Текст книги "Reaper's Fall "
Автор книги: Joanna Wylde
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a prequel short story about Melanie and Painter’s first meeting. It takes place one year before the beginning of Reaper’s Fall (when Painter is released from prison), against the background of action from Reaper’s Stand. I thought you might enjoy reading it.
SUGAR AND SPICE
MELANIE
I fell for Levi “Painter” Brooks the first time I saw him, although in all fairness I did have a head injury at the time.
It was a weird start to a relationship, too.
You see, I blew up a house.
It wasn’t on purpose, and in my defense I’d had a really shitty day. My mom had taken off earlier in the week. Just up and left while I was at work on Monday, and she never came back. Neither me or my dad heard a thing from her, and while she’d always been sort of flaky, she’d never done anything like this before. By Wednesday night, I broke down and asked him if we should report her missing to the police.
He’d thrown his beer bottle at me, shouting about how “the whore” must’ve gotten herself a new man. She’d left me because I was nothing, just like she was nothing.
Then he’d told me to go buy him more beer.
I decided to call Loni instead.
Not long afterward, I blew up her house.
• • •
London Armstrong was my best friend’s aunt. Jessica and I had been tight for years, and as my own mother drifted further and further from reality, they’d become my second family. She’d told me to head on over to her place and let myself in, that she’d see me later that night. I went over there and made myself some macaroni and cheese on her gas stove.
A couple hours later the house exploded.
Gas leak.
Nobody said it was my fault, but I knew it had to be. I’d been the last one to use the stove, so there you have it. Anyway, fate has a weird sense of humor, because that’s how I met Painter. The next day, I mean. At the hospital.
He gave me a lift on his motorcycle, and I fell in love.
God I was young. Young and stupid.
• • •
“I sort of thought you meant a car when you said you’d give me a ride home,” I whispered, staring at the tall, beautiful, terrifyingly perfect man standing in front of a shiny black Harley with custom gold trim. He’d been introduced to me as Painter, and apparently he was part of the same motorcycle club as Loni’s new boyfriend, Reese.
“She did have a head injury,” London pointed out, her voice tart. She held my arm protectively, staring between me and Painter with worry written all over her face.
“Sort of thought the car was implied,” said Reese, sighing.
“You didn’t say and it’s not like she’s really hurt or anything,” Painter replied with a shrug. He glanced at me. “You got a headache?”
I did, but he was so pretty and perfect and I didn’t want to jinx this. Blond, spiky hair. Strong, straight cheekbones and muscular arms that I just knew would be strong enough to pick up a girl like me and carry me wherever I needed to go.
“No, I don’t actually,” I said, feeling nervous but excited, too. I shot another look at the bike, imagining what it would feel like to sit behind him, holding him as we flew down the highway. “Although they said no sudden movements.”
“So you’ll hold on tight,” Painter said, eyes playing with mine. He licked his lip and I felt my insides twitch.
Ohmygodhe’ssohotandhe’slookingrightatme!
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Reese said, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “I’ll call someone else.”
“No, it’s okay,” I said quickly, hoping Mr. Hot Bod wouldn’t change his mind about giving me a ride. “I’ll try riding the bike.”
I’ll try riding you, sexy . . .
Wow. Those kind of pervy thoughts weren’t like me at all. Painter winked and I would’ve fainted on the spot if I wasn’t so damned healthy and not the fainting type. Shame, too, because he’d totally catch me with those muscular arms of his. I could sense it. I gave him a little smile, hoping I wasn’t coming off as dorky.
“You watch yourself with her,” London snapped, crossing her arms and jutting out a hip. I stared at her, shocked—that wasn’t like Loni at all. Had she just ruined it for me?
Painter raised a brow.
“Fuckin’ priceless, prez,” he said, then smiled at me again, a smile so beautiful that it made me dizzy. You’re dizzy because you have a concussion, my common sense pointed out.
I gave it a mental finger, because fuck common sense.
“You comin’ or not?” he asked, swaggering over to his bike and climbing on. Deliberately avoiding London’s gaze, I followed him, hopping up behind before he had a chance to change his mind.
“Hold on, babe,” he told me, his voice low and smooth. Like whiskey. Not that I drank much whiskey, but I’d had some at our high school graduation party, at the beginning of the summer. Putting my hands up, I touched the sides of his hips hesitantly. He caught them, pulling them tight around his stomach. I could feel his hard abs through the thin fabric of his shirt, and smell the leather of his motorcycle vest thingie. My entire front was leaning against his entire back, and I felt dizzy again. Then he reached down and touched my knee, giving it a quick squeeze.
Oh. My. God.
• • •
The ride took about ten minutes. Ten glorious minutes that included a short stretch of highway as we left Coeur d’Alene behind, which meant we got to go fast. Then he was pulling off and parking in front of an old farmstead that had a well-lived in, well-loved kind of wear around the edges. He turned off the bike, and the sudden absence of noise and vibration left my ears ringing. We sat there for a minute as I collected my thoughts. He touched my knee again.
“Gotta let go if you want off the bike, babe,” he said softly.
I jerked my hands back instantly, wondering how big of an ass I’d made of myself. Then I was scrambling to get off, looking everywhere but his face because I couldn’t bear to see him looking disgusted, or worse yet, sorry for me.
“Come on,” he said, touching the small of my back gently, guiding me toward the porch. “I’ve got the code to get you inside. You can go crash for a while, get some rest.”
“Thanks,” I said, daring to look up at him. His eyes were everywhere, scanning the yard for what, I had no idea. Five minutes later we were upstairs, looking at what had to be a girl’s bedroom.
“You can stay in here, Em won’t mind,” he told me. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
“Who’s Em?” I asked.
“President’s daughter,” he answered, and his voice held a hint of something. Not sadness, but . . . something. “She’s a little older than you, about my age. Get some rest.”
I waited until I heard his footsteps going down the stairs before I pulled off my jeans and climbed into the bed. My head really was hurting now, and while they’d given me pain meds at the hospital, I wouldn’t be able to take another dose for a while longer. Lying there, I stared at the ceiling, wondering what Painter was doing downstairs.
Did he have a girlfriend?
Right, like it even mattered. He’d been sweet to me, but he was probably sweet to little old ladies, too. Guys like that didn’t go for girls like me.
Girls who were nothing.
The thought hurt, but eventually I drifted off. When I woke it was nearly five. Wandering downstairs, I found Loni and Reese sitting in the living room, her perched on his lap as they talked quietly.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” I said, feeling like an intruder.
“Don’t worry about it,” Reese replied, sounding resigned. Loni pushed off him, then came over to study me carefully. She was shorter than I was, and I felt awkward and gawky next to her.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, her eyes sharp.
“Good, my head hardly hurts at all,” I said, and this time it was the truth. “Although I’m starving.”
Then I snapped my mouth shut, because it sounded like I was begging for food, which I guess I was. I mean, I was sort of trapped here, out in the country at a strange house owned by a man I didn’t even know, and whose only tie to me was that he was sleeping with my best friend’s aunt.
That’s pretty damned tenuous.
Loni smiled. “If you’re hungry, that means you’re healthy. I picked up some new clothes for you earlier. They’re in the bag.”
She pointed to a Target bag sitting on the floor next to the stairwell. I’d just leaned over to grab it when Painter walked into the room from the back of the house.
“How you doin’?” he asked.
“Better,” I managed to reply, feeling shy.
“Get changed and we’ll go out to dinner,” Reese announced. “It’s been a long day.”
“Okay,” I said gratefully, then ran upstairs to put on my new clothes. Hopefully Loni had gotten me something cute.
• • •
Painter invited himself along with us, which pissed Loni off for reasons I couldn’t quite understand. I knew she was protective, but it wasn’t like he was doing anything.
Sure, he’d insisted that I ride with him to the restaurant (which kicked ass, I might add). And he was sitting next to me in the booth, his thick, male thigh pressed up against the side of mine, which gave me little flutters and chills. A couple times he leaned over to ask if my food was all right, and when we finished he draped his arm across the back of the booth, right behind my head.
I’d sat there, wanting him so bad it took everything I had not to shiver. I’d have given anything to kiss him. At one point he even reached down and gave my knee another of those little squeezes, nearly giving me a heart attack.
Loni glared at him throughout.
Reese rolled his eyes and ordered another beer.
Afterward, Painter gave me a ride back to Reese’s house, and I swear if he’d asked me, I would’ve done anything for him. To him. But he didn’t . . . Nope, he just dropped me off.
But as I got off his bike, he tucked a strand of my hair back behind my ear and skimmed his fingers across my cheekbone. I really did shiver then, because how could I not?
• • •
Two days later I was bored out of my mind.
I’d found myself in a weird limbo out at the Hayes house, because I had no transportation or way to get to work. There wasn’t anyone to talk to, either—Reese and Loni were gone most of the time, her working and him doing club stuff. There had been some big party the night before, but yours truly wasn’t invited.
Instead I just sat around, waiting for something to happen. Reese still made me nervous, but I trusted London and it wasn’t like I had any other options. Even the money I’d managed to hide from my dad was gone, burned up in the explosion. Now all I had were the clothes Loni had given me.
Two pairs of panties. One bra. A pair of shorts and a pair of jeans, two tank tops and a sweatshirt.
That was it—the sum total of all my worldly possessions.
I needed to take action, figure things out . . . But when I tried to talk to Loni and Reese about the next step, neither of them had time for me. Loni had work stuff, Reese had club stuff, and they both just kept telling me to rest up and let my head heal.
A girl can only rest so much, though.
That’s why I was just sitting on the porch Saturday afternoon, trying to read when I heard the bikes coming. Now, if I’d learned anything over the past two days, I’d learned that there were always bikes coming and going from Reese Hayes’s house, so I didn’t think too much of it when I saw the motorcycles turn into the driveway. Then I recognized one of the riders as Painter, and my heart clenched. (Okay, so it wasn’t my heart that clenched, it was something centered a lot lower in my body, but don’t judge me. Painter was the kind of hot that no sane woman can resist. It never occurred to me to try.)
“Hi,” I managed to say as he swaggered toward the porch—and yeah, he had the swagger down cold, trust me.
“Hey,” he replied, giving me that same slow grin that’d first melted me at the hospital. (And the house. And the restaurant . . .) “This is Puck. Me and him are gonna hang out here tonight.”
I shot a look at his friend, who was a tall, solidly built guy with darkish skin, darker hair, and a nasty scar across his face. He didn’t look much older than me, but the flatness of his eyes sort of freaked me out.
“Reese didn’t say anything about someone coming over,” I replied, torn. I wanted Painter around, but his friend? Not so much. “I should probably check with Loni.”
“Feel free,” Puck said. “But we got orders. President says we’re watching the house and keeping an eye on you, so that’s what we’re doing.”
Painter scowled at him. “Way to scare her, fuckwad.”
Puck didn’t say anything, just crossed his arms over his chest, making it clear he was here to stay. Okay. This was getting weird fast.
“You know, why don’t you just come in?” I said quickly. I hated it when people fought. Mom and Dad fought all the time, at least until she stopped giving a shit and started smoking pot constantly. “I think there’s some pork chops in the fridge. I’ll make them for dinner, does that sound good?”
Painter smiled at me again, and this time there was something strained about the expression. “Sounds perfect, babe. Can’t wait.”
• • •
Dinner was weird. For one thing, we didn’t talk. None of us. We just sat and ate in the same room together, the clicking of our knives and forks almost painfully loud. Painter was nothing like he’d been before . . . He was still nice to me, but distant. No little knee touches, no lingering glances.
Nothing whispered in my ear.
The situation with Puck was strange, too. I’d assumed they were friends, but soon realized they hardly knew each other. Not that it mattered—they’d been sent to the house with orders to watch over me, and that’s what they planned to do. This burst my bubble in a big way, because I’d been secretly hoping that Painter had wanted to see me again. In reality, I was an assignment. I didn’t know why Reese thought I needed a babysitter, but he obviously did.
I’d just finished my pork chop when Painter suggested we watch a movie.
“It’ll help pass the time,” Puck agreed, anything but friendly. “I’ll see what’s available. Good food—thanks.”
He stood and carried his plate into the kitchen, then passed by us again on his way to the living room. Painter leaned back in his own seat, looking me over.
“How are you doing?” he asked, and it sounded like he was actually interested in the answer. I shrugged.
“Good,” I said. “Although it’s a little weird . . . I don’t feel safe going home. Loni’s place is gone. I’m not quite sure what I’m still doing out here, but I don’t have anywhere else to go, either. I can’t even get to my job, because I don’t have a car. Loni and Reese are never here. It’s hard to wrap my head around what comes next, you know?”
Huh. That was a lot more than I’d planned on sharing. I stared down at my plate, wondering if I sounded like a whiny little girl. Painter didn’t respond, so I shot him a look under my lashes. He was studying me intently, although I couldn’t read his expression.
“Wish I had an answer for you,” he finally said. “It’s a fucked up situation and I got no idea what happens next.”
That caught me off guard, because it was so honest. Whenever I managed to corner Loni, she’d just tell me that everything would be okay, and that she’d take care of me. Reese said to calm down, that it would all work out.
Hearing the truth was scary, but refreshing, too.
“Thanks,” I blurted out.
“For what?” he asked.
“For being honest. Everyone is telling me that things are fine, but they aren’t. I’ve got no home, no family to help me, no transportation and if I don’t find a way to get to work soon, I’ll lose my job. Not that I’d even know if I got fired, because my phone blew up with the rest of the house. And I’ve probably got a bazillion dollars in medical bills, too. It is a fucked up situation, so why is everyone pretending it’s not?”
He seemed startled by my sudden burst of speech, which I could understand. I’d startled me, too.
“You know, the house probably wasn’t your fault,” he said slowly. I shook my head, wishing it were true.
“I think I left the gas burner turned on after I made my macaroni and cheese,” I admitted. “What else could’ve caused it?”
“Melanie, leaving on a burner for a couple hours doesn’t blow up a house,” he told me, the words gentle. “I mean, it’s not something you want to go around doing, but whatever happened, it was because of something bigger than you cooking macaroni. It’s not your fault. And Loni’s insurance will probably cover your medical bills, too.”
“I really hope that’s true about the house,” I said, although I knew in my gut it wasn’t. I’d caught a whiff of gas earlier that evening and had meant to investigate. Instead I’d gotten distracted thinking about my mom. “And I guess the medical bills don’t really matter anyway. Not like they can collect.”
He nodded, reaching for the beer he’d grabbed from the fridge earlier. Taking a long drink, he glanced toward the living room, where I could hear Puck rummaging around.
“You don’t have to watch a movie with us if you don’t want to,” he said quietly. “You can go upstairs and rest.”
“I’ll watch it,” I insisted, and not just because I wanted to spend more time with him. I’d had my fill of rest over the past two days. Just having another human being around to talk to was a relief—the fact that he was a super sexy human made it that much better. “Here, let me get your plate.”
“No, that’s all right, I’ll take it,” he said, so we carried the dishes into the kitchen together. He stood and watched while I loaded the dishwasher. Every time I passed him, I caught his scent. Leather and something strange . . . like paint thinner.
“Is Painter your real name?” I asked, avoiding his eyes.
“Nope, my real name is Levi Brooks,” he said. “But I like to paint, and most guys in the club use a road name, so there you have it.”
“Like, paint houses?”
He laughed. “No, pictures. I’m into art.”
That surprised me. I must’ve shown it on my face, because he gave another low chuckle. “Let me guess, you assumed bikers aren’t sophisticated enough to appreciate art?”
I coughed, looking away. I’d be damned if I’d answer.
“You’re cute when you blush,” he said, reaching over to catch a lock of my hair, tugging on it gently. He called me cute! My heart stopped for an instant, and it was hard to follow the rest of his words. “And yeah, I like art. I do a lot of the custom work down at the body shop. All the gold on my Harley is my own, too. Sometimes I do bigger projects. Usually painting on boards for customers who want portraits of their bikes, believe it or not.”
“Wow,” I said. God, he was so out of my league—hot and talented.
“What about you?” he asked. “What do you do?”
“Well, right now I’m waiting tables,” I told him, wishing I had a more interesting job. “But I’m starting school in the fall, at North Idaho College. And once I get all my prerequisites done, I’m going to study nursing. I like taking care of people.”
“Yeah, I can see that. You’re friends with Jessica, right? London’s niece?”
I nodded.
“You take care of her a lot?” I shrugged, because I took care of her all the time, but he didn’t need to know that. At least, I’d taken care of her until she’d run off to California to live with her mom. She’d been super pissed at London for dragging her out of a party at the Reapers clubhouse, which was my fault in a way.
I was the one who ratted her out.
I’d heard a lot of rumors about those parties, about how wild they were. How a girl could get into trouble. Looking at Painter, I believed those rumors, too—if he crooked his finger at me, I’d come running like a shot.
The thought caught me off guard, and I frowned. Since when did I come running for a guy?
“You okay?” Painter asked.
“Sure,” I said, although I was feeling more than a little off-balance. Not physically, but mentally, because in the past two days I’d gone from being afraid of bikers to really, really liking this particular one.
How many girls did he have waiting for him, back at that clubhouse of his?
I looked up to find him staring at me, his face thoughtful.
“Let’s go see what Puck found for movies,” he said. “And Mel?”
“Yeah?”
“Things aren’t okay, but they will be. You can get through this.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, and to my disgust I felt hot tears filling my eyes. I hated crying, hated the kind of girls who cried. Hated looking and feeling weak, but Painter just pulled me into his arms, holding me tight as sobs started shaking my body.
I missed my mom really bad, and I was scared.
He rubbed my back, whispering softly into my ear, although I had no idea what he was saying. All I knew was that for the first time in forever—maybe years—I felt safe.
• • •
An hour later, that whole “safe” thing had passed.
I was sitting in the living room, huddled in a blanket on the couch as I watched a scarred and twisted man carrying a chainsaw creep up behind an innocent young woman.
He was going to kill her.
I knew this because I’d already watched him kill at least ten other people with his horrible weapon, and the movie wasn’t even halfway over yet.
Why the hell hadn’t I gone upstairs when I had a chance?
Now I couldn’t, of course. Not alone in the darkness of the stairwell—not even if I turned on every light in the damned place. My mind could tell me there wasn’t anyone lying in wait to kill me all it wanted, but my gut knew better—the instant I stuck my feet outside the blanket, they’d get cut off.
This sucked, because I really had to pee.
“You okay?” Painter murmured, leaning down close to me. I jumped, startled, and then he was wrapping his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. The saw roared through the sound system, and I closed my eyes tight as the girl started screaming and screaming. Painter’s hand rubbed my shoulder, and he gave me a squeeze. “You want us to turn it off?”
Shaking my head, I burrowed into the warmth of his body.
The saw roared again and I moaned.
“Seriously, we can turn it off,” he whispered, close enough to the side of my face that I could feel the heat of his breath, and smell the faintest hint of beer.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, wondering if I’d ever sleep again. I hated horror movies. Hated them. Jessica made fun of me for it all the time, but I’d be damned if I’d admit how scared I was. Not to Painter.
“Okay, then,” he said, and I felt something brush my hair. His hand?
“Good news,” Puck announced, sounding almost cheerful. He was sitting in a chair across the room, watching us with something like humor in his eyes. “This is a whole series. We can do a marathon.”
I moaned again, wondering if I could just roll up into a ball and die, right here.
It would be better than spending the night watching blood spurt.
Would it ever end?
• • •
I woke up in bed, fully clothed under the bedding.
Staring at the ceiling, I blinked, trying to figure out how I’d gotten here. There had been the never-ending, hateful movie marathon. Painter holding me, which was significantly less hateful. London coming home, talking to him in the kitchen and then locking herself in the bedroom.
Had I fallen asleep next to Painter on the couch?
Maybe he carried me upstairs, tucked me in. God, how sexy was that?
Not as sexy as him crawling into bed next to you . . .
A wave of heat spread through me. What would it feel like to sleep with him? Or maybe we wouldn’t sleep at all, just spend the night—
Stop it, I told myself firmly. Stop it right now. If he wanted to make a move, he could’ve. He didn’t. Get over yourself, already.
• • •
“Mel, how much longer until I can put you on the schedule again?” asked Kirstie, sounding impatient. She was my manager at the restaurant and I was talking to her on my new phone. She’d been horrified to hear about the explosion and so far hadn’t complained about all the time off, but that wouldn’t last forever. Either I needed to move somewhere I could walk to work, or I needed a car.
At least I could make calls again.
The phone was a gift from Reese. He’d tossed it casually across the table at me over breakfast on Sunday morning, not long after I’d dragged my chainsaw-traumatized ass downstairs. Puck was sitting at the breakfast table, and I looked around, hoping to see Painter.
No such luck.
After we finished eating, I tried to pin Loni down again, but she didn’t want to talk. Neither did Reese. Everyone just seemed to think I should sit quietly in the corner and stay out of their way—but how was I supposed to rebuild my life stuck in a corner?
There was a reality disconnect here, and it felt like I was the only person who could see it.
I spent Sunday sulking, and by Monday—yet another day alone in the house—I was on the edge of losing it. London came home in the late afternoon and started fixing dinner, even more distracted and out of focus than she’d been before. I tried to help her, but I just kept getting in her way so eventually I went upstairs.
By myself.
Again.
I was lying on the bed, reading an old science fiction book I’d found in the closet. It wasn’t really my thing, but seeing as this was my fourth straight day of doing jack shit, I’d decided to expand my horizons.
A crisp knock came at the door.
“It’s open,” I called, and looked up, expecting to see Loni. Instead I found Painter. He gave me that super sexy smile of his, walking toward the bed with long, loose strides. Then he sat down next to me, and I swear to God, my heartbeat doubled.
“Hey, Mel,” he said, reaching over to slowly pull the book out of my hands. “You want to go out for a while tonight?”
“Like, on a date?” I gasped, then could’ve smacked myself, because how desperate was that? Painter didn’t seem bothered, though.
“Yeah, a date,” he said, sounding bemused. “I thought we’d get dinner, maybe go see a movie.”
That sounded amazing, unreal . . . except for the movie part. I couldn’t do it again, I realized. Not even with his arms around me.
“No horror,” I said, hoping it wasn’t a deal breaker. Painter grinned.
“How about this, I’ll let you pick,” he replied. “I want you to have fun. You ready?”
I thought about my hair, which hadn’t been combed all day. Maybe my clothes weren’t great and I didn’t have any makeup, but I still wanted to primp a little before we left. Hell, what I really needed was a moment alone to catch my breath.
Levi “Painter” Brooks was taking me on a date!
“Give me five minutes,” I told him. “Then I’ll be ready to go.”
“Sounds great,” he said, standing up again. He reached down, offering me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me up and into him. We stood there—touching—for an instant, before he stepped back.
“Sorry about that,” he said, but he didn’t really sound sorry. I tried to keep it casual as he turned away, leaving me alone to get ready. It was almost impossible. I wanted to jump and dance and scream like a little girl. That’s how excited I was.
Instead I splashed some cold water on my face and brushed my hair, wishing I could do more to pretty myself up. Unfortunately, the options were limited.
It would have to be good enough.
• • •
He took me to a bar and grill in midtown, and to my surprise they didn’t bother carding me when he ordered a beer for each of us. I guess when your date is a six-foot-plus biker who’s simultaneously badass and beautiful, the average waitress isn’t paying attention to anyone’s age.
The first sip was bitter, nothing like the Bud Light kegs at our high school parties. I sucked it down, though, and by the time our pizza arrived I had a nice buzz going. Obviously it was a lot stronger than Bud Light, too.
“I really need to find a place in town, so I can walk to work,” I told him, trying not to gross him out while I ate. The pizza here was good. Really good. They’d brought it hot from the oven, and there was melted cheese running all over the place. It tasted amazing, but it didn’t lend itself to delicate eating.
“Either that or a car,” he said, nodding his head. “I’ll talk to the prez—maybe he has something you can borrow.”
“Do you have any idea what their plan is?” I asked him. “Loni and Reese, I mean. They’re still not talking to me, but I’m done sitting around like a potted plant. Tomorrow I’m going to work even if I have to walk.”
A strange look crossed Painter’s face, and he sighed. “You can borrow my car.”
I sat back, stunned.
“I wasn’t trying to beg,” I told him, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Look, I’m not using it much anyway,” he replied. “It’s summer—I’d rather ride my bike. I’m heading out of town for a couple days, but I’ll have one of the prospects bring it over, drop it off for you. That way you can start working again, get back on your feet.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I whispered. Painter’s smile grew strained, and something dark flickered through his eyes.
“Don’t thank me too much,” he said. He looked away, waving toward the waitress. She hustled her ass right over, and I couldn’t blame her. I’d be hustling too, if he was sitting at one of my tables. “Can I get the check?”
“Sure,” she cooed at him. I watched as she leaned over, flashing her cleavage. He wasn’t looking at her, though.
He was looking at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Sorry for what?”
The waitress came back, handing over our check. Painter pulled out his wallet and grabbed several bills, stuffing them in the little black folder. Then he was on his feet and it was time to go.
He never told me what he was sorry for.
• • •
I picked an action movie.
There was a romantic comedy that looked good, but after he offered to loan me his car that just seemed cruel. He bought the tickets and we started toward the theater. We were almost inside when he paused to check his phone. Then his face turned grim.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said shortly. That was a lie if I’d ever heard one.
“No, something’s wrong. Do you need to go?”
He hesitated, and I knew he did.
“We should go,” I said firmly. “You can take me home, and then deal with whatever that was.” I nodded toward the phone.
“Yeah, we might want to do that,” he admitted. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to cut things short.”
“It’s fine. I’ve had a great time. I’m just sorry the tickets are wasted.”
“No worries,” he replied. “C’mon.”
The ride back was different. I’d lost the sense of breathless expectation that’d filled me earlier in the evening. Painter’s body was tense. Whatever message he’d gotten, it wasn’t good. We pulled up to Reese’s house to find it dark. I stepped off the bike and looked around, startled to see that Reese’s motorcycle was gone, along with London’s van.
