)
Anyway, baby Isabella is beautiful. I’m sticking in some pictures from the hospital. Kit and I are both very excited—we asked Melanie if we can be her aunties and she said yes. When we heard she was in labor we wanted to be there, although we weren’t in the room. We waited out in the hallway, which made for some very interesting people watching. Lots of excited grandparents, that kind of thing. Jessica and London were inside with her. I drove over and kept speeding because I was afraid I’d miss something, but it turned out I had plenty of time.
I don’t know how much you’ve heard, but things got scary for a while. Izzy (that’s what we’re calling her) wasn’t progressing right and then she went into distress. They had to do an emergency C-section and the baby ended up getting miconium (that’s poop—I probably spelled it wrong) in her lungs. She ended up in the NICU for more than two weeks and got pneumonia. Even now we have to keep a close eye on her and we’ve all been taking shifts watching over her.
She’s got apnea, which means she sometimes stops breathing. (There’s an alarm that’s supposed to go off if it happens, but it’s hard to trust a machine with something so important.) It’s really scary. The good news is that they think she’ll grow out of it and it won’t be a big deal. Melanie has been incredibly strong. The same day as her surgery she got out of bed and climbed into a wheelchair, then made us take her down to the NICU to see Izzy. Didn’t give two shits that she’d just had surgery, or that the doctor told her she had to stay away.
That girl’s a fighter, and she’s going to be a very good mother.
I should get going now, but I hope you’re doing all right. Hunter says he hopes you eat shit and that you’re a douche, but he was smiling while he said it. He also sends his respect.
Take care,
Em
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
MELANIE
I wasn’t ready to see him.
I’d been pumping myself up for weeks—I’d even called Jessica early that morning for a last-second pep talk before I left the hotel room. She’d reminded me of all the reasons I wanted Izzy to know her daddy, but now that we were really here, in the visiting area, I couldn’t remember any of them.
All I could think about was how much he’d hurt me the last time we talked.
I glanced around in near panic, wondering if I should just leave. The guard standing next to me—the one who’d escorted us in—caught my eye.
“They’ll be here in a minute,” she said in a low voice, offering a reassuring smile. She didn’t look like she should be working in a prison. The woman was probably around Loni’s age, and while she wasn’t exactly model gorgeous she wasn’t unattractive, either. She looked down at Izzy, her face softening even more.
“I’m sorry I had to search the diaper bag,” she added. “You wouldn’t believe how many people try to sneak contraband.”
“I understand,” I said quietly, although the reality was I could hardly wrap my head around it. How had I fallen into a world where people expected me to load my daughter’s diapers with drugs?
“You ready?” Puck asked, his face grim and blank as always. Painter’s best friend made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t deny he’d been a huge help. Sometimes it seemed like I couldn’t turn around without finding some biker checking up on me. This was good and bad—I needed the help, but I hated feeling dependent. Much as I blamed Painter for what happened, I blamed the Reapers, too.
They’d dragged him down into this.
Them and their “club business.”
We stood awkwardly with the rest of the visitors, ranging from other young mothers with kids to people in their fifties and sixties. A few of the women could’ve passed for hookers—for all I knew, they were.
Do prostitutes visit their pimps in jail?
That was a dark thought, but darker still, how many women were forced into prostitution to support their kids once their fathers were locked up? I looked down at Izzy, sleeping peacefully in my arms, and knew I’d do anything to take care of her. Anything at all.
A door at the far end of the room opened, and then men wearing orange jumpsuits started walking in. A little boy next to me shouted “Daddy!” as he tore off toward a scary-looking Hispanic guy covered in gang tattoos. He smiled, swinging the boy up in his arms, holding him tight as he kissed his hair.
Then Painter came in.
My breath caught, a thousand different emotions fighting for control. Anger. Love. Hurt . . . Some detached part of me noted that he looked better than ever, although his face was harder than ever. His hair had grown out, hanging down to his shoulders loosely. Pale blue eyes searched for us, dropping instantly to the precious bundle of life in my arms.
He stopped walking, then swallowed.
“C’mon,” Puck said, reaching down to touch my elbow, urging me forward. I stepped toward Painter, our eyes locked on each other. Then I was standing in front of him, tense and uncomfortable. Puck wasn’t with me, I realized. He’d stepped back, offering what privacy he could under the circumstances.
“Hey,” I said softly.
“Hey,” Painter replied. “Thank you for coming.”
This was even harder than I’d imagined.
“I wanted you to meet her,” I told him, feeling uncertain. “You should know your daughter.”
He looked down, taking in the tiny, sleeping face. She’d been born with a head full of pale blonde fuzz. I’d put a little white headband on her with a flower on it—it matched her sundress, a gift from Loni.
“Can . . . can I hold her?” he asked softly.
“Sure.”
He put his arms out and I handed her over carefully, catching my breath when our skin touched. It was still there, the awareness between us. Intense and electric. Izzy startled, her little hands lifting up as her eyes opened.
Pale blue, just like his.
They stared at each other, father and daughter, and something inside my chest broke. He reached a finger toward her and little Isabella grabbed it tight, making a soft, gurgling noise.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered, and even though we were surrounded by people it felt like we were the only ones in the room. Just me, him, and our daughter . . .
“Do you want to sit down with her?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I looked around, finding an open table. “Let’s go over there.”
Painter walked over slowly and carefully, holding Izzy like she was made of spun glass. He seemed to be whispering to her, and any doubts I’d had that he’d love her disappeared. He’d already fallen for her—fallen for her just as hard and fast as I had the first time I saw her in the NICU.
“Em sent me pictures,” he said, once we were settled at a table. “She told me about when she was born, too. It sounds like you did an amazing job.”
“I tried. The C-section was rough—I really wanted to do it all natural, you know? They say that’s better for the baby. But I just couldn’t. I tried and tried, but she wasn’t coming.”
He looked up at me, eyes intense.
“She’s perfect,” he said again, emphasizing the word. “You did everything right, Mel. They told me about all you went through, fighting for her. I can’t imagine anyone ever doing better.”
Blinking rapidly, I fought back the tears prickling at my eyes.
“I wish you could’ve been there,” I whispered.
“I wish I could have, too.”
Izzy gave a little squawk. His eyes flew back to her, widening in something like panic. She raised her arms, stretching them high as she yawned. Then her eyes narrowed as her nose scrunched. I knew that look.
“What’s wrong with her?” he asked quickly, his voice almost panicky.
“She might have gas,” I said. “Or she could be pooping. Just give her a minute.”
Izzy didn’t need a minute, though. A series of loud, wet, squelching noises exploded outward. Painter’s face twisted, a combination of shock and horror—like he half expected her head to spin around or something. He looked back at me.
“What do we do?”
I laughed—couldn’t help myself.
“Just give it a couple minutes,” I told him. “Make sure she’s done. Then I’ll go change her.”
PAINTER
Melanie’s ass twitched as she walked away with Isabella. My daughter—how unreal was that? I could see the differences in Mel’s body since the pregnancy—she’d filled out. Her boobs were bigger, too. A lot bigger. I’d missed her so fucking much since I’d gotten locked up. This was different than it’d been before. Worse. Not that spending time in a cell is ever good, but knowing I was missing out on something so amazing—so important—turned it into pure torture.
And this time I didn’t even have letters from her to get me through.
I hoped it wouldn’t take long to change Izzy. We had only a limited time for visitation, and I didn’t want to waste any of it. God only knew when—or if—she’d ever make it down again. Christ, I loved the kid more than I ever thought was possible, and now I might not see her again for months.
“How’s it going?” Puck asked, his voice low as he eased into the seat across from me. I shrugged.
“Well, aside from the fact that I’m in prison and I missed the first five months of my kid’s life, it’s fuckin’ great. How are things on your end?”
Puck gave a slow smile. “Better than yours. I’ve been keepin’ an eye on her for you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I fucked up bad this time, bro. Real bad.”
He nodded. “Yup.”
I bit back a laugh, leaning forward over my legs.
“Love how you always try to make me feel better.”
Puck cocked a brow. “Like you want me blowin’ smoke up your ass?”
“Fair enough. How was the trip down?”
“Good,” he said. “Weird, traveling with a baby, but she was good. Cried a little bit during takeoff. Mel had to nurse her on the plane. Think that made her a little uncomfortable.”
Frowning, I gave him a hard look. “You check out her tits?”
“Yeah, because I’ve got a milk fetish,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re a sick motherfucker, you know that?”
That made me laugh again, and he joined me.
“So you keepin’ safe in here without me?” he finally asked.
“It’s tougher this time,” I admitted. “But I got Pipes at my back. This shit goin’ down in Hallies Falls has him worried and a lot of the alliances have fallen apart. We lean on each other a bit. And of course there’s Fester . . . He was real happy to have me back.”
Puck snorted. “How is the Prince of Perverts?”
“You’ll be shocked to hear he’s still a disgusting little twat,” I said. “But get this—they’ve started a new art program. I’m helping teach it, and he’s one of my students. He’s not half bad, so long as you keep him focused. A little more interested in anatomy than I’d like. Sort of obsessed with how muscles and joints come together . . . and what they look like ripped apart.”
“Have fun with that,” he replied, smirking. I flipped him off and we both sat back, staring at each other. There was a whole lot more I could say, but what would be the point? Nothing ever changed on the inside. “Not gonna lie—glad I’m not in here with you.”
“Fair enough.”
“Got some updates for you,” he said quietly. “I know you heard some of this, but figured I’d fill you in on the rest. They tell you Marsh was carrying a shitload of meth?”
“Yeah, Pic mentioned it, back up in Coeur d’Alene,” I said.
“Well he finally pled out. Between stabbing the cop and the drugs he was carrying, he’s going away for at least three years. Maybe more, depending on his behavior—guy’s not exactly known for holding his shit together under pressure.”
“That’s good news. And the rest of them?”
“They locked up two others. Talia’s in the wind, nobody knows where. Marsh is pissed—he’s blaming you for what went down, not that it matters.”
“Good riddance.”
“Yeah. Gage is still in Hallies Falls. Helping those who are still left rebuild. Those who are worth keeping, that is . . . There’s been some talk of them patching over as Reapers.”
“Might be for the best,” I said, thinking of Cord and the other brothers who’d been so unhappy under Marsh. “Pipes has filled me in some, but his intel is limited. We’re too far away to stay in touch, you know?”
Puck nodded.
“Well, I got good news, too,” he said. “Pic wanted me to go over it with you, actually. They still have your work hanging in the custom shop, and that guy who talked to you about painting his bike has been in a couple more times. Apparently he’s friends with an art dealer, and he showed him some pictures of your work. They’re interested in doing a gallery show.”
“Huh,” I said, not quite sure what to do with that information. Puck cocked his head.
“Thought you’d be more excited.”
“I am. I mean, I think I am. But I’m not quite sure how it would work . . . Don’t have very many pieces, and it’s not like I can do more from inside. And he knows I’m locked up—I wrote to him already, telling him I’d have to pass on the commission.”
Puck coughed. “This is where it gets weird. I guess you being in prison—you know, hardened felon, motorcycle club, and all that shit—makes you more interesting. Guy says the dealer got off on it, called you dangerous.”
I snorted.
“This crap for real?”
“Apparently. He wants to come see you. Pic got in his face, said we’d reach out to you first. Doesn’t want you treated like some kind of sideshow freak, you know? But it could be money—Mel’s not exactly rolling in it. You start pulling money in, that’ll make a big difference.”
“Do it,” I said shortly.
“Do what?” Mel asked, coming up to us. Izzy was wide awake and alert, and she’d been changed into fresh clothes.
“There’s a guy who wants to put on an art show with some of my work,” I told her. Her eyes widened.
“That’s great news.”
“Maybe. I’m not gonna get too excited until we see how it plays out. Can I hold Izzy again?”
“Sure,” she said. I reached out for the baby, the back of my hand brushing the lower side of her boob. Her eyes flew to mine, and she blinked rapidly. Tears? No, not quite, but her eyes were red and definitely sad. I pulled Izzy close, leaning down to take in her soft, baby smell.
It hit me that after today, I might never experience that smell again. Christ. This was so much worse than I’d ever imagined life could get . . . felt like my guts were being ripped out, every second with her precious and perfect and speeding faster than should be possible.
“Puck, can you give us a minute?” I asked him. He nodded, ambling toward the vending machines. Melanie sat down across the table. I’d been hoping she’d sit next to me, but no luck.
“I already apologized in my letters,” I started. She held up a hand.
“This is hard enough without listening to your justifications,” she said, her voice carefully blank. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m going to be a good daddy.”
“You can’t be,” she replied harshly. “You’re not there and you won’t be for another year and a half.”
Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to stay calm.
“I realize that,” I said slowly. “But once I get back, that’s going to change.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, I mean it. I’m going to be there for both of you. I promise.”
She looked at me steadily, then glanced around the room. Other families sat at tables, other fathers holding their kids, playing games with them or coloring. Reading stories together.
“How many of them have made those same promises?” she asked, her voice sad. Fuck.
“Words can’t fix this—I get that. But once I’m out, you’ll see for yourself. I’m going to take care of you and Izzy.”
She looked away for long minutes. The baby gurgled again, then stretched her little body, kicking out with her legs. Then Izzy smiled at me and the whole world disappeared.
Yeah, sounds stupid, but it’s the fuckin’ truth.
“I’ll take care of you,” I whispered, leaning down to kiss her soft cheek. “I promise. Your mama doesn’t believe me yet, but I’ll show her. I’ll show both of you. Daddy’s here, baby girl.”
“For now,” Melanie muttered. I didn’t say anything—after all, what the hell could I say?
She was right.
MELANIE
Izzy started crying when we finally pulled away from the prison. The visit had been four hours long, but it felt like forty minutes. That’s how fast it was over. I couldn’t blame her for it either—I felt like crying, too.
“She doing okay?” Puck asked, one big hand draped over the top of the steering wheel.
“Fine,” I said. “Although she’ll probably want to eat soon.”
“I’m hungry, too. We can pull off and grab something on the way back to the hotel. Unless you want to do something while we’re down here? Got some time to kill this afternoon.”
“What, like go sightseeing?”
“If you want.”
I considered the idea, but the thought of doing touristy things with Painter’s best friend and a newborn didn’t exactly strike me as fun. “No, let’s just go to the hotel. Izzy could use a nap and I’d like some space.”
“You got it.”
He turned on the radio and we settled in for the drive. The look on Painter’s face as we left haunted me. I wanted to hate him for what he’d done, but the pain he’d suffered when he handed Izzy back to me was real.
He loved her.
I wasn’t sure that he would—he didn’t want kids. He’d chosen prison over our daughter. Not that he’d sat down and checked a box marked “prison” instead of “fatherhood” on a test, but he’d known damned well that his parole officer was out for blood when he left the state.
But he truly loved Izzy. I’d seen it.
“I’m going to start sending him pictures,” I told Puck abruptly. He shot me a quick glance, then nodded.
“He’d probably like that.”
And that was it.
I liked Puck, I decided. He was big and scary, with a nasty scar across his face and all the social skills of an ax murderer, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
“Thanks. Thanks for bringing us down here.”
He glanced toward me again.
“Anytime, Mel. Anytime.”
