Текст книги "Reaper's Fall "
Автор книги: Joanna Wylde
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
“Next up is Gordo Gallagher, an experienced bullrider down from Calgary, Alberta,” continued the announcer as Chase moved back toward the gate. “He’s looking for points and prize money, and it’d sure be nice if he could go home with both. Give him a warm North Idaho welcome!”
We all cheered again, and then I watched as one bullrider after the next tried to hold on for the full time period. Only about half of them made it, which meant the bullfighters were busy. Over and over, they jumped between the bulls and their riders, protecting the cowboys with their bodies. Why the hell would someone do that to themselves on purpose?
Craziness.
Of course, I was going a little crazy myself as Painter ran his fingers across my shoulders and down my arms, all the while pressing his leg against mine. By the final ride of the night, I’d fallen into a warm haze of desire that just wouldn’t go away.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s put our hands together for Cary Hull,” said the announcer. “We’ve saved the best for last, as Cary was our top prize winner during last year’s rodeo. From there he went on to become a circuit finalist. He’s been patiently waiting all evening to show you what he’s got.”
Down in the arena, Hull had climbed up and over the chute, ready to drop onto the bull for his ride. Then the horn sounded and the pair burst out into the center of the arena.
At first I didn’t realize anything was wrong—bulls are supposed to buck at a rodeo. But this one seemed wilder, crazier than any of the others. I mean, his eyes weren’t literally glowing red—no ominous chanting—but that thing was scary. The cowboy was holding on for his life, flanked on either side by Chase and the other bullfighter, light on their feet as they tried to anticipate the beast’s next move.
That’s when things fell to shit.
Without warning, the bull bucked higher than I’d ever seen. So high it hardly seemed real. The rider’s body flew free, turning through the air above him. That’s when he should’ve launched off but he didn’t. The bull bucked again, and this time the cowboy flopped along the side of him, which seemed to piss him off even more.
Up to that point, I’d assumed that Hull was holding on out of sheer stubborn badassery. Now I could see he was caught, flopping helplessly as the bull tried to kill him. The crowd fell silent as the monster bucked backward—higher this time—shying away from the fighters desperately flanking him. Chase ran along the side, trying to reach the rider while his partner distracted the animal.
It didn’t work.
In an instant, the bull spun to charge Chase. As the beast lowered its head for a killing blow, Chase reached out and caught its horns, throwing himself up and over its back in a move I couldn’t quite believe was humanly possible. He hit the animal hard—sideways across the ridge of its spine—somehow catching the rope holding the cowboy prisoner. We all watched, horrified, as the beast bucked again.
Hull broke free, bouncing as he hit the ground.
Enraged, the bull flew up and backward, twisting midair to land heavily on its side.
Right on top of Chase.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The bullfighter was dead.
He had to be dead—no human could possibly survive something like that.
We watched in horror and shock as the bull struggled to its feet, then turned on him, lying still in the dirt. In an instant, the other bullfighter darted between them, catching the beast’s attention. The big head swiveled as the man took off across the arena, mere feet ahead of the deadly horns, leaping high as he hit the metal barrier. Hands reached out to catch him, jerking him up and over the side.
He’d distracted the monster, but only for an instant. Now it turned back toward Chase’s limp body, snorting and stomping. The crowd grew silent, and directly below me a mother pulled a toddler into her lap, forcing his head into her chest so he wouldn’t see. If by some miracle Chase had survived the first attack, there was no way he’d get through this one.
That’s when the rodeo clown leapt into action.
For most of the evening, he’d been working the crowd with the announcer, joking and doing tricks between events, flirting with the girls and generally making a nuisance of himself. Now the clown was deadly serious despite his bright, floppy clothes and the paint covering his face. He sprinted at the bull, flapping and shouting, taunting it until it turned toward him.
Toward him, but away from Chase.
The bull charged, and now the clown was off again, leading the beast into the center of the arena. He reached the barrel and jumped into it seconds before the bull thundered into it with a bellow, sending the barrel rolling. Then riders tore by, chasing the bull away from the trapped clown. The bull tried to turn back, but no matter what direction he went, the cowboys were waiting.
I focused on Chase, lying on the ground, limp and still. Beyond him was Hull, rolling in obvious agony, but clearly very much alive. EMTs were running out onto the dirt now, as the riders formed a living wall between the animal and its victims. They herded the bull toward the far end of the arena, where a gate swung open, creating a safe path. It charged through and I hoped to hell they were ready for it back there—enough people had been injured already. Then an ambulance pulled in from the other side, and the announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen, that was our final ride of the night. Normally we’d announce winners and hand out the prizes, but the North Idaho Rodeo officials have decided that under the circumstances, it’s best to end the event at this time. I’ve been told that fair organizers will announce updates on Chase McKinney’s condition as they’re available. We’ll be clearing the arena shortly. Until then, please keep all our rodeo athletes in your thoughts and prayers.”
I watched silently as the EMTs worked over Chase. Hull was already strapped to a backboard and they were lifting him into an ambulance. Unlike the bullfighter, he was clearly alive and aware of what was going on around him. Painter shifted next to me, and I realized I’d burrowed against him, digging my fingernails into his thigh.
“Sorry,” I whispered, loosening my grip. I gave his leg a little rub to make it feel better. His hand caught mine, stilling it—shit, I’d been all but massaging him just inches away from his dick. Classy.
“Do you think he’ll live?” I asked Painter quietly. He squeezed me tighter.
“Dunno,” he said. “Guess we’ll have wait and see.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’d ask that you leave now. Normally I’d say I hope you enjoyed the show, but instead I’ll ask you again to keep Chase and his family in your prayers. God bless each and every one of you, and God bless the cowboys and cowgirls who came out tonight.”
• • •
It took about forty-five minutes to make our way out of the grandstands and back to the bikes. The crowds were quiet for the most part. Em and Kit held each other’s hands tight, whispering to each other as they checked their phones.
When we finally made our way out of the stands and into the main fairgrounds, Hunter came up to me and Painter, the two men staring each other down. For a minute I was worried, because there was obvious tension between them.
“You’ll get her home?” Hunter finally asked Painter, nodding toward me. “She rode here with Taz, but I think he’s giving Jessica a ride. Em and Kit want to go to the hospital—I guess there’s going to be a candlelight vigil. Em says she didn’t know him well, but he went to school with Kit and she’s pretty upset.”
“I’ve got her,” Painter said, squeezing my hand. “You headed to the hospital, too?”
Hunter nodded tightly, glancing toward Kit with a frown. “Gonna be a long night, I think.”
I shivered, thinking about Chase lying in the dust. I’d seen him around school, but couldn’t remember ever talking to him.
“Yeah,” Painter agreed. “Get going—I’ll make sure Mel is okay. No worries, okay?”
Hunter nodded, eyes flicking across me as he turned back to Em and her sister. “Sure thing.”
I watched him walk away, leaning in close to Painter.
“Do you want to go to the vigil, too?” he asked. I considered the question.
“No,” I said finally. “It would feel fake. I didn’t really know him . . . But I definitely want to get away from here. There’s too many people here who didn’t see the rodeo, and they’re all having fun and going on rides. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Let’s say good-bye, then.”
He kept hold of my hand while we made the rounds of his club brothers and their old ladies, almost like we were a real couple. It should’ve felt awkward, but it didn’t. Jess was clinging to Taz, whispering to him quietly. When I hugged her good-bye, she whispered in my ear, “Okay if I bring him to the house tonight?”
Wasn’t sure how I felt about that—of course, she had every right to bring someone home. I just hoped she wasn’t doing something stupid.
“You sure?” I whispered back. “I thought you were happy just keeping things simple.”
“I don’t want to be alone right now,” she replied, squeezing me tight. Yeah, I could understand that. Too bad I didn’t have anyone interested in going home with me.
• • •
I kept my arms wrapped tight around Painter as we rode back downtown. He smelled good and he felt good . . . safe, somehow. Under normal circumstances, I’d be all over him, but right now I was too busy picturing Chase’s limp body in the dirt—would he live?
I’d never seen anyone die before.
We turned down my street and I braced myself to say good night. I had no idea where we stood or even whether I’d see Painter again. Had tonight changed things? Obviously he wasn’t pretending we weren’t friends anymore . . . but exactly what were we supposed to be?
Then I saw Taz’s bike parked in front of the house. Of all nights for Jess to abandon her celibate streak, why now? I needed to talk to someone and she was unavailable . . . Painter rolled to a stop, and I’d started to swing my leg over the bike when he put a hand on my thigh.
“Taz gonna be there for a while?” he asked, his voice low and quiet.
“Yeah, Jess said she’d invited him to stay over,” I replied, feeling uncomfortable. He frowned.
“Feel like a ride? I’m not ready to call it a night.”
“That sounds really good,” I whispered. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be alone.
“Hold on,” he said. “It’s a beautiful night, despite what happened. We should try to make the best of it.”
• • •
We headed south, down toward Moscow and then turned off at Plummer to ride around the south end of the lake. I had no idea how late it was when he slowed the bike and pulled into a gravel parking lot surrounded by trees. The big Harley’s engine died, leaving us alone with the soft chirping of crickets and frogs.
“You wanna go down to the water?” he asked. “It’s right through the trees.”
“Sure.”
I slipped off the bike, and we walked down a grassy slope to a long, sandy beach nestled among the trees. The moon shined bright, painting a trail of silver across the lake’s gentle waves. Here and there, dark shapes broke the water. Took me a minute to figure out what they were—floating logs.
“You want to sit for a while, watch the stars?” Painter asked. I looked around, spotting a patch of grass sloping down toward the sand that seemed perfect.
“How about there?” I asked him. Silently we settled ourselves, close to each other without touching—I could feel him, though. Feel his heat and his presence and the unbreakable tension that ran between us all the time, whether we chose to acknowledge it or not. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I don’t see how a person can live through a bull jumping on them.”
He didn’t answer for a minute. “People can live through a hell of a lot. Didn’t look promising, though.”
There wasn’t much emotion in his voice, which threw me. My mind was swimming, images from the rodeo running through my head over and over again. I’d assumed Painter was as upset as I was . . . that maybe he needed to talk, too.
“You aren’t bothered by it?” I asked, my voice soft.
“I’ve seen a lot of shit, some of it not so good. I don’t take it lightly and I don’t enjoy seeing a man suffer, but you can’t afford to get involved emotionally.”
“You mean, in prison?”
“Yeah,” he said after a minute. “In prison.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. I stared up at the stars, watching as a satellite blinked its way across the sky.
“And in the club,” he added softly. “Bad shit happens there, too. Although so far nobody’s started dropping bulls on their enemies.”
The words caught me off guard, and a little giggle burst through. I bit my cheek, feeling awful. “I can’t believe I laughed at that.”
“It’s okay—you have to laugh when things fall apart. Otherwise you’ll go crazy. Better not to think about it too much, at least that’s how I do it.”
Rolling over, I leaned up on my elbow to stare at him.
“So you just turn off your brain when something bothers you?” I asked, studying his face in the moonlight. His features were softened by the shadows, leaving him handsome but less intimidating than usual. He met my gaze, giving away nothing. “That must be nice—wish I could do that. Sometimes I lie awake in bed for hours, wondering why my mom took off and left me.”
“I keep my attention focused where it needs to be focused,” he replied, reaching up to touch the side of my face. It took everything I had not to turn toward his hand, rub against him like a cat. I felt breathless, expectant . . . Hold on. Why was he touching me like this? It didn’t make sense—he’d made it damned clear he didn’t want anything more than friendship.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” I whispered. “We’re just friends, remember? You made that very clear last night.”
“Friends can touch,” he whispered back. The words hung between us, teasing me. I wanted to lean over and kiss him. Crawl on top of him and grind and writhe and hump and do things I was relatively sure qualified as molestation in the fine state of Idaho. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like you want to . . .”
He stopped talking, licking his lips as his eyes drifted to mine. He was going to kiss me. My eyes started to flutter closed. Then his phone chimed, breaking the spell.
Painter blinked—he’d been as lost in the moment as I was.
“I should check that,” he said. “Might be an update on Chase.”
Chase. How could I have forgotten about Chase? A man was dying, yet all I could think about was getting laid. A man I’d gone to school with. What was wrong with me?
I flopped back as Painter pulled out his phone, the screen obscenely bright in the darkness.
“Group text from Em,” he said. “He’s alive. There’s about three hundred people at the vigil so far, and more showing up every minute. He’s in surgery.”
I shivered, trying to imagine what his family was going through. How awful would it be, sitting and waiting to hear if the man you cared about was dying? How would you feel if it was Painter? The thought chilled me, and I closed my eyes, willing it to disappear.
“You cold?” he asked. “Come here. I’ll keep you warm.”
I wasn’t cold, and touching him was a very bad idea. Whatever this thing was between us, touching wouldn’t help. But then I imagined the warmth of his body around mine. The strength of his arms, not to mention that broad chest. I wanted it. I wanted it so bad.
And he did make the offer . . .
“Thanks,” I whispered, sliding toward him. Seconds later I was tucked against Painter’s side, one arm under my head. My body had turned into his, and there wasn’t an easy place to hold my arm. I shifted awkwardly, and then he was catching my hand and resting it on his chest, right next to his own.
Our fingers weren’t touching, but they would be if I slid my pinkie over half an inch.
Painter’s head tilted toward mine—was he smelling my hair? Oh God, I think he was. This was going to kill me. My leg shifted restlessly, because I wanted to lay it over him and straddle his thigh. I forced it to be still instead. Now what? I needed to make some conversation or something, because this was too weird and stressful.
“So are things good, now that you’re back?” I asked. “How’s the work situation? You’d mentioned that they were holding a job for you at the body shop.”
“It’s all good. I do the custom design there,” he said. “You know, bikes and cars and shit like that. A lot of it’s for guys in clubs, but we get RUBs in there, too—city types who play biker on the weekends, looking to dress up their rides. Also a lot of rich fuckers who want hot rods. I’ve done some paintings of motorcycles and cars that are up on the walls—people seem to like ’em. Got two guys waiting for me to do portraits of theirs. Right now I’m workin’ on something for the club, though. Sort of a happy-to-be-home-again present for the Armory.”
“Do you ever get pissed off about what happened?” I asked.
“At who?”
“The club—I mean, I don’t totally understand how you ended up getting arrested down in California, but obviously it had something to do with the Reapers. Do you ever get pissed that you were put in that position?”
He didn’t answer right away, and I wondered if I’d overstepped with my question. I’d just opened my mouth to apologize when he spoke again, answering.
“Yes and no,” he said. “I hate the fact that something needed to be fixed and I took a hit for it. But I’m not pissed at my brothers. They did their part, I did mine. Shitty luck that I got caught, but that’s just the game, you know? Could’ve been any of us.”
I pondered his words.
“So you’d do it again?”
“Well, I’d be more careful about following the speed limit,” he said, giving a low laugh. “Me and Puck only got caught because we were doing forty in a twenty-five zone. Cop pulled us over and then they found the guns. But other than that? Yeah, I’d do it again. It needed to happen, and your girl Jess wouldn’t be alive today if we hadn’t done it. You think the rest of her life was worth a year of mine?”
Holy shit.
“So you were down there to save her?” I asked. “I mean, I sort of suspected something, but she’s never really explained what happened. Nobody will talk about it.”
Painter sighed.
“I’m too comfortable around you,” he admitted. “Feels safe, but I need to watch my fuckin’ mouth. Already said too much. I regret getting caught, nothing more. It is what it is. Just hope I never have to go back.”
“What do you mean, go back?” I asked, stiffening. “You don’t go back—they let you out. You’ve done your time.”
He gave a laugh, and I felt his arm rise, rubbing across my back to soothe me. “No worries, babe. I’m not planning on it. But I’m on parole, remember? That means they let me out early, on the understanding that I’ll play nice and make good choices. They catch me so much as running a red light, my ass is in a cell again. That’s all.”
I pushed against his chest, raising up to see his face. I’d never considered that he might go back inside—just the thought made me feel almost panicky.
“You’ve got to watch yourself,” I told him, dead serious. “Is the club making you do things that might land you in prison? You don’t have to do what they say, Painter.”
He grinned at me, rubbing my back as he shook his head.
“Nice to know you care,” he said. “But they don’t make me do anything, Mel. I’m a big boy—I can take care of myself. It’s not like that.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not some little pawn for them to play with. Anything I do is by my choice. I know there’s clubs out there where men blindly follow orders and get sacrificed like chum. But the Reapers are my brothers—we stand up for each other, we vote on everything, and if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be. I’m a Reaper, too, you know. This is my world. I’m proud of this patch and I’d do anything to protect it.”
His eyes bored into mine, cold and hard. Even the hand around my back tightened, like he was bracing for action.
“But you’re careful, right?” I asked. Painter nodded.
“Yeah, of course I’m careful,” he said. “But I’m also one of the younger full-patch members, and I don’t have a family or anything. When there’s shit that needs doing, I volunteer. All the brothers do, but some of us got less to lose than others.”
I closed my eyes against the painful clenching deep inside of me, laying my head back down so I wouldn’t have to look at him.
“You mean the guys with old ladies?” I asked, already knowing what the answer had to be.
“Old ladies, families . . . The guys with kids do their part, no question. But I’m not gonna stand back and watch while a brother with that kind of responsibility takes risks he doesn’t need to. And a lot of the guys do work that’s important—they’d never pussy out of anything, but we can’t just replace them if something happens. Horse is a fuckin’ genius with money, and Ruger can build anything. We need those skills. It’s my job to protect the club, and part of that’s protecting the brothers who keep the club alive.”
“That’s crazy,” I said. “What about your life? Doesn’t that matter?”
“The club is my life, Mel.”
Gee, brainwashed much? His hand rubbed me soothingly as he spoke, which sucked because I wanted to hit him or yell at him or at the very least give him a stern lecture, although I don’t know what it would be about. Maybe the top five reasons jail sucks?
But I guess he already knew that a lot better than I did.
Instead I settled into his form, forcing myself not to think about what he’d said—there were plenty of other things to focus on. The warm night air. The frogs. The way his hand felt, still rubbing up and down my back, soothing and distracting. Then his fingers caught on the bottom of my tank top, sliding it up just a couple inches until I felt his skin bare against mine. My stomach twisted.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, feeling almost desperate.
“Doing what?”
“Touching me. You’re sending some seriously mixed signals for a guy who’s not interested.”
He froze, the hand on his chest reaching to catch mine.
“I never said I wasn’t interested,” he replied, his voice quiet with a hint of strain. “I said you deserved better.”
“God, you’re so fucking frustrating,” I said, pushing myself up to glare at him. “You ignored me when you got out, you made me come last night, and now you’re sticking your hand up my shirt while you’re telling me I deserve better. Have you ever considered seeing a shrink? Because I think you could use one.”
He gave a low chuckle, his hand sliding my shirt back down across the small of my back.
“No, but earlier tonight someone else told me I should talk to a professional.”
“Well maybe you should,” I huffed, glaring at him. “Because you’re playing games and that’s not very nice.”
“I’ve never pretended to be nice,” he said, his voice hardening. “And I’ve never promised you anything, Mel. Remember that. Nobody made you come riding with me tonight—not like I held a gun to your head. What the fuck do you want from me?”
“The truth,” I snapped. “Let’s start with that. What the hell do you want from me?”
He gave a low, dark laugh.
“We’re not going there.”
“Oh yeah, we are,” I informed him, poking his chest with a finger. “Because I’m done playing mind games with you—we’re hashing this out, here and now. Otherwise you’re taking me home. Or I can call someone and get a ride.”
Painter’s eyes narrowed, then his hand caught mine, holding it tight.
“You’re not calling anyone—I’ll take you home when I’m ready. And you think you want answers? How’s this for a fucking answer. I want this.”
He dragged my hand down his stomach toward the front of his pants. My pulse rate rose. Then he was pushing my hand down across the length of his cock, which was hard and ready. His hips lifted under my touch and his fingers squeezed around mine, gripping himself tight.
Need wrenched through me.
“What I want is to fuck you,” he said, his voice a harsh, intense whisper. “I want to fuck your pussy, I want to fuck your face, and I’ve given some serious thought to fucking your ass, too. I want to lock you up and play with you . . . Sometimes I think about owning you, and what I’d do if you tried to get away. Christ, you have no idea.”
He pushed my palm down hard across the top of his erection, hips twisting under my touch. His other hand reached down to catch my butt, digging in deep. My leg went up and over him, which was perfect because it brought my clit into contact with his thigh.
God, why were we wearing so many clothes?
“Oh crap,” I whispered, dropping my head against his shoulder as his fingers worked down between my ass cheeks, finding the crotch of my pants. Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? Wait, fuck that. Why the hell hadn’t I worn a skirt?
The whole time, he kept my fingers wrapped around his dick, jacking him slowly through the fabric while his fingers danced between my legs. His hands were big, strong, working me as the world started spinning. Then his hand slipped off mine, coming up to catch the back of my head, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“Here’s the ugly truth, though,” he whispered. “I’ll want all of that—all of you—for about a week. Then I’ll get busy or bored or whatever, and I’ll stop calling you. That’s how I am, Mel. I’m the guy who doesn’t call and I don’t even regret it, because I truly don’t give a shit who I hurt. Except for some fucked-up reason, I care about you. If some guy treated you the way I dream about every night, I’d kill him. I’m not into suicide, so that means we can’t go there. Got it?”
Our hands had stopped moving as he spoke, although his cock still pulsed under my hand. His fingers dug into my ass, holding me captive against his body even as I processed his words.
“You’d really do that to me?”
Painter’s mouth tightened.
“Yeah, Mel. I’d really do that to you. We’d have a few great days, maybe a week. Then I’d get bored and dump you, because that’s who I am. But you’re the only female friend I’ve ever had and I actually give a fuck about you, so I don’t want to hurt you like that. Is that such a terrible thing?”
My breath caught, torn between the rush of joy at hearing us called friends and utter, pissed-off disgust that he’d assume he had the power to break me. I opted to run with the angry disgust—far more empowering.
“You know what?” I said. “I get that we don’t have a long-term romantic relationship ahead of us . . . but don’t treat me like a child. I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. If I get hurt, that’s on me, not you. You don’t have that kind of power, asshole.”
Painter’s eyes widened, and a slow smile crept across his mouth, utterly confusing me.
“God, you’re amazing,” he said, loosening his grip on my hair. “I need you, Mel. I need you way too much as a friend to risk it. I know I’ve done a truly shitty job trying to communicate with you about this, but if you had any idea how important you are to me . . . Christ, you’re one of the few things that kept me sane inside. Thinking about you, getting your letters. We gotta find a way, babe. We can’t do this.”
“I hate men,” I muttered, rolling off him and onto my back, glaring at the sky. How could one guy be so evil and so sweet at the same time? Because he was sweet. I swear, my heart was melting even while I wanted to strangle him.
I wasn’t ready to forgive him, though. Not yet.
“And take your fucking arm out from under my head. Cuddling is for closers.”
