Текст книги "Reaper's Fall "
Автор книги: Joanna Wylde
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
CHAPTER TWO
ONE MONTH LATER
COEUR D’ALENE
MELANIE
“So he never even called you?” Kit asked, eyes wide. “I mean, I get that guys can be confusing, but to loan you his car for a fucking year, write you tons of letters from prison, and then have you drop his keys off with my dad so he doesn’t have to see you? That’s bizarre.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I muttered, shooting a death glare across the table at Jessica, the rat. My soon-to-be former best friend seemed deeply unconcerned by the fact that she’d betrayed me.
Wench.
“I don’t blame you,” Em announced, reaching for the wine bottle. “I don’t like talking about Painter, either. He fucked with my head for way too long. I had the biggest crush on him when he was a prospect.”
“You let him mess with you,” Kit said, shoving her glass in front of Em’s for a refill. Em smacked at her hand, and suddenly the sisters were wrestling over the bottle like kindergartners with a cookie.
I glanced over at Jessica¸ wondering how our Friday afternoon had turned into a random drunkfest with two women I barely knew, because Kit and Emmy Hayes were a trip. Jess gave me a “don’t look at me” kind of shrug before draining her own glass of wine. I reached for some crackers off the little round cheese/meat platter thing Em had been carrying when she’d shown up at our house out of nowhere. (Kit had been in charge of booze.)
“Ha!” Em gloated, holding up the bottle triumphantly. “Suck it, Kit. Back to business—we have to figure out the perfect thing for London’s bachelorette party. So far we’ve got a night out dancing and surprise strippers.”
“I don’t think Reese is going to like her having strippers,” I mumbled, spraying crumbs because I’d forgotten about the cracker I’d just popped into my mouth. Ick. I grabbed my water glass, chugging. Liquid fire poured down my throat. I choked and then Jess was thumping my back while they all stared at me. Slowly I caught my breath, knowing my face must be beet red.
“That was straight vodka,” I gasped, staring down into the green plastic tumbler. I’d grabbed Kit’s cup instead of mine—obviously she wasn’t a water drinker.
“I know,” Kit said, nodding her head earnestly. “It’s more efficient that way.”
“So you’re chasing your vodka with wine?” Em asked.
“No, I’m chasing my wine with vodka,” Kit explained. “Saves time. Talking about Dad getting married again is creepy—the booze helps.”
I sat back in my chair, looking between the two sisters, pondering the situation. Jessica and I had just moved in here a week ago. Our new apartment was actually one side of an older, two-story house downtown. The place was falling apart, and sooner or later someone would tear it down and build something new and spectacular. Until then, it’d been divided into four apartments—two down in the basement and two splitting the house in half, town house–style.
I loved it.
We had a giant porch out front, and there was a door off the kitchen leading into a shady yard surrounded by trees. We’d found an old wooden wire spool by the Dumpster to use as a picnic table. That’s where we were now—clustered around it, sitting in old camp chairs. Handy, seeing as we didn’t have a table for the dining room yet. Maybe we’d bring this one inside when it got cold . . . Like our new home itself, we considered the table a total score. London—Jessica’s aunt, who’d raised her and taken me in, too—and her old man, Reese Hayes, insisted the place was a shithole.
Technically, they were probably right.
The house was a hundred years old at least, with peeling paint and a slant to the porch roof unsettling enough that I’d made a conscious decision not to think about it—especially since my bedroom (an old sleeping porch that’d been enclosed) perched on top of the rickety structure. The hot water worked only half the time, and it turned super cold if someone ran a faucet anywhere in the house during your shower. The walls were thin, so thin that they could hardly hold the tacks we used to put up posters, and the fridge made a creepy wheezing noise that sounded like the cold breath of a murderer in the night. (Not that I’d ever heard the cold breath of a murderer in the night, but I had a vivid imagination.)
It was still ours, though.
Our first real home as adults.
We had great neighbors for the most part, too. The other half of the house held three guys who went to North Idaho College, just like us. They were loud and rude, but so far they’d been willing to share the grill they kept on the porch, and they’d killed a snake for the girl who lived in one of the basement apartments. The second downstairs apartment held a guy who seemed a little sketchier than the rest of us. Jessica thought he might be a drug dealer. I hated to judge, but we’d been here a full week now and I’d never seen anyone have so much company coming and going late at night—there were cars pulling up for quick stops until two or three every morning.
We’d decided not to tell Reese—he’d probably kill the guy . . . well, unless he was on the Reapers MC payroll or something. Reese was the motorcycle club’s president, and I’d never fully pinned down what it was he did for a living.
Sometimes it’s best not to know.
Kit and Em were his daughters, and apparently now they were our new best friends. Jess had mentioned that they’d be in town—the Reapers were having some sort of big party for Labor Day, and people rode in from Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and Montana for the festivities. They’d even invited us, as London’s . . . what the hell were we, anyway?
Jessica was London’s niece, so that made her family. I’d been Jessica’s friend for years and London had half raised me, so I guess I was part of her family in some way, too.
There just wasn’t a quick and easy name for a configuration like ours, although that didn’t make it any less substantial. This really hit home when Loni asked me to be one of her bridesmaids. Now that she’d hooked up with the president of the Reapers motorcycle club, I was realizing that meant the whole club was somehow part of our larger world. I supposed under other circumstances, I might’ve even considered going out to the party. I couldn’t, though—Jess hated the clubhouse and she flat out refused to visit. Something bad had happened to her out there last year. I wasn’t entirely sure about the details, and I didn’t care, either. If she didn’t want to go, then I didn’t want to, either. We’d just stay home and get a leg up on our homework while they all partied. Or at least, that’d been the plan before Kit and Em and their booze showed up out of nowhere to talk bachelorette-party plans.
“Okay, we’re completely off track here,” Jessica said. I blinked at her, feeling the world around me spin just a little. That last big swallow had hit me hard. “Does London even want a bachelorette party? I just can’t see her enjoying it.”
“Every woman wants a bachelorette party,” Kit announced. “And we’re gonna do this right. I’ll admit—I wasn’t on board with them together at first. I still get creeped out thinking she’s sleeping with Dad night after night . . .”
“Better her than the random girls he used to drag home,” Em said, wrinkling her nose. “Half of them were younger than me. One time he even fucked a girl dressed like a carrot. London’s a big step up.”
Jess and I looked at each other. Carrot?
Ask her about the carrot! I mouthed silently at Jess.
No fucking way, she mouthed back, eyes wide.
“Okay, so I can see two ways to do this,” Kit declared. “We can either do whatever it takes to make London happy or we can do whatever it takes to make Dad’s head explode, which would make me happy. So I vote for exploding his head.”
“The key is to plan something she’ll like that still makes his head explode,” I declared, falling into the spirit of things. “We should get her some strippers and then text him pictures of them grinding on her.”
“Could we use The Line?” Jessica asked, intrigued. The Line was a strip club the Reapers owned. I’d driven by it but never been inside.
“It’s a thought,” Kit said. “They won’t want to close it and lose money, but maybe we can get some sort of special ladies’ night event set up. I know they’ve done them before. That way they still make their money, we can have a party for London, and Dad’s head will explode. Everyone wins.”
I stood slowly, swaying.
“I need to pee,” I announced gravely, drunker than I’d realized. Should’ve eaten more crackers . . . except the last one I’d had tried to kill me. Sneaky little bastards.
“Do you need help?” Jess asked, and I started laughing at her joke, because of course I didn’t need help. What did she think I was, a preschooler? Nobody else laughed, though, and I realized she was serious. That was even funnier, so I started giggling even harder. So hard I fell down, setting all of them off, too.
“You sure you don’t need help?” Kit asked. I shook my head, which made me dizzy again.
“No, I think I can handle it.”
• • •
It took a lot longer to finish than I expected, mostly because I’d accidentally locked the bathroom door on the way in and then I couldn’t figure out how to unlock it.
I really needed to stop drinking out of Kit’s cup.
“So all he did was look at her and say ‘hey,’” Jess was telling them when I got back. Shit. She was talking about Painter again, possibly my least favorite subject on earth.
He’d been home from jail for two weeks now. I’d expected him to call me. Instead I’d gotten a text from Reese telling me to drop the car and the keys off at his house, then nothing. Not that I thought Painter owed me anything—of course he didn’t—but I’d wanted to at least thank him. (Okay, that’s not true—I wanted to jump him because I had a huge crush, but I also had some dignity. I would’ve settled for a quick “thanks” and maybe baking him some cookies.)
“Let’s talk about something else,” I declared.
“No, I want to hear this,” Kit said, slurring her words slightly. “You distracted me earlier, but now that we’ve got the whole stripper thing figured out, we can focus.”
I sighed, wondering if I could just strangle Jessica. No, probably not. She wasn’t very big, but she was wiry and unnaturally strong. It wouldn’t end well for me. Might as well give in to the inevitable and tell them.
“So, I met Painter last year,” I started, frowning. I really didn’t want to talk about this. “You know what? I’m hungry. Let’s order a pizza.”
“We’ll let you eat once you tell the whole story,” Kit said, scenting blood. “Spill it. I want to hear everything.”
This sucked. I didn’t even know Reese Hayes’s daughters very well—we’d only met a couple times before today, at holidays. I’d already felt like an intruder in Reese’s home, and with his kids there it’d been worse. On Christmas last year I’d left right after dinner for my dorm, making up some bullshit story about volunteering somewhere just to get away.
“So I met Painter last year,” I started again. “Only a couple of times, really. Then he went to prison and I started writing him letters.”
“I told her that was a bad idea,” Jessica said piously. “He’s not a nice guy, despite the whole loaning you a car thing.”
“That’s true,” Em chimed in. “Not nice at all.”
“Do you want to hear the story or not?” I asked, refilling my wineglass. Thinking about Painter was stealing my buzz. Couldn’t have that.
“Tell the story,” Kit said, narrowing her eyes.
“So when he took off for California he left me his car—it was just supposed to be for a couple days. Then he got arrested, he told Reese I could keep using it. I wrote to thank him, and I guess it just went from there,” I said. “Painter’s letters were so sweet, even though I only met him a couple times before they locked him up. He didn’t even treat me like a girl, not really. But he was so . . . protective. I felt stupid writing to him to begin with, but when he kept writing back I felt special. Then one day—right before they let him out—I got this letter from him saying it was weird I didn’t have a boyfriend, and that maybe I should be dating more. I felt like I’d gotten kicked in the stomach. I think I’d managed to fool myself about how big my crush on him was.”
“I tried to warn her,” Jessica said mournfully. “She didn’t listen.”
“They never do,” Kit replied, her voice full of sad wisdom. “I swear, if people would just follow my instructions they’d all be a hell of a lot happier.”
I glanced at Em, who rolled her eyes.
“Might as well spill the rest,” Jess ordered. I sighed.
“Okay, so after that I never heard from him again—he didn’t call when he got back to town. Nothing. Then we moved in here last weekend and Reese showed up with some of the club guys to help us . . .”
The words trailed off as I remembered. It’d been so humiliating. Reese and Loni had pulled up with this big truck, and right behind them was Painter, riding his motorcycle, along with a couple other bikers, younger guys not much older than me. I watched—mesmerized—as he carefully backed his Harley into place then swung one broad leg over his seat, looking up to catch my eye.
He was more beautiful than I remembered.
Bigger, too. I guess he’d spent some of that time in jail lifting weights. His hair had grown out some. When I’d first met him, it’d been short and spiky and bleached so blond it hurt. It still wasn’t long, but it wasn’t bleached bright white anymore and it was shaggy. Natural. His cheekbones were sharp, his features chiseled and harder than I remembered, and there was something scary in his pale blue eyes.
He wasn’t looking at me—he was looking through me. Up to that point I’d held out hope that he was just busy or something. How stupid was that?
“All he said was ‘hey,’” I told the girls. “Like I was a stranger, and it was obvious he didn’t want to talk. Just nodded his head when I thanked him and walked away. He helped move our shit, but I swear, he was friendlier to Jessica than he was to me.”
That part particularly hurt, because I knew their secret. Jessica and Painter had slept together. Or fooled around. Whatever. She’d never given me all the details, but I knew her lips had been in contact with his dick at one point, back before she pulled her shit together and settled down.
“Mellie, that didn’t mean anything,” my best friend said softly. “You know he’s not interested in me.”
“In you?” Kit asked, her voice sharp. “I thought the issue was between him and Melanie?”
My mouth snapped shut, because it wasn’t my story to tell.
“I used to be wilder,” Jess said, taking a deep breath. “Last year I got drunk and went out to the Armory for a party. I fucked around with Painter and another guy named Banks. Then London showed up and dragged me out and a lot of other shit happened.”
“Wow,” Em said, eyes wide. “He must not like you very much, Jessica. He never sleeps with the girls he actually likes.”
I gaped as Kit leaned over and smacked her head.
“That’s a shitty thing to say,” she snapped. My chest felt tight—Jess had enough on her plate, she didn’t need to hear stuff like that.
“Hey, it’s not my fault he has a Madonna-whore complex,” Em protested.
“Shut the fuck up!” Kit hissed. “Jesus, Em, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“It’s okay,” Jess said, flapping her hand at them. “I’m so sorry, but just the thought of the whole thing is so ridiculous. Believe me—I could give two shits if Painter likes me or not. It’s just . . . he doesn’t fuck girls he likes? What the hell is wrong with him?”
“How much time do you have?” Em asked seriously. “It could take a while to break it all down.”
I held up a hand.
“Do I get a vote?”
“No,” Kit said. “Em, give her the short and dirty.”
“I spent more than a year chasing after Painter,” Em said. “He was into me—everyone said he was. But the club always came first, and it’s like he expected me to be some kind of perfect, precious angel while he fucked around with his club whores. Finally I got sick of it and ran off with Hunter.”
“Seriously?” I asked. She blushed.
“Okay, it’s a little more complicated than that,” she admitted. “But there was definitely something between us, yet he never got off his ass and did anything about it. The guy has issues.”
“Painter’s problem is he likes the idea of a relationship but he’s too fucking chicken to follow through,” Kit said, giggling.
“No, Painter’s problem is that he’s complicated,” Jess said, her voice more serious. “I’d say he was a total asshole, but he helped save my life last summer. He wound up in jail because of it. It doesn’t change the real truth, though—Painter is a great guy to have around if your life’s in danger and you need someone to rescue you. But other than that? He’s not one of the good ones, Mel. You shouldn’t talk to him, because he’s dangerous. They all are.”
Kit and Em had grown quiet—now the awkward had changed direction.
“You do realize you’re talking about my dad and Em’s old man, too?” Kit asked softly. Jess met her gaze head-on.
“I think I know what I’m talking about,” she replied, her voice hard. “Melanie should stay the hell away from him.”
“Someday you’ll have to tell me that whole story,” I finally said, my voice soft. Jess offered a sad smile.
“The club saved me,” she said again. “They can do good things, Mel. Just don’t let that trick you into thinking their world is a good place, because it isn’t. Bad things happen there.”
Silence fell over the group as we contemplated her words.
“We should drink more,” Kit announced suddenly. “And where’s the music? How can you plan a bachelorette party without music?”
“Good call,” Jess said, clearly relieved to change the subject. “I’ll go put something on.” She stood up, walking across the half grass, half dirt of our backyard toward the kitchen porch. Em and Kit looked at her.
“She okay?” Em asked.
“She’s always okay. Jess has a lot going on, but she pulls through. She’s tough.”
“Fucking hell,” Kit burst out.
“What?”
“We’re out of booze,” she announced, mournfully turning the wine bottle upside down. Her vodka cup was empty, too. “Now what are we going to do?”
“We’ll go get more,” Em said. “Except I’m way too buzzed to drive . . . Fuck, now what are we going to do?”
“This is a problem,” Kit replied. “A big problem.”
“We could stop drinking,” I pointed out. Both sisters stared at me blankly. “Okay, we could walk down to Peterson’s and buy some more. It’s only about six blocks.”
“I like this one,” Kit said seriously. “She’s a thinker.”
“Yup. We should keep her,” Em said. “So who’s coming with? I want some chips. And maybe some of that squirty cheese shit that comes in a bottle.”
Kit curled her lip. “That’s disgusting. You’ll die from eating that.”
“You’ll die from eating cock,” Em sneered back at her.
“You’re just jealous because I’ve got some variety in my life,” Kit said, unconcerned. She glanced at me. “Are you a virgin? Em was a virgin when she got together with Hunter. She doesn’t even realize that there’s other dicks out there. For all we know, he’s got a four-inch stick. Never settle, Mel.”
I giggled.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
• • •
“We might need some of this,” Kit said, lifting a long, hard tube of summer sausage out of the deli cooler, hefting it thoughtfully. The thing had to be a foot and a half long, and it was a good three inches thick.
“Not my place to judge,” Em replied carelessly. “But that doesn’t look very sanitary to me. I think you should just buy a dildo.”
I gasped, glancing around to see if anyone had heard us. We were standing in the meat aisle. Peterson’s didn’t sell hard liquor, but we’d loaded up on wine, along with some fresh fruit to make sangria. Why we needed sangria I wasn’t entirely sure, but Kit had been insistent. She kept rolling a lime thoughtfully between her fingers and muttering about scurvy.
Clearly, the Hayes sisters were batshit crazy.
“Let’s just grab some chips and go,” I said, starting to worry about how much the bill might be. I’d gotten enough financial aid that I didn’t have to work this semester, but only if I pinched my pennies tightly. “If you really want tubed meats, I’m sure you can find some guy to share his for free down at the Ironhorse.”
Jess gaped at me.
“Melanie, did you actually just say that?”
“What?” I asked. “You seem to think I’m some sort of quivering virgin. I’m not—I’m just more worried about school and my future than getting laid. Doesn’t mean I’m a prude.”
“Of course she’s not a prude,” Kit declared, throwing her arm over my shoulder proudly. “And tonight we’ll show Painter just what he’s missing out on, because he’s a whiny little pussy. A bunch of Hunter’s brothers from Portland are in town—I’ll introduce you around. You’ll have a great time. Painter can sit and spin if he won’t step up.”
“We’re not going to the party,” I told her. Kit shook her head slowly.
“No, you’re definitely going,” she said. “Someone has to put him in his place.”
Jessica and I looked at each other, eyes wide. She shook her head at me, mouthing, Don’t do it!
“I’ve really got a lot of studying to do . . .”
“You’re coming to the party,” Kit repeated, her eyes going hard. “Don’t worry—we won’t leave you hanging. But this shit needs to end. I’m not letting another girl get hung up on that cockwad for years just because he’s got his thumb up his ass. Dealing with Em’s situation was bad enough. The girl was useless. Totally useless.”
“I’m standing right here,” Em pointed out.
“I’m aware,” Kit replied, her tone suddenly sweet. “You know how much I love you, sis. Now hand me my sausage.”
• • •
Two hours later I still wasn’t sure how I’d wound up staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out what to wear. I didn’t want to go to the party, yet here I was, primping and preening, feeling almost sick to my stomach every time I imagined meeting Levi “Painter” Brooks on his home turf.
Jessica wandered into my bedroom, frowning.
“I still can’t believe you’re going,” she said. “They’ll eat you alive out at the Armory. You have no idea what those parties are like.”
“Kit and Em promised they’d keep an eye on me,” I reminded her. “And this is a family party—not some crazed fuckfest like you went to.”
“Don’t let them fool you,” Jess said darkly. “Bad shit happens at the Reapers clubhouse. Doesn’t matter if they saved my ass or not, the Reapers are dangerous and I’d be a lot happier if you’d just stay home and work on homework with me.”
I turned to look at her, marveling yet again at how much my best friend had changed over the past year. Back in high school she’d been obsessed with her looks, with partying, and with boys. Now it was a Friday night and she was leaning against my doorframe wearing ragged, cutoff sweats and a stained tank top, hair up in a messy bun. Not one of those cute, sexy messy buns, either. This one looked like a hairy mutant growth on her head.
Turning back, I studied my reflection in the mirror.
“Well I’m going anyway,” I told her, reaching over to grab my jelly glass of sangria. “So do your duty as a friend and help me get ready. Does this make me look fat?”
Jessica licked the Fudgsicle she held thoughtfully.
“No, but it makes you look about forty. And not a hot forty—sort of like a homeless woman going on a job interview, I think.”
I stared at her. “I can’t decide how to take that.”
“Take it as a sign that you should wear something else,” she said, shaking her head. “Now, don’t interpret this as my blessing to go to that party tonight, because I’m still one hundred percent against it. But seriously, Mel. You’re beautiful. All that dark chocolate hair and permanent tan of yours? Fuck, if I had that to work with I’d be . . . Well, I wouldn’t be sitting here watching you get ready to go out when I’m going to be stuck at home studying all night. I see no reason to disguise all that pretty as a bag lady.”
“First up, those are some big words from a woman whose hair is so messy it’s got white-girl dreads,” I replied, frowning. “And second, you’re the one who’s refusing to go out, remember? I want you to come with me.”
“Whatever. Change your clothes.”
Rolling my eyes, I studied my reflection. She was right. Totally right. These were job interview clothes, not party clothes. “I’ve got no idea what to wear—can I borrow something?”
Jessica pondered, walking slowly around me, eyes sharp and critical.
“I can help,” she said. “But I require complete obedience, grasshopper.”
“Never min—”
“Silence!” she snapped, holding up a hand, palm facing me. “Don’t distract me. I’ve got an image . . . We need something very special. Something to make him regret blowing you off—just don’t be a fucking idiot and go crawling back to him.”
“I was never with him in the first place.”
“All the more reason to do this right,” she said. “If you’re going out there, you’re going to look hot. Really hot. He’ll blow his wad when he sees you, I swear. Then you can make him grovel and come back home.”
Ewww.
“I don’t want him blowing his wad.”
She cocked her head at me, smirking.
“Now who’s living in denial?”
I sighed, because the bitch was right.
• • •
Jessica worked fast, and fifteen minutes later I found myself looking in the mirror again, but this time I’d definitely left job interview territory behind. I looked good, I had to admit. Jess had me in a black push-up bra and a loose, off-the-shoulder black summer top with silver bangles around my wrists and big hoop earrings. She’d paired it with a short plaid skirt, sort of a cross between a kilt and one of those little skirts girls wear at Catholic schools. She’d finished it off with combat boots.
“You can use those to kick Painter in the nuts if he says something stupid,” she said, smirking at me.
“But shouldn’t I be wearing something more . . . I don’t know. More. Heels or something?”
“Trust me, you don’t need the fuck-me pumps. You have fuck-me lips and a fantastic rack. Not only that, Painter”—she sneered as she said his name—“is an idiot, so I can almost guarantee he’ll need a nut punch and you don’t want to break a nail or something. Any shoe with a real heel would get stuck in the grass anyway, and flats are simply not an option. That leaves us with wedges or sandals, and those would totally ruin the feel of the outfit. This is what you need to wear.”
I studied my reflection again. It wasn’t me at all, but I had to admit, the clothes totally worked with my dark hair and smoky eyes. Half sexy skater girl, half . . . hell if I knew. Something not Melanie, something almost reckless.
“I guess so. It just feels weird.”
Jessica came to stand next to me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.
“When you helped me write my first English lit paper, I listened to you,” she said, her voice serious. “I listened because you understand that stuff better than I do. It’s what you’re good at. Here’s the thing—I may have taken a temporary vow of celibacy, but I know guys and sex. This works on you. You’re gorgeous. I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”
I blinked rapidly, unexpectedly emotional. Then Jess leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “If you were a hooker, I’d pay full price for you, baby. And you know I don’t pay full price for anything.”
I pulled back and she burst out laughing.
“You’re crazy, you know that?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “I’m the crazy one, you’re the one who’s good at school and shit. So tonight we’ll switch it up. You go out and have fun—just stick close to London, okay? I’ll stay home and do my homework. That should fuck with all their heads.”
“Head fuckery is a noble goal,” Kit declared, stepping into the room to join us. “London’s gonna be here soon—she’s our ride. She’s doing a Costco run for more ice and chips—you can never have too much of those. Nice work on the outfit, Mel.”
“It was all Jessica.”
“Figures. Now let’s go. We’re out of sangria again and Em’s looking thirsty. God only knows what she’ll do once she realizes I drank it all while she was talking to lover boy on the phone. That bitch is violent when she’s sober. We need more to drink—safety first, you know?”
• • •
“This is Mel,” Kit announced proudly, pushing me toward a tall guy with dark hair pulled back in a man bun. (Those always confuse me—they really shouldn’t be sexy yet on some guys they just work.) He wore a denim Devil’s Jacks MC cut, and I would’ve been interested in studying the patches if he weren’t completely bare chested underneath it . . . and what a chest. Damn.
I know it’s shallow, but if you asked me to pick his face out of a police lineup I would’ve drawn a blank. Those pecs? I think they were burned on my soul.
“Mel’s connected to London, my dad’s old lady,” Kit continued. “She’s nice, so try not to break her.”
“Hey, Mel,” he said, his voice smooth with just a hint of humor. “I’m Taz. Over from Portland.”
“Taz is in the same chapter as Hunter, Em’s old man,” Kit informed me. “He’s a great guy, aren’t you, Taz?”
“Fuckin’ prince,” he agreed. “You want a drink, Mel?”
I nodded, mesmerized. Taz was very, very pretty. No, “pretty” was the wrong word. Hot. Yeah, that was better. Taz was hot—like, on the alphabet of hotness I’d give him an “H” for Hemsworth. I wanted to lick him, to see if he tasted as good as he smelled, although that may have been the sangria talking . . . His eyes were green and sparkling, his lips were quirked in this adorable half smile, and when he put his hand against the small of my back, guiding me gently toward the kegs, I nearly fainted.
Fuck Painter—he had his chance.
In all fairness, I’m not usually that shallow . . . but I’d been at the party for nearly two hours now, and while I’d seen Mr. Brooks in the distance, he hadn’t even bothered acknowledging me with a friendly wave, let alone talked to me. He’d glared for a minute, then stomped off toward Reese without a second look.
At least London had been happy to see me, although I could tell she was disappointed Jess wasn’t here. I knew she’d been banned from the Armory for a while last summer after she’d gotten herself in trouble at one of their parties. But she’d really pulled her shit together since then. Reese had even started inviting her to some of the club’s family events last winter.
So far as I knew, she’d never been back out here, and I’d only been out once, helping London with some groceries. Today, Loni had warned me to stay outside in the courtyard with the main group and to let her know when I wanted to go home so she could arrange a ride. Then she’d given me a hug and a kiss before setting me free to run around with Kit.
