Текст книги "Reaper's Fall "

Автор книги: Joanna Wylde

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

I spun around, staring her down. “Excuse me?”

“You’re an adrenaline junkie, Painter,” she said. “You make damned good money with your art, but you spend all your time on a fucking motorcycle. Donor-cycle, that’s what we call them in here, did you know that? You get in fights, you go to jail, all for no reason other than getting off on the rush.”

“I’ve been a goddamned saint since I got out, and you know it. I’m not reckless, I take good care of our kid, and I’m not putting myself at any more risk than you are. Sure, I’m in a motorcycle club, but you’re the one who got jumped and beat to shit last night. You’re just as much of an adrenaline junkie as me. Admit it.”

We stared each other down, and despite the black eyes and ring of bruises, my cock was getting hard. Her chest was heaving and her nipples pointed at me through the thin hospital gown.

“Fuck you,” she finally said. I laughed.

“Anytime—we covered that already,” I said, feeling strangely relieved. If she was strong enough to fight with me, she’d be okay. “Will you promise me one thing, at least?”

“What’s that?”

“If you’re gonna work in this place, I want you takin’ some self-defense courses down at the gun shop, okay? Ruger teaches them, and he’s good at what he does. Maybe learn about guns, too.”

She frowned at me. “Why should I need to know how to shoot?”

“Why should you need to know self-defense at all?” I countered reasonably. “Because the world is dangerous and you got attacked. It’ll make me feel a lot better. Do it.”

Mel’s eyes narrowed.

“Please.” I added, rolling my eyes. She shrugged.

“All right. Although I was planning to anyway. Take a class, I mean. I never want to feel that helpless again.”

I smiled, knowing I’d won whether she wanted to admit it or not. “How much longer are you stuck here?”

“Just until they check me out.”

“I’ll wait and give you a ride home. We can explain to Izzy together. You look like you need sleep. Want me to take her for the night?”

Melanie’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes, that would be lovely. Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

“I’d say ‘Get a room,’ but you’ve already got one. Want me to stand guard outside the door?”

We both turned to find Puck watching us, his dark face grim. I caught the hint of laughter in his eyes, though. Next to him stood Braids.

“The doctor will be here in five,” she said. “Maybe the baby daddy should wait outside?”

I laughed.

“Yeah, I’ll do that. You’re on my bike going home, Mel. It’ll be just like old times.”

She flipped me off and Puck burst out laughing. I followed him into the hallway, leaning back against the wall, feeling strangely satisfied with myself.

“You get off on baiting her, don’t you?”

I shrugged, refusing to acknowledge the point, even if it was the truth. Hell, it was better than not getting off at all.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ONE MONTH AFTER IZZY’S FOURTH BIRTHDAY

JULY

MELANIE

“You’re so hot, Mel,” Greg whispered, running his hands down my ass. He pulled me tight into his body, swaying awkwardly to the music, and I wondered if he was really the player Sherri insisted he had to be.

All firefighters are players, she’d told me. So have fun with him, but don’t get your hopes up. You need someone stable. That new security guard keeps flirting with you . . .

I didn’t want to believe her, though. Me and Greg would be perfect for each other—like a storybook. He was also an EMT, and I’d seen him on and off at work for months now. Handsome, built . . . sort of rough and ready in a way that I didn’t like to admit totally turned me on, but it did. It so did.

He reminds you of Painter, my brain whispered insidiously.

Shut up, bitch! my vagina hissed back. He’s probably got a really nice dick.

You’re drunk. Stop being such a slut.

You’re a cock-blocker—we haven’t had sex in forever!

I blinked, realizing my brain was 100 percent right—I was definitely drunk, because why the hell else would I be imagining an argument with my vagina in the middle of a dance floor?

Pull your shit together, Mellie girl.

Greg had asked me out to the Ironhorse for a drink (which had turned into many drinks) and now it was nearly midnight. The music wasn’t great, but the crowd was into it and I was having a good time—a good enough time that I’d been giving serious thought to going home with him. Well, serious something. “Thought” might not be the best word, seeing as things had gotten pretty damned fuzzy after that last round of shots. But I was definitely turned on and it’d been a long time since I’d gotten laid. Not since the dentist . . . ugh. That’d been a mistake.

He was so . . . clean.

Greg nuzzled into my neck, then I felt something warm and sort of icky. Oh. My. God. Was he licking me? He was. He was licking me, like some sort of dog. Okay, so maybe going home with him wasn’t such a good idea.

All this was processing through my drunken head when suddenly Greg was gone. I nearly fell over as a hard arm wrapped around my waist, jerking me back into a tall, strong body that smelled like leather and just the faintest hint of linseed oil.

“Time to go now, Greg,” said a familiar voice. I blinked, trying to figure out what was happening. Greg stared at me, something like horror crossing his face.

“She’s yours?” he asked.

“Mother of my kid,” Painter replied, his voice hard. “You lookin’ to get laid, Greg? You want to fuck my Izzy’s mama? Let me guess—you want to do all kinds of dirty shit to my girl. How you think that’s gonna end for you?”

Greg’s eyes filled with terror, and then he was backing off so fast I’m surprised I didn’t hear a “meep meep” and a whooshing noise.

“Sorry, Painter. Meant no disrespect.”

Suddenly he was gone, abandoning me on the dance floor like an STD. I jerked away from Painter, rounding on him and jamming a finger into his chest.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

He looked down at me, his face grim.

“What’s the rule, Mel?”

“What?”

“We got one rule—what is it?”

“That you’re an asshole?”

“You stay out of my world,” he said. “I’ve backed away, given you your space. But you stay the fuck away from my world, and that means no bikers.”

“Greg’s not a biker.”

Painter cocked a brow. “He’s a hangaround with the Reapers. Or at least, he was. Now that I’ve seen his hands all over your ass, I got a feeling he won’t be hanging around anymore. Never liked the look of that fucker anyway.”

I blinked, trying to bring things into focus, both literally and figuratively. This would’ve been a whole lot easier if I hadn’t drunk so damned much booze. Shit.

“How was I supposed to know that?” I asked, frustrated by how much my words slurred. I couldn’t hold my own against this fucker if I couldn’t even talk right.

“You should’ve asked,” he said. “And now you’re gonna pay the penalty.”

I blinked, trying to process this, then faster than you could say, “I hate bikers,” Painter caught my hips and jerked me into his body. He’d touched me enough over the years that I was well aware the raging attraction between us had never died. Now it roared to life, clouding my thinking almost as much as the vodka. We started swaying to the music, me tucked into him as one of his hands rubbed slowly up and down my back. The other one caught my head, resting it against his chest.

That familiar ache swirled through my stomach, and while I should’ve been telling him to fuck off, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to stay upright if I wasn’t holding on to him. If he’d said anything—if he’d even copped a feel—I might’ve summoned the willpower to stop him. Instead we just danced slowly.

I felt myself falling into him.

It was nice. Way, way too nice.

The music changed, another slow song. Painter surrounded me. No matter what else had happened between us through the years, this never changed—the burning need I felt for him, the desire to rub myself against him and spread my legs and . . . Oh God. It hurt. It actually hurt, I wanted him so bad. I should be pulling away, but instead I burrowed my nose deeper into his chest, taking in his incredible scent, my nipples tightening.

One of his hands slid lower, catching my butt, squeezing obscenely. His cock hardened against my stomach, the slow sway of his hips growing more aggressive. We’d gone from swaying to grinding and my body loved every second of it.

Clearly, it’d been too long since I’d gotten laid.

“Jesus, Mel,” he whispered, leaning down to nuzzle my neck. The heat of his breath, the softness of his lips contrasting with the hardness of his body . . . It was almost more than I could take. The ache between my thighs was growing, turning into an active need beyond my ability to contain.

This was a very bad idea.

I didn’t even notice when he started walking me toward a dimly lit table in the back of the bar. Puck was there, along with Banks and a couple of girls I didn’t recognize. Painter grabbed the chair in the corner against the wall, pulling me down into his lap, catching my mouth with his before I could even imagine protesting.

This kiss wasn’t hurried.

It wasn’t hot and desperate and dangerous, just a slow fire building until I completely forgot about everyone around us. When he shifted my hips to straddle his across the chair, I didn’t care who might be watching. I was too drunk, and not just on the booze.

His dick pushed between my legs, one big hand guiding me as my hips slowly rubbed against his. The other hand was buried deep in my hair, holding me prisoner as his tongue dove deep inside. The pressure started to build, and all I could think about was how much I wanted the rest of him inside me, too.

Desperately.

“What the fuck is going on here!”

Jessica. That was Jessica’s voice. I froze. Here I was, making out in a bar with Painter, and Jessica had just caught us and . . . Oh God. I’d lost my fucking mind—there was no other possible explanation for what I’d just done. I tried to pull away but Painter held me tight. Then I heard Puck’s deep voice.

“Go to hell, Jess,” he said. “It’s none of your damned business what they’re doing.”

I managed to bring my hands up, pushing against Painter as hard as I could. His arms loosened, although he still didn’t let me up entirely. Looking at Jessica, I saw exactly how bad I’d fucked up written all over her face.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked, eyes wide. “Both of you! So you get drunk and share a quick fuck . . . Where does that leave Izzy? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Oh God. I was such a slut.

“Get the hell out of here, Jess,” Painter said, eyes narrowing. “It’s none of your business.”

Puck stood, shoving off the girl sitting on his lap as he stepped toward my best friend in a way that could only be described as menacing.

“No!” I said, pushing against Painter again, harder this time. He let me go reluctantly, people turning to stare at us. Oh shit. I was that girl—the one who caused scenes in bars.

Fucking alcohol. Hadn’t I learned a damned thing from watching my dad?

“Jessica’s right,” I said, standing up. I bumped into the table in the process, sending an impressive collection of drinks sloshing. “This is a huge mistake.”

“Let’s go,” Jess said, catching my arm. Painter surged up, catching me around the waist and pulling me back into him.

“Stop,” he said, his voice cracking like a shot. We all froze. “This is between me and Melanie, so none of you get a fucking vote. Mel, we need to talk. Somewhere quiet. Private. Puck, take care of my tab and I’ll catch you later. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Puck said. Jess opened her mouth to protest and then Banks stepped into her space, snaking an arm around her upper chest and pulling her into his body. It almost looked like a casual embrace, but when she pushed against him angrily he didn’t give an inch. A wolfish smile crossed Banks’s face as he leaned down, whispering something in her ear. I couldn’t hear what he said, but the expression on her face freaked me out—was that anticipation or fear?

Painter pushed me across the floor, big hands on my shoulders to guide me. Then we were passing through the door, out into the cool night air, music spilling out of the bar behind us.

“What the hell, Painter?” I managed to ask as he dragged me down the street, walking so fast I could barely keep up.

“We’re gonna talk this shit out.”

I stumbled over a curb. He steadied me, and I glared up at him.

“Your fucking long legs are going to get me killed,” I spat. “Slow down, asshole.”

Painter answered by swinging me up and over his shoulder. I shrieked, and across the street a group of drunk guys started hooting and laughing at us.

“Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” I shouted, not entirely sure if I was yelling at Painter or the guys. He could be a murderer for all they knew.

We reached his SUV, and he balanced me like a sack of potatoes as he dug out his keys. The lock chirped at us happily, and then he was opening the door and dropping me down on the passenger seat.

“Stay,” he said, reaching around to grab the seat belt, buckling me in. I scowled as he walked around to the driver’s side, trying to decide if I should make a run for it. It was late, though, and I needed a ride home.

Might as well talk to the jerk and get it over with. He climbed in, turning on the truck with a comforting roar. The seats were soft leather, decadent and lush. Apparently the art world was treating him well.

“For an asshole I hate, you have a very nice vehicle,” I said grudgingly. Painter gave a short, bitter laugh.

“So glad to hear you approve. Now I’ll be able to sleep at night.”

“Why do you have to turn everything ugly?”

“Because my balls are blue and my dick’s so hard it hurts,” he growled, turning to face me. “This is fucking ridiculous, Mel. Why do we keep fighting like this? I want you, you want me, we have a kid together. What’s the big fucking deal?”

“You left me alone!” I shouted, glaring at him. “Izzy was so sick, Painter. They weren’t sure she was going to make it. You don’t have a fucking clue what it was like, sitting there, waiting for her to take her next breath, hoping it wouldn’t be her last. We needed you. I needed you. Am I just supposed to pretend all that didn’t happen? That you didn’t choose prison over us when we needed you the most?”

“That’s not true!” he yelled back. “Yes, I fucked up. I’ve admitted I fucked up a thousand times. A thousand and one, counting just now. But it’s not like I had the fucking choice to come and help you, Mel—they don’t just let you leave prison because you say ‘pretty please, Mr. Warden, let me out because my girl needs me.’”

“That’s bullshit!” I screamed at him. “You had a choice, Painter. You were on parole, you knew they were out to get you, and you still turned and ran off with your club like a fucking coward when I told you I was pregnant. Do not tell me you didn’t have a choice. You always have a choice.”

Painter blinked rapidly, then stared straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white.

“You’re right.”

The words shocked me. Painter turned back to me, eyes burning with intensity.

“I was scared when you told me about Izzy,” he said. “You were scared, too—you told me you sat and cried on the floor in your bathroom when you found out, for fuck’s sake. You told me and I didn’t know what to say. I’d never wanted a kid, and then you were pissed and you left and I made my choice. I didn’t want to face that reality, so I rode with the club instead. I thought the run would clear my head, that we’d figure everything out when I got back. Instead they locked me up and I’ll have to live with that the rest of my life.”

“Painter . . .”

“I’m still scared sometimes when I look at her,” he continued, shaking his head slowly. “She’s this little tiny thing and there’s so many different ways we can break her, Mel. Even if we don’t, there’s a whole goddamned world out there just waiting to hurt her when she gets bigger. Mean girls and horny boys and school and the flu and that’s just the start. The best we can do is just push forward, one day at a time. I wasn’t with you then, but I’m with you now. I’m busting ass, building my career, earning money to support her—legal money, by the way—but you want me to go back in time and change history. I just can’t fucking do that, Melanie. Not even for you.”

Blinking, I stared at him, trying to process his words.

“You shouldn’t have left us,” I whispered.

Painter shook his head, reaching down to slam the SUV into gear, pulling out onto the street.

“Fuck, but you hold a grudge.”

“I did what I had to do, by myself. You disappeared. I never had that option, not even when things were at their worst.”

Painter slammed on the brake, the SUV skidding to the curb.

“What the hell?” I gasped, clutching the door.

He turned on me.

“You had options,” he said, his voice more intense than I’d ever heard it. “Just like I did. I already admitted it—I chose prison. You chose our child. You could’ve aborted her, but you didn’t. You took the hard road, and you raised a hell of a child along the way. I will never, ever forgive myself for leaving you alone, but I give thanks every fucking day that you were the strong one, Melanie. I can’t imagine life without Izzy. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for that.”

My breath came fast as we stared each other down. He was right. I’d been damned strong, and I’d been rewarded for that strength with an amazing, beautiful child who deserved the very best of everything in life.

“You’re welcome,” I managed to say, swallowing. Painter leaned over, catching the back of my head and pulling me in for a rough kiss. This wasn’t a seduction—not at all. He shoved his tongue in my mouth, and I felt every bit of his anger and frustration. I wanted to punch him and kiss him and fuck him until he admitted that . . . I didn’t know.

What did I want him to admit?

I heard the click of my seat belt, and then he caught me under the arms, jerking me across the center console. Then the steering wheel was in my back as the kiss deepened. Now it was my turn to get aggressive, grabbing his hair and jerking it back—partly to hurt him and partly so I could attack him with my tongue. The fire I’d felt at the bar was nothing compared to the burn coursing through me now. I wiggled, trying to find some way to get close enough to him for more contact, but it wasn’t possible.

Finally we broke apart, gasping, our foreheads resting against each other.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “Come home with me. We’re good together, Mel. You know we are.”

I thought about it. What would it hurt, just one night together? Whatever else had gone wrong between us, there’d never been anything wrong with our chemistry. He caught my hand, raising it to his lips to kiss my knuckles. A stray bit of light from the streetlamp caught on his ring—a Reaper.

His club.

My brain slowly reasserted control as I ran my thumb across it.

“This is why,” I said, wishing I could turn off reality and simply go with him. “They’ll always come first. You’re a good daddy to Iz, but your club is more important than anything else. I want better than that for myself, Painter. I deserve better. That’s why I can’t go home with you.”

With that, I pushed away from him, sliding back across the console awkwardly. He stared at me in the dark, the silence between us so heavy I felt like I was smothering.

Finally he spoke.

“What’s that supposed to be—some kind of fucking ultimatum?”

“No,” I said, feeling clearer than I had all night. “Not at all. I will never ask you to leave the Reapers for me, Painter. Just like I’ll never settle for a man who isn’t one hundred percent mine. We want different things. That’s why all of this is such a big waste of time.”

“That’s bullshit.”

I don’t know what I’d expected him to say, but this wasn’t it.

“You’re a hypocrite, Melanie,” he continued. “You’re all about how evil the club is, but who’s watching your kid right now so you can go out and party?”

“Dancer,” I admitted, wishing like hell I’d just hired the kid down the street. But she’d invited her boyfriend over last time, and while I was pretty sure Izzy hadn’t seen anything, I didn’t feel like I could trust two horny teens to watch her . . .

“Yeah, and who helped you move into your house?”

“You and Reese.”

“Me and Reese and Horse and the prospects,” he said. I was starting to get the ugly sense I wasn’t going to win this fight. “When your car broke down, who towed it in and had it fixed?”

“Reese,” I whispered.

“Yeah, and which one of us wound up in the hospital after that homeless motherfucker went on the attack? Call me crazy, but if I remember correctly that was you, Mel. You know, you with your job where you see more blood and guts and destruction in one night than I see in a year?”

“That’s unfair and you know it,” I snapped. “You forgot one key point—my job is fixing those people, helping them.”

“And I’m sure Izzy will be very comforted by that fact when you turn up dead because some guy named Todger ambushed you in the parking lot,” he snarled. “But the good news is that he probably won’t even remember what he did, so I guess that makes it all okay, right?”

“I hate you. I wish you’d stayed in that prison,” I hissed. “Then I’d never have to deal with your shit.”

“Is that what you really want?” he asked. “Me gone—really? Because I’m the one who shows up at your place to fix the fucking sink when it’s leaking. And the dryer—remember when your dryer broke? I found you a new one on craigslist, hauled it over, and hooked it up. Guess you forgot that part. But if you really want me gone, I can make that happen. I got offered an art fellowship in New York last week—a chance to study with people who know their shit. People who can teach me. They’re waiting on an answer, Mel. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of, right there on a fucking platter waiting for me. Is that what you really want?”

“What?” I gasped, stunned. “You got offered a fellowship?”

“Yeah, a damned good one,” he said, face still hard. “You know my stuff’s selling more and more . . . all those city people love it because it’s so raw. It could be a big deal.”

I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Izzy . . . How would I tell her? Oh God. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

“Still hate me, Mel?” he asked softly. I shook my head, because I didn’t. Of course I didn’t. The thought of him leaving again hurt me, hurt me as much as it had the first time. That was the problem, of course . . . not that I didn’t care about him, but that I cared too much. “Do you really want me gone?”

“No,” I whispered, and I meant it. “I mean, I want you to have the opportunity, but . . . God, that would kill Izzy. And what about the club?”

“Despite what you seem to think, they’re my brothers. They actually give a shit about my happiness.” Unlike some. He didn’t have to say the words. “I can take a leave anytime I need to, did you realize that? BB did when his mom was dying. I’ll admit it—I used to worry that they’d kick me out if I wasn’t useful. But they’re my family, Mel. You should understand that by now. Business is business, but family is what it’s really about. Riding bikes with my brothers. The business side is just a means to an end.”

Oh God. I shivered, despite the heat blasting through the SUV.

“You’re taking it, aren’t you? You’re leaving us.”

Painter laughed, but there was no humor in the sound.

“No, Melanie,” he said softly. “I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d rather die than lose my daughter. This is my home, Mel. My life was shit as a kid. No dad. My mom wasn’t worth a damn and once I hit the system it was all over. You think they can offer me anything in New York more valuable than what I already got here? I got a second chance with Izzy, and I will never let her go. Never. I’d rather be dead than lose her again.”

Sniffing, I realized my eyes were starting to water. Ah hell. I hated it when I cried. Hated. It. And how dare he turn this all back on me? I hated him, too.

Thank God he wasn’t leaving us.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” I managed to say. Painter snorted, then shifted the SUV back into gear. I sniffled a little as he started driving toward my little house in Fernan. It wasn’t much, but it had a fenced yard that Izzy loved. Not only that, someday it would be ours.

No landlords to hassle us. No leases to negotiate or rising rent.

Never again.

“It was a flattering offer,” Painter admitted, turning down Sherman. “But I already lost way too much of Izzy’s life. Not to mention I fuckin’ hate cities. Way too many damned people. Just like being in prison again.”

That made me laugh, a pathetic sound but still better than crying.

“I’m sorry I called you an asshole,” I said after a long silence.

“It’s okay,” he replied. “I am an asshole. And what you went through on your own with Izzy and everything, that’ll never be okay. But I’ve grown up since then, and I’m a loyal fucker. One day you’re gonna figure out that I’m serious when I say I’m here to stay.”

God, but I wanted to believe him. Wanted it too much.

•   •   •

We didn’t talk after that, and ten minutes later we pulled up to my place. Loni had grown up here and lived here until she moved in with Reese. Not in this same house, of course. That one had burned down from a gas leak. She’d used the insurance money to rebuild, and had kept it as a rental. Last year I’d gone to her and made her an offer, asking her if I could buy it on contract.

When she’d said yes, I’d hardly been able to believe it.

“Don’t forget, I’m taking Izzy to the family party out at the club tomorrow,” Painter said as we rolled to a stop in the driveway.

“I haven’t. She and I are going to make cookies in the morning. She wants to bring something like the big girls do,” I told him. He smiled.

“You could come with us, you know.”

I sighed, closing my eyes.

“I’ll probably be hungover,” I admitted. “I think I’ll just stay home. There’s a lot of laundry to catch up on.”

“Coward.”

For once I didn’t argue.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, looking over at him. He stared back at me, thoughtful in the darkness.

“This isn’t over.”

I couldn’t think of a damned thing to say in response, because I knew he was right.

It would never be over between us.