Текст книги "Reaper's Fall "

Автор книги: Joanna Wylde

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Looking at the cans of paint, I saw a small red one not far away and grabbed it.

“Do you remember that night you taught me how to paint ladybugs?”

“Vividly. One of the best nights of my life.”

“Do you think I could paint one on Izzy’s wall?”

Painter stared at me, assessing. “You know, with anyone else I’d say yes, but I’m kind of scared you’ll give her nightmares. Zombie mutant ladybugs or something. Maybe if we did it together?”

I frowned, but he had a point.

“Okay, show me.”

“Sure,” he said, glancing around. There was a pile of smaller brushes near the wall. He leaned over on his knees to grab one, then sat back down. Prying off the lid, he opened the can and handed me the brush.

“Let me find something for you to practice on.”

I dipped the brush into the paint, letting the bright red drip slowly from the bristles back into the can. So much had happened over the years together—hard to wrap my head around all of it.

“I’d do it again, you know,” I said suddenly. Painter glanced at me, a question in his eyes.

“All of it,” I clarified. “I’d do it all over again. Us. I can’t imagine life without Izzy. Having her made me stronger—I don’t think I’d have gotten this far if it wasn’t for her. It was worth it, even all the fighting with you.”

Painter smiled, then shook his head. “You would’ve accomplished all kinds of things, no matter what.”

I raised the brush, studying the color. He was right about the ladybugs—if I tried to paint something on the wall, I’d give Izzy all kinds of nightmares. Biting my lip, I studied his face. Then I leaned over and drew a bright red line down the length of his nose.

Painter blinked.

“Why the hell did you just do that?”

“You painted me,” I said. “Remember? You practiced on me all those years ago. Now I think you should let me practice on you.”

Heat flared in his eyes, and then he dropped his hands to the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it up and over his head.

“All yours, babe.”

Biting back a laugh, I dipped my brush again and drew a circle around first one nipple, then the other. I followed this with a broad semicircle across his stomach.

“Look, it’s a smiley face.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop me when I dipped the brush again, this time painting a line down the length of his arm. I loved his arms—they were strong, roped with thick muscle. If I had to fall in love with an asshole, at least he was a hot asshole.

“Glad you think I’m hot,” Painter said, and I blinked.

“I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.”

He leaned forward and kissed me slowly. Oh, that was nice . . . I kissed him back and he caught me by the waist, dragging me over to straddle his body. I deepened the kiss, savoring his taste. How had I ever convinced myself I could live without this? Then Painter was pulling my scrub top up and over my head. Reaching around behind my back, I unhooked my bra without letting his lips go, launching myself back into him with enough force to push him over backward with a thump.

We both burst out laughing, which didn’t stop him from grabbing my scrub bottoms and shoving them down, too. I kicked them free, sitting up and reaching for his fly. He scrambled to help me, and then his cock sprang out, hard and ready to go.

This was what I wanted.

What’d been missing, all along. Painter. Admitting it was a relief. Lowering my head, I licked the edge of his dickhead, then let my tongue trail down his length.

“Jesus, that feels good,” he muttered. “But if—”

I shot a quick glare at him. “Less talk. If you don’t talk, you can’t say something stupid and fuck this up.”

“Gotcha.” He shut his mouth so I opened mine, sucking him down as I started pumping his cock with my hand. His head dropped back and he draped one arm over his eyes, groaning. His other hand burrowed into my hair, guiding me as I moved more quickly.

Eventually it wasn’t enough—I wanted him inside. Not that I didn’t enjoy the foreplay, but right now I needed to ride him fast and hard. Sliding up his body, my knee hit something and it fell over with a thud.

“Shit,” I said, realizing I’d knocked over the can of red paint. “Oh shit!”

I pushed off him as he tried to sit up, which set us off-balance. Grabbing for his shoulder, I missed, and then I fell over sideways, right into the bright red pool.

Painter started laughing.

I tried to push up again, but the tarp was slippery as hell and my hands slid out from under me. Painter laughed harder, so I scooped up as much paint as I could, throwing it toward his face.

It hit with a wet smacking sound.

Now I was the one laughing as he tried to wipe it away. Scooping up more, I flung it at him again, hitting his chest. He lunged for me and I shrieked, scuttling backward through the mess. Then he was on me, and we were wrestling. He was stronger, but I was slippery as hell and his pants were wrapped around his knees, hobbling him. I kept swiping at the paint and trying to rub it on his face, until finally he caught me, rolling me under him for a deep kiss.

Unfortunately, not even a kiss from someone that sexy is enough to overcome the taste of paint. On the other hand, his dick was still hard, and if I had to choose between kissing or fucking, the kisses weren’t my first choice. I reached down, grabbing for it. I wanted him inside me . . .

Shit.

Even his cock was covered in latex, and not the pregnancy-preventing kind.

“Condom,” I managed to gasp. “Do you have one?”

“Yeah, in my wallet,” he said, reaching for a rag. He wiped off his hand, then fished the wallet out of his back pocket. Pulling out a condom, he tossed the leather wallet across the room, presumably to save it from the paint. I watched anxiously as he rolled the rubber down over his erection, thinking back to the night before.

“We forgot to use a condom again last night,” I pointed out. “I don’t think it’s the right time of my cycle to get pregnant, but . . .”

Painter looked at me, his eyes fierce.

“If you’re knocked up again, we’re getting married.”

My jaw dropped.

“You’d marry me just because I was pregnant?”

He shook his head, giving me what I think was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but looked more like a zombie leer, given the red smeared across his face.

“No, we’re getting married anyway,” he said. “But if you’re knocked up, we should probably do it while you can still fit into a wedding dress.”

“Holy shit.”

He shrugged, then pushed me back down, centering himself between my legs. I gasped as he pushed in, savoring the stretch even as I realized we’d have to take it easier this time—I was still sore.

“Careful,” I warned. “You look like a vampire, did you know that? The paint on your face is like blood.”

“This whole place looks like a crime scene,” he said, winking at me.

“Oh, God. What a metaphor for our relationship.”

He laughed. “We’d better take a shower together just as soon as we finish up here. No help for it.”

“I think we can make that happen,” I replied, wrapping my arms and legs around him. He twisted his hips, grinding into me slowly, and I sighed.

This was good. Really good. Too bad we’d destroyed Izzy’s room to get here . . .

“You think this tarp will be enough to protect the carpet?”

He pulled back, then thrust into me again, hard.

“Absolutely not,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll probably have to pull it up and replace it. Totally worth the effort, no question. Now less talk and more fucking. Please?”

“You got it,” I whispered, closing my eyes and letting the sensation take me.

I wasn’t quite ready to marry him—not yet. I wanted to be sure we could go more than a week without trying to kill each other . . . But this had potential. Not only that, I’d never have to go on a blind date again.

Forgiving him was probably worth it, just for that alone.

PAINTER

I tiptoed out into the living room wearing only my briefs, because my jeans were soaked through. The paint was still smeared across my body, too, but I’d managed to wipe off my feet. Now I was on a mission to find paper towels.

That’s when the door opened and Isabella ran in, followed by Reese and London.

All three froze.

“What did you do?” London asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. I frowned—a little paint never killed anyone. Izzy screamed and started to cry. London gathered her up, staring at me in horror.

“Where is she?” Reese asked, his voice grim.

“Mel? She’s in the bedroom. I was just getting some towels to start cleaning up the mess. We’ll probably have to pull out the carpet, though.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Reese said. “Loni, get that kid out of here.”

I frowned, then caught a glimpse of my arm . . . dripping red.

“Wait!” I said. “This is paint, not blood. What the hell did you think, that I killed her?”

London nodded slowly, and I realized she was serious.

“No,” I told them, outraged. “I love Melanie—I’d never hurt her.”

“Given how you treated her the other night . . .”

“No, no fuckin’ way,” I replied, raising my voice. “She might kill me, but I’d never kill her. Mel, get out here. Izzy’s home and she needs to see that you’re okay.”

“Just a sec,” she shouted back, and I saw Loni visibly relax. Then Mel walked into the living room, wrapped tight in a bathrobe. Her feet had been rinsed off, but the rest of her was still covered in red. It was even matted into her hair. I winced—we probably should’ve at least moved to a cleaner part of the tarp.

“Hi,” she said, offering a feeble smile. Reese sighed heavily, then looked at Izzy.

“Let’s go get some ice cream. I think Mommy and Daddy need a little more time.”

Mel nodded, and I thought she blushed. Hard to tell, given the situation. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“Yup, we definitely need ice cream. Maybe a nice breakfast mimosa,” London announced. “We’ll be back in an hour. That should give you two enough time to get cleaned up. I want to . . . never see anything like this again.”

Then she turned and walked out the door, Izzy gaping at us over her shoulder. Reese sighed again.

“Have fun, kids,” he said, following her.

Mel giggled again, and I shook my head. They were gonna crucify me out at the clubhouse for this one.

Guess I should just be glad he hadn’t started snapping pictures.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

OCTOBER

MELANIE

“You look adorable,” Duck said, kneeling down next to Isabella. She was dressed up like a princess, of course, and the little purse she carried was already stuffed full of candy.

We were out at the Armory for their annual family Halloween party. Later it would turn into their annual grown-up Halloween party, and I had a feeling the costumes would be getting significantly skimpier. For now, though, we were surrounded by crowds of cute kids going slowly insane as they ate their weight in processed sugar.

“I’m a biker princess,” Izzy said proudly. “Just like on my wall. Daddy helped me paint it.”

“Well, here you go, princess,” Duck said, pulling a dollar out of his pocket and handing it to her. He glanced at me and shrugged. “Uncle Duck didn’t remember to buy candy.”

“There doesn’t appear to be a shortage,” I said dryly, looking around the courtyard. The air was crisp, but it was one of those perfect October afternoons—sunny, with the smell of fall filling the air. Rows of tables were full of food, and they’d already started the bonfire. I couldn’t help but notice there were a disproportionate number of little bikers wearing their own MC cuts. Painter came up behind me, sliding a hand around my waist as he kissed the back of my neck.

“You hittin’ on my girl?” he asked Duck. The old man shrugged.

“Maybe,” he replied. “But I can’t decide which one. Mel’s pretty, but this little princess of yours will probably be even prettier once she grows up.”

“If you wait for me, I’ll marry you,” Izzy told him gravely. “But only if you let me bring my unicorns to live at your house. And I’m having an operation later this week, so you should bring me Popsicles, too. Daddy said I can have as many as I want.”

Duck shot me a glance. Tonsils, I mouthed. He pretended to consider her offer, then nodded.

“We got a deal,” he said, offering her his hand for a shake. “I’ll start buildin’ you a unicorn stable right away.”

“Hey, Melanie!” London shouted. I looked up to find her waving at me from the food tables. She was in her element, bossing everyone around as she got the meal ready. “Can you give me a hand? I need someone to cut the pies.”

“Sure,” I yelled back, then looked down at Izzy. “You keep an eye on Daddy for me, okay? Make sure he makes good choices.”

Painter nipped the back of my neck. Smacking him, I headed over to London, who handed me a knife.

“Is this for Painter or the pie?” I asked.

“I haven’t forgiven him yet. Could go either way,” she said, winking. “Cut each one into eight pieces, except the big ones from Costco. We can get twelve out of those.”

I started in on the pies, noting that one of them was huckleberry—I wonder who’d brought that? I needed to make friends with them ASAP.

“Can you hand me that towel?” someone asked. I looked up to find a girl with skin just a little darker than mine and a head full of springy black ringlets. “I wanted to wipe off this casserole dish.”

“Sure,” I said, smiling at her. “I’m Melanie—what’s your name?”

“Deanna. I’m new around here, just moved to town.”

“Oh,” I replied, wondering if she was with someone in the club.

“Mel, can you help me grab the veggie trays?” Loni asked. Giving Deanna a quick wave, I followed Loni through the back door and into the kitchen, where she made a beeline for one of the fridges. Pulling out three big veggie trays, she handed them to me and then grabbed a cardboard box off the counter, loading it with packages of hot dogs.

“We’ve got sticks so the kids can roast their own,” she said.

“That’s a lot of hot dogs just for the kids.”

She laughed.

“Yeah, well once the kids start, the guys will follow. Usually I hate hot dogs, but even I enjoy one roasted over an open fire every once in a while.”

“So who’s Deanna?” I asked. “I just met her outside—never seen her around before.”

“New club whore,” Loni said bluntly. “She seems friendly enough—Reese said she showed up a few weeks back. Duck gave her a place to stay.”

I raised my brows.

“Her and Duck?”

She nodded. “Apparently.”

“Wow, good for him.”

•   •   •

An hour later, Izzy had crawled into my lap and was starting to yawn.

“You ready to take her home?” Painter asked. I nodded.

“I think so. It’s been a long day. Are you staying at the party?” More people had been arriving steadily, some I knew and more I didn’t. Among them were far too many girls wearing “costumes” the size of postage stamps.

“I’ll come home with you guys,” he replied, and I smiled. Melanie: one. Halloween tramps: zero.

“Fucking hell!” someone shouted. I looked up to see a group of men gathering around something near the bonfire. “Call nine one one!”

Painter and I shared a look, then I thrust Izzy at him. She squawked in protest, but I ignored her as I ran toward the fire, pushing forcefully through the crowd of men.

Duck was on the ground, eyes closed.

“What happened?” I snapped, kneeling down next to him, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. No breathing, either.

“He said his chest hurt,” Reese said. “We were getting him a chair, and then he fell.”

“Reese, call nine one one,” I ordered. They all paused, and I realized they weren’t used to a woman giving their president orders. Rolling Duck onto his back, I looked up at the circle of men and snarled, “I’m a fucking ER nurse, and that means right now I’m in charge. Call nine one one, and someone get Painter. I need my keychain. Do you have a defibrillator?”

“No,” Horse said bluntly. “Never occurred to us.”

Of course not.

Rising to my knees, I traced my fingers over Duck’s chest, finding the bottom of his breastbone. Centering the heel of my left hand just above it, I braced my right on top of my left and pushed down using all my weight.

His sternum cracked loudly. I felt the crunch of his ribs as I started chest compressions. One. Two. Three—all the way up to thirty, and fast, too.

“Where’s my keychain?” I yelled, looking around. Painter dropped down next to me, handing it over. I found the little pouch I always kept attached to it, and pulled out a lightweight pocket CPR mask, slapping it over Duck’s mouth to protect myself from any diseases he might have. Then I gave him two powerful breaths, watching for his chest to rise and fall.

Time to start compressions again. I looked at Painter.

“You’re going to help me,” I told him. “I’ll do thirty compressions, then you’ll give him two deep breaths. Watch me this next time, then do exactly what I do. After five cycles, we’ll trade off—otherwise we’ll never make it.”

He nodded.

One. Two. Three. Four . . .

I could feel myself tiring already, which wasn’t a surprise. Real CPR wasn’t nearly as smooth and easy as they show on TV, and the compressions had to be deep if they were going to work. His organs needed oxygen, and every minute that passed, more heart muscle was dying.

By the time we traded off, my arms and back ached. I checked for his pulse. Still nothing.

“Is the ambulance coming?” I shouted.

“Yes,” Reese said. “But they’re at least another ten minutes out.”

Fuck. Stupid old man, having a heart attack in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly Duck vomited and I jerked back, grabbing Painter’s arm. “We have to roll him, otherwise he’ll drown on his own puke.”

Pushing Duck to his side, I let the disgusting fluid mixed with chunks of hot dog drain out of his mouth, then turned him back over. We weren’t safe yet.

“Okay, you can start again.”

Time seemed to blur after that—an endless cycle of compressions and breaths punctuated with pulse checks. We traded places again, and yet again, over and over until finally I checked his pulse and—

“Stop!” I shouted. “I’ve got something.”

Painter dropped back, panting as I listened for Duck’s breath. There it was. I dropped to my butt, exhausted but triumphant.

“He’s alive,” I said, feeling dizzy with relief.

“Coming through,” a man’s voice shouted. Reese pushed people out of the way as the EMTs came toward us, carrying their equipment.

“I’m an ER nurse,” I told them. “He was down about . . .”

Hell. I had no idea how long he’d been down.

“Twenty minutes,” Reese chimed in, his voice grim.

“Does he have a history of heart disease?” the EMT asked.

“No idea,” Reese answered. “He’s been at the doctor a lot lately, but didn’t tell anyone why.”

I felt someone catch my arm, pulling me away from Duck’s body. Painter.

“Good job,” he said softly. I nodded, because he was right—we’d done a hell of a good job. Wrapping an arm around my waist, Painter helped me over to the grass, where I lay down on my back, arm flopped over my eyes. He collapsed next to me, then Izzy ran up, crawling in between us.

“Is Uncle Duck dead?” she asked, obviously afraid. I cuddled her close.

“No, baby. But his heart is sick. They’re going to take him to the hospital and see if they can fix it.”

“What are his odds?” Painter asked. I considered the question.

“Depends,” I admitted. “I have no way of knowing how much damage he has or why he had a heart attack in the first place. If they get him to the hospital in good time—and they should be able to—they’ll run a catheter up his groin and check him out. If they find a blockage, they should be able to clear it and put in a stent. It’s a common procedure—he could be back home by tomorrow. That’s a best-case scenario, though. And he’s going to hurt like hell no matter what. I probably broke half his ribs.”

“Is it always like that?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“That . . . violent?”

I laughed. “CPR? Yeah. It’s not something you do for fun.”

“I’m tired,” Izzy announced. Me and her both.

“Most of the club will be heading down to the hospital,” Painter said. “But I think we need to go home. I’m wiped.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll make a few calls once we get there, see if they’ll give me any information. You think you could leave your bike out here, maybe drive us back?”

“Yeah,” he said, rolling over onto his elbow to look at me. “They’re all going to want to thank you—you’re a hero, Mel.”

I offered him a weak smile, then shook my head.

“Nope, I’m just a nurse. But remember tonight the next time we have a fight, okay? Because I know about a hundred different ways to kill you in your sleep, bring you back, and then do it all over again.”

His eyes widened, and Izzy laughed, clapping her hands.

Best. Kid. Ever.

THREE DAYS LATER

PAINTER

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. I’d just pulled up to the Armory for an emergency church meeting, only to find Duck pulling up next to me. I’d been to visit him the day after his heart attack, so I knew he was doing all right, but it still startled me to see him here.

“We got church,” Duck said, frowning as he lumbered toward the building. “I always come in for the meetings. Although I had to drive a fuckin’ cage to get here.”

“Mel said she didn’t want you riding your bike for a couple weeks,” I reminded him. “Nothing strenuous, remember?”

“I know,” Duck growled. “And it’s fuckin’ killing me. But that new girl of mine has been takin’ good care of me. Seems damned unfair that when she gives me a sponge bath I can’t have my happy ending, though.”

“You don’t need sponge baths—you could just take a shower,” I pointed out reasonably. Duck smirked.

“She doesn’t know that. Now, let’s get inside—Pic said it was important. Better hear what he has to say for himself.”

•   •   •

“Got a call from Hallies Falls,” Picnic said, looking around the table. “Not good news. Gage got attacked earlier today. The details are fuzzy, but his old lady found him on her living room floor half dead—all cut up. He’s in emergency surgery right now.”

“Was it club-related?” Ruger asked.

“Cord thinks so,” Bolt said, sharing a look with Picnic. “They took his colors. Someone wants to start a war.”

The words hung heavy over the table. I didn’t know about everyone else, but I was running through a mental list of potential suspects and coming up short. Who was strong enough to challenge us right now?

“You think it’s the cartel?” Horse asked.

“Probably,” Pic said. “Things may be heating up again north of the border. I think we should head over and check things out for ourselves. Rance is on his way, too. He’s been hearing rumors on his end, so odds are good it’s connected with that shit going down in Vancouver. Thoughts?”

“I’m with you,” said Ruger. “We could ride over, pay Gage our respects, and do some poking around along the way. They’re still a small chapter—might help them sleep a little better tonight, knowing they’ve got backup.”

“Anyone disagree?” Pic asked. Nothing. “Okay, then. Duck can stay behind. We’ll want a couple more bodies here just to cover our asses, too.”

“I need to stay,” I announced. “Izzy’s having her tonsils out tomorrow. Hopefully it won’t be a big deal, but they’ve got to put her under. Promised her I’d be there when she wakes up.”

I waited for someone to protest, give me shit about bailing on the run.

“Understood,” Pic said. “We’ll leave the prospects with you. They can stay here at the Armory, make sure nobody tries to fuck with us on this front. I’ll want to roll out in an hour—if you need to run home and grab some shit, now’s the time. Assume things could get ugly, so we ride fully armed. Talk to Ruger if you need an extra weapon or more ammo.”

He gave the table a sharp rap with the gavel, then stood up. I followed him out, catching his arm.

“Sorry about the run.”

“No, it’s better to have you here,” he replied. “Don’t need a brother on the road with us who isn’t focused, anyway. And it’s not good enough to leave the prospects—I’m more worried about Duck than anything else. I told him not to come out for church, but he still showed up. He’s pushing himself already, hates to show any kind of weakness. The prospects and Deanna don’t stand a chance of keeping him in line.”

“Christ, and you think I do?” I asked, biting back a laugh. “Duck does what he wants. Always has.”

“Yeah, and in two weeks he can again,” Pic replied. “But the doc said if he doesn’t take it easy, he could blow the artery in his groin right out—the one they shoved the catheter through. Once you start bleeding in a place like that, you don’t stop until you’re dead. Mel worked too hard saving his nasty ass for us to lose him over something stupid.”

“Right, and what am I gonna do to stop him?” I said, shaking my head. “The bastard killed more guys in ’Nam than’s in this whole club. He’s not gonna listen to me.”

Pic snorted.

“He killed more guys in ’Nam every time he tells the story,” he replied. “I guess if he gives you enough shit, you can have Mel drug his ass. Or tie him down—I dunno. Just keep an eye on him, okay?”

“You’re sticking me with an impossible job,” I realized slowly. Picnic cocked a brow. “All you guys gotta do is figure out who’s attacking the club and stop them. I have to control Duck.”

“Note that I didn’t volunteer to stay in Coeur d’Alene,” he said smugly. “Good luck.”

“Painter, get your ass out here!” Duck shouted from the bar. “Let’s go talk to the prospects—make sure they understand what’s expected of them.”

“Did you plan for me to stay here?” I asked with a sudden flash of insight. “Because of Mel?”

Pic shrugged. “That’s for me to know. Now you heard the man—get your ass out there. Duck’s waiting.”

Then Pic offered me a cheery salute. I flipped him off in response, because fuck him.