Текст книги "Reaper's Fall "
Автор книги: Joanna Wylde
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
CHAPTER EIGHT
PAINTER
The ride back to town took forever, every minute torture because Mel was wrapped tight around my body, totally fuckable and completely off-limits.
Sometimes I wished I didn’t know myself so well. It would be easy to lie, to pretend that she’d be different from the others. But she wouldn’t be, and hating myself for who I was wouldn’t change the endgame here. If I wanted her in my life longer than a few weeks, I couldn’t fuck her. This was my reality.
By the time we reached town, I was still utterly resolved to keep my hands off her . . . but Taz was at her place, and I didn’t trust that asshole for shit. That’s why I took her back to my apartment instead . . . and you can shut right the fuck up about that.
I already know I’m a douche.
• • •
“Figured you wouldn’t want to be alone tonight,” I said, cutting the engine. Mel slowly unpeeled herself from my body, sliding off the bike. I waited for her to protest, maybe tear into me because I hadn’t taken her home. Instead she surprised me with a tentative smile. Guess she’d had enough thinking time on the ride back to get over her snit.
“Thanks. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Jess and Taz crawling all over each other. I don’t know about him, but she’s a screamer.”
The words fell between us like a brick, because I would know, wouldn’t I? Except I didn’t, because Jess’s mouth had been full the entire time we’d . . . Oh fuck. This wasn’t good.
“Look—”
“I know—”
I coughed as Mel gave a nervous laugh, looking anywhere but at me.
“Let’s get it out there, once and for all,” I said, deciding it was inevitable. I swung my leg off the Harley and started toward the garage’s side door, reaching for my keys.
“Get what ‘out there’?” she asked. I turned to look at her, raising a brow. It was hard to tell in the dim glow of the porch light, but I think she was embarrassed. Whatever. We had enough shit to figure out already, we didn’t need London’s niece coming between us, too.
“You know—me and Jess. I’ll tell you what happened, because you’re obviously wondering. Didn’t she tell you the details?”
“Um, not really,” she admitted, frowning. I opened the door, reaching for the cord next to it to turn on the lights. I found the switch and the room flooded from the six work lights I’d hung along the ceiling. “I know part of it, but I’m not sure that I want to know the rest. It’s kind of—oh, wow . . .”
She stepped inside, looking around my studio space. Lining the walls were narrow workbenches, one side covered with motorcycle parts and the other with my art supplies. There was the mural I’d started for the Armory there, but I’d forgotten about another half-done painting I’d leaned against the wall. I’d been working on it when I got arrested. It wasn’t in the greatest condition (the girls had done their best, but they hadn’t known how to handle it), and I was trying to decide whether to toss it or not.
Now I watched as Mel walked over to study it, eyes wide. I came up behind her and she glanced back at me.
“You’re good.”
I laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised. I do this shit for a living, you know.”
She gave a rueful smile.
“Sorry. I guess I thought you painted flames on bikes and stuff like that, but this is real art. How did you learn how to do it?”
“I picked things up here and there,” I said. “Although for the record, depending on the design, what you see on motorcycles is real art, too. Not just anyone can do that.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to insult anyone.”
“No worries, I understand. Just wanted to clarify,” I said, wondering what she’d look like naked and covered in paint. Pretty fuckin’ good, probably. “So I took a bunch of art classes when I was in juvie. They were pretty basic, but the teachers always seemed to reach out to me—I learned a lot from them. Then I took some more classes when I got out. I mostly just sketched down in Cali. They didn’t have art classes or anything.”
“Well I really like them,” she said, and I felt my pride swell. Okay, something was swollen—no need to get into specifics.
“Thanks,” I told her, heading toward the stairs. “My place is up here. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet.”
I hadn’t had the apartment long enough to get it truly dirty, thank fuck. Not that I worried too much about impressing anyone, but for some reason I didn’t want her thinking I was a total pig.
“So, this is it,” I said, flipping on the light. Mel looked around, and I wondered what she thought. It wasn’t big—just a small living room and kitchenette under the eaves. There was a separate bedroom and bathroom behind us, too, but considering I’d been living in an eight-by-ten cell for the last year with two other guys, it felt like a palace to me. “The studio space below is what really sold me . . .”
“It’s great,” she said, turning back toward me with that shy smile that went straight to my cock. “I mean, it’s a dump, but it’s yours and I like it.”
I burst out laughing and she joined me, wandering over to sit down on the couch.
“Nice,” she said, running her hands across the faded, dirt-brown upholstery. “Vintage. I’m pretty sure I saw this at the Idaho Youth Ranch thrift shop last week.”
“I will neither confirm nor deny that. You want something to drink? I have water and beer.”
“How about a beer?” she said. I grabbed a couple cold ones and came back to sit next to her on the couch. It felt good to have her here. Good and weird and wrong, all at the same time.
“You want to watch a movie or something?” she asked, nodding toward the TV. I had a decent one, too. Giant-ass flat-screen—homecoming present from the club.
“Sure,” I said, reaching for the remote. I didn’t have cable, but Ruger had set up some kind of box thingie for me so I could stream stuff. “Whatcha in the mood for?”
“Not horror,” she said quickly, and I laughed again, remembering that first evening I’d spent with her at Pic’s house. She’d been so young and scared and vulnerable . . . I’d wanted to eat her up.
I still wanted to eat her.
“I can’t believe that you and Puck were supposed to be watching over me, and then you put in a slasher movie. That’s not how you make a girl feel safe.”
“No horror,” I agreed, although the thought of holding her for a couple hours while she was scared shitless appealed way more than it should. Watch it, asshole. “How about Star Wars?”
“You like Star Wars?”
I shrugged. “Everyone likes Star Wars. You know, I’m pretty damned sure Han Solo was a biker.”
She giggled. “A space biker?”
“See, when you say it like that it sounds stupid.”
“I wanted to be Princess Leia. She’s badass,” Mel said, taking a deep drink of her beer. I watched as her lips wrapped around the neck, her throat swallowing. That was a little too sexy for my comfort. She set the beer down on the coffee table with a clink, then let loose with the biggest burp I’d ever heard.
“Fucking hell,” I said, stunned. “I didn’t think girls could burp like that. Shit. Impressive, Mel. Very impressive.”
She grinned.
“We’re friends,” she told me. “And friends don’t need to worry about this stuff. Let me guess—you’ve never had a female friend before?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “I think I’m a little scared.”
Scared and turned on, which was unfortunate.
“You should be. I can do the whole alphabet.”
Damn. I kinda wanted to see that.
“So, we watching that movie or not?” she asked.
“Um, watching it,” I said, flipping through the search options to find Star Wars. I hit play, leaning back against the couch as words started scrolling across the screen. Mel was less than six inches from me. Close enough to reach over, shove my hands into her hair, and kiss the hell out of her.
Instead I just sat there, horny as hell, watching Luke Skywalker whine about power converters.
“Hey, you okay?” she asked.
“Fuckin’ great.”
MELANIE
The sunlight hurt my eyes.
I blinked, trying to remember where I was, because I definitely wasn’t home in my room. The bed felt weird, and the water-stained ceiling above me wasn’t familiar, either. I turned my head to find Painter sleeping next to me, his face just inches from mine, and it all came back.
He looked softer asleep.
I mean, he was still the same big bad biker, but there was nothing mocking or calculating on his face right now. Not only that, he looked young. He was older than me, but not by much, and right now he could almost pass for a high school student.
My eyes trailed down, and sadly I discovered he was still fully clothed. So was I, apparently, because my underwire was poking me something fierce. Also needed to pee in a major way. This was a problem, because if I moved, Painter would wake up and turn back into a scary biker on me.
I wanted to reach out and trace his face with my finger, feel the little bristles of his morning beard. But we were friend-zoned, and despite what we’d pretended last night, in the friend zone people don’t touch like that.
His eyes opened.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
We stared at each other for a few seconds, staying quiet.
“You sleep okay?” he asked. “I carried you in here, figured you’d be uncomfortable on the couch. Then I crashed here, too, because that couch is shit. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, it’s all good,” I said, willing myself to make the best of things. So maybe we weren’t meant to be a couple. Didn’t mean I’d stopped liking him as a person—he was still the same guy who’d sent me cartoons and jokes and pep talks when I was frustrated with one of my classes. “As a friend, I’d hate for you to have shitty sleep.”
He grinned. “Appreciate the thought. You wanna go get some breakfast?”
I looked around, wondering what time it was. Where was my phone? Something chimed, and he reached over, picking his up off the floor—the bed was really just a mattress, I realized.
“I gotta go,” he told me, frowning. “Something’s come up.”
“No worries,” I said, thinking wistfully of breakfast. I’d decided one benefit of the friend zone was you could pig out all you want, and I was hungry for biscuits and gravy. All I had at home was cereal.
“I’ll give you a ride home,” he said, rolling off the bed.
“I can just walk,” I told him. “It’s only a few blocks.”
He shook his head, offering me a hand up.
“I’ll give you a ride,” he insisted. “Just give me ten for a quick shower.”
“All right—you want coffee or something? I can fix it while you’re in there.”
“No, I gotta get going.”
• • •
It was a long ten minutes, mostly because I’d forgotten to pee before he started his shower. The apartment looked even smaller in the daylight, and the sound of running water filling it didn’t help. One silver lining? Hard to feel horny while you’re doing the pee-pee dance, even though I knew he was naked right on the other side of a narrow, flimsy door. Took all my energy not to have an accident in my pants.
I found my phone out next to the couch, so I grabbed it, looking for a distraction. It was nearly ten in the morning. Wow. Jess had texted me about an hour earlier.
JESS: You alive? Looks like someone didnt come home last night. Painter? We should talk.
I sighed, then messaged her back.
ME: I stayed at his place but not like you think. We’re just friends. How was Taz?
JESS: Useful. He fucked me hard and then fixed the sink because it was dripping and wouldn’t stop. Now he’s cooking me breakfast
ME: Wow. Sounds like a keeper.
JESS: Im not into keepers. I’ve decided from now on I’ll just stay mentally celibate. That way I can get laid but still hold firm to my ideals. You coming home soon?
ME: Yup, just a few
JESS: Ha! You said your coming. I meant cumming. Shit, that would be funnier without autocorrect ducking it up.
“What are you smiling about?” Painter asked, stepping out of the bathroom. I would’ve answered him, but I’d temporarily lost the ability to breathe or form words. This was because he’d pulled on a pair of jeans, but no shirt. Throw in the fact that his hair was wet and tousled, and little drips of water were running down his pecs and across his abs?
Unfair. Deeply unfair.
I managed to collect myself, then scowled at him.
“Put on some clothes,” I said, pointing toward his bedroom. “If we’re going to be friends, you need to keep it decent.”
He raised a brow.
“Guys leave off their shirts all the time,” he pointed out reasonably. I crossed my arms, staring him down.
“The friend zone only works if you stay in it,” I declared. “You’re out of bounds. Put on a shirt, okay?”
He smirked at me, then swaggered into the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him.
Jerkface.
• • •
Later that afternoon, I still held out hope that our new friend zone status meant I might get taken out for dinner, given that we’d missed breakfast. Then my phone buzzed.
PAINTER: Hey—I have to leave town for a week or so. Not sure how long. You can reach me by text if you want, or call if anything comes up.
MEL: Since when do we text?
PAINTER: Since I’m allowed to have written communication that hasn’t been screened by a guard first. You know, to make sure you weren’t sending me secret code messages about global domination or something in your letters
MEL: You mean you didn’t figure out the messages? But I thought they were so clear. First you get the guns, then you get the women . . .
PAINTER: No wonder the revolution didn’t pan out. Prob for the best. Knowing my luck I’d be first up against the wall.
Okay, so I wasn’t getting dinner. But at least things weren’t weird anymore. This friend zone thing wasn’t all bad.
CHAPTER NINE
PAINTER
“So tell me more about this guy, Pipes,” Gage asked, staring ahead at the highway. We’d been driving for nearly four hours, and I knew we had to be close to Hallies Falls by now. Damned good thing, too, because I was more than ready to be out of this fucking cage of a semi cab. When I suggested we set him up as a long-haul trucker, it’d seemed like a good idea. Gave him an excuse to come and go, a place in the back to sleep if he needed it, all good shit. I hadn’t been thinking about how small that sleeping space was, or that I might get stuck in it, too.
Small spaces made me think of prison.
Of course, so did talking about Pipes.
“So, he was in our block with us,” I said. “Probably about thirty years old, and with our club alliances, partnering with him seemed natural enough. He prospected when he was eighteen—Dad was a patch holder. Things started going downhill when their old president died about two years ago. Marsh was their VP at that point—he’s the president now. Seems weird that we’ve never met him at a rally or anything.”
“That’s enough to raise red flags right there,” Gage agreed. “We’re supposed to be allies, but they never come to any of our events. I knew Rance was on it, though, so I never gave it much thought. Always been a profitable partnership. In a weird way, I’m glad it came up—gave me an excuse to get away from The Line.”
“What’s up with that?” I asked, curious. Gage rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then answered.
“Guess I was bored,” he said. “Been looking for a reason to step back for a while. As fun as it sounds to be surrounded by bare ass and tits all the time, those tits are attached to a lot of fuckin’ drama. I’m burned out on it.”
I gave a laugh, because you couldn’t argue with that.
“I have a feeling that we’ll be involved here for a while,” he continued. “This situation will need watching, and I wanted a change of pace. Timing was good.”
He slowed the truck as we reached the outskirts of town. Buildings started to appear alongside the road. Not much farther to the truck stop where we planned to set up shop for the night. The bikes were trailered behind us, along with some basic furniture and shit—just enough to set up an apartment or something. We’d debated that approach initially, because showing up in a semi underloaded with motorcycles would make us stand out. But standing out wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. We needed to make contact with the club, hopefully sooner rather than later. Our cover story pegged Gage as a trucker looking for a new base of operations after an ugly divorce. I was his cousin, here to help him find a new place and get settled.
If we played it right, they’d hear about us hitting town but wouldn’t give it a second thought. Just a couple of independents—no threat to the club.
Up ahead I saw the lights of the truck stop. It wasn’t as big as I expected—more of a souped-up gas station than anything else, although I knew from their website that they had a convenience store with showers around the back. Gage slowed the big rig, pulling behind the building, where they had parking for the trucks. We rolled to a stop, then climbed out to look around.
“Not a whole lot here, is there?” I commented.
“Population is about three thousand,” he replied. “Small, but not so small that they don’t see the occasional stranger. Rance filled me in. He stops by every couple of weeks to check on Marsh.”
I nodded—Rance was smart. We could trust his intel.
“Rance thinks the best way to get in is through Marsh’s sister, Talia. Apparently she’s always bringing home some new guy. She and Marsh are close, so he puts up with it. Even lets ’em in the clubhouse, which seems wrong somehow. Perfect way to get in as a hangaround, though. Collect some good information that way.”
“No shit,” I said. “You planning to fuck her, or is that on me?”
Gage snorted.
“Get right to the point, don’t you?”
“Saves time,” I replied. My phone buzzed, and I looked down to see Melanie’s name pop up with a text.
MEL: Jess dragged Taz home again this afternoon. I’m going to strangle her—turns out he’s a screamer, too . . .
I snorted, not thrilled by the fact that Taz was at her place, but at least she didn’t sound interested in him.
“What’s that?” Gage asked.
“Melanie,” I replied. “Says Taz is loud during sex.”
“Really . . . Do I want to know?”
I laughed. “Probably not. Taz hooked up with Jessica at the rodeo—wonder how Pic feels about that?”
“I think he’s given up on controlling the girls in his life,” Gage replied. “Why’s Mel texting you? I thought you weren’t gonna tap that.”
“We’re friends, I guess,” I replied, uncomfortable with the word.
“If you’re just friends, you mind if I hook up with her?”
I nearly took the bait, then I caught the shit-eating grin he was trying to hide.
“Fuck you. So what’s the plan now?”
“We’ll check things out,” he said. “See if we can establish a presence, take it from there. That work for you?”
“Sure,” I said, trying not to think how much time that’d mean away from Mel. “But I’d rather not fuck the sister if I don’t have to.”
Gage snorted. “You haven’t seen her yet.”
He grabbed his phone, swiping at it and then handing it over so I could see a picture. Damn—the girl was gorgeous. Long red hair, bright green eyes. Brilliant white smile. Oh, and it didn’t hurt that her tits were huge and halfway popped out of the tiny little American-flag bikini she wore. Allegedly covering her legs were a faded pair of Daisy Dukes. The top button was even open.
Hell.
“Pulled that off Instagram,” Gage said. “She likes posting pictures of herself. You still want to pass?”
I studied the photo again. She was hot, definitely. But the red wasn’t doing it for me, not really. I preferred brunettes. Chocolate brown hair was the best, not to mention smooth skin tanned darker than this girl would ever get outside of a spray booth.
“Still pass,” I said. “Unless you’re not up for it? I know you’re older than me, so if you need some of those little blue pills . . .”
“You’re an asshole,” he said, laughing as he pulled the truck over into one of the parking spots lining the old downtown. “Okay, here we go. Try not to fuck up too badly.”
“Fuck up what? Existing? I thought we were just here to check it out.”
“Just act normal.”
I snorted, opening my door. We’d see if I could pull it off or not.
• • •
It didn’t take us long to unload the bikes, and then we were headed down the old highway toward town, which had been bypassed by the freeway years ago. Felt weird to be riding around without my Reaper colors. Unnatural. The small downtown held two diners, clearly in competition with each other. At one end was Clare’s, which seemed to have a coffee shop/hipster kind of vibe. On the other was the Hungry Chicken, which was all greasy spoon. We parked on the street between them.
“There,” Gage said, nodding his head toward the chicken place. “We’ll get better gossip there.”
“And more food, too,” I said, noting the sidewalk board advertising their big breakfast platter, served all day. Nice.
We gave the bikes one more check before starting down the street, and I wondered if Gage was as unsettled by the current state of his ride as I was. I’d stripped off the whips and anything that could identify me as a Reaper. Felt kinda like standing outside naked without them . . . I got why we needed to go undercover, but it felt wrong. I was used to wearing my colors proud, and fuck anyone who had a problem with that.
The restaurant door gave a welcoming chime as I pushed it open. It was only midafternoon, so there weren’t a ton of people inside. Just a couple old guys sitting at the counter nursing their coffee and a table full of girls giggling and drinking milk shakes.
“You boys hungry?” a middle-aged woman asked, stepping around the counter to walk toward us. I forced myself not to react, but I swear to fuck she looked like a cartoon parody of a greasy spoon waitress. Big blonde hair, all up in some kind of beehive. Bright red lips and eye shadow so blue it could’ve been neon. Pair that with the pink uniform she wore and she was literally the least attractive human female I’d ever met in my life. I mean, not just unsexy, but actively creepy. I sort of wanted to take a picture of her, just to prove to myself later she was real.
“We’ve got our breakfast special,” she said. “It’s the breakfast platter. Three eggs, your choice of meat, hash browns, toast, and a bottomless cup of coffee. Best food in town.”
“Sounds great,” Gage said without blinking. She smiled at him, the expression transforming her face until it seemed less cartoonish.
“Seat yourselves,” she said. “Not like we have a shortage of space.”
I nodded toward a table near the window that’d give us a good view of the street while keeping us off to the side of the diner. Gage put his back to the wall, leaving me exposed—which I fucking hated—but he’d been the club’s sergeant at arms for nearly a decade. Not a guy you want to piss off, if you catch my meaning.
I settled myself, looking out across the street. The buildings here were old—lots of character. The one directly opposite us was built from some kind of sandstone, and above the windows it read “Reimers Pharmacy” with the Rx symbol. The Reimers seemed to be long gone, though, because below was the girliest shopfront I’d ever seen. There was china, antiquey shit, and even some old-fashioned toys in the window front, along with some fancy little tables on legs that didn’t seem quite strong enough to hold a man’s weight. Kind of like an old-fashioned ice cream parlor.
Across the window, a sign read, “Tinker’s Teahouse, Antiques & Fine Chocolates.”
I nodded toward it.
“You see that?” I asked Gage. He glanced over at the store.
“Huh. That’s different.”
“You boys want the special?” our waitress asked, and I’m man enough to admit she scared the hell out of me. Not only was she suddenly damned close, she’d snuck up on us without making a sound. I stared at the neon eyeshadow, mesmerized.
Shit. Maybe she wasn’t human.
“We’ll have two specials,” Gage said, offering her one of those smiles that made women’s panties drop. “Could use that coffee now, too. Been a long day.”
She offered him a sickly sweet smile, and I sighed, wishing I was back in Coeur d’Alene with Mel.
• • •
By the time the waitress finished taking our order—it took a while, given how chatty she was—a cherry red Mustang convertible had pulled up outside the restaurant. The car was a beauty, but it was the driver who really caught my attention when she stepped out into the street, all long dark hair and sunglasses. Deep red lipstick, pale skin . . . I couldn’t peg her age from here, but based on those curves she wasn’t a teenager.
Then she walked around to the back of the car and leaned over to open the trunk, clearly outlining the silhouette of a perfect ass wrapped beautifully in a skinny, knee-length skirt with a slit up the back.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Gage said, his voice soft. “Who is that?”
“That’s Tinker Garrett,” our waitress said, sneaking up behind us again. “She owns the little tea shop across the way.”
There was something snide and nasty in her tone. Gage and I shared a glance.
“She doesn’t look like she owns a tea shop,” Gage said, leading her on. The waitress sniffed.
“She moved to Seattle after high school,” she said. “Thought she was hot shit. Then her husband dumped her and she came crawling back to town. That shop of hers can’t earn enough to stay open—not enough people pass through here. If you ask me, she’s up to something.”
Gage glanced at me, mouth twitching. I leaned toward the woman, asking a follow-up question in a tense whisper.
“What kind of thing do you think she’s up to?” I asked, eyes wide. “Do you think it’s . . . nefarious?”
Gage choked on a cough. Nice. Holding down that laughter was probably killing him.
“I have my suspicions,” she sniffed. “She dresses like a whore, you know. And I heard she goes dancing sometimes down in Ellensburg. Likes to pick up college boys. What do they call that? Being a mountain lion? Shameful.”
Gage turned away, shoulders shaking.
“Good to know,” I said seriously. “We’ll stay clear of her.”
“You do that,” the waitress replied, nodding sagely. “God knows what kind of stuff she’s selling in that place. I’ll bet those chocolates have drugs in them. Marijuana.”
I glanced out the window again, watching Tinker Garrett’s perfect ass twitching as she walked away.
Somehow she didn’t strike me as a drug kingpin. Cougar? Now that I could see.
MELANIE
The week after Chase’s accident was strange. He survived, but he had a long recovery ahead of him. Everyone in town seemed sort of gloomy and unhappy, although they’d really pulled together to support him, too. There’d even been a group of kids who set up a lemonade stand down the street from us as a fundraiser. Sometimes I got tired of living in Coeur d’Alene—it wasn’t a big city and it wasn’t exciting like Seattle or Portland, but when something like this happened, we all liked to help. Kit had even organized one of those online fundraiser things to help with his medical expenses.
Contributing to the gloom was the fact that I hadn’t heard from Painter for several days. I’d sent him a couple text messages at first, but stopped after he didn’t respond.
“You think he lost his phone?” I finally asked Jessica. It was Thursday night, and we’d built ourselves a study nest in the dining room. She’d found an old table on Tuesday, dragging it back home to show me, proud as a kid with her first buck.
Now it was so covered with books you’d never have guessed it hadn’t been here for months.
“Yeah, I’m sure he lost his phone,” she said, typing aggressively on her laptop. “He’s totally been meaning to call—you know, because he has such a great history of staying in touch—but he’s completely forgotten how to use text, email, social media, or any other kind of telecommunication.”
“Shit, you don’t have to be a bitch about it,” I snapped, glaring at her. She sighed, sitting back in her chair.
“Sorry—Taz hasn’t called me or anything, either. Guess I’m feeling hostile toward men. Bikers. Fuck all of ’em.”
“Did he say he’d call you?” I asked.
She nodded. “Don’t they all?”
• • •
On Friday I broke down and walked by Painter’s apartment. No signs of life. I was feeling all sorry for myself, so after that I went down to the coffee shop to indulge in one of their brownies with all the thick, fudgy frosting. I was halfway through it (staring at my phone, willing him to message me) when I had my big revelation.
This was fucking ridiculous.
Here I was, a twenty-year-old woman with all the potential on earth, and I was sitting in a coffee shop stuffing my face because of a man. All I needed was to start singing “All By Myself” and buy a cat to complete the stereotype.
What the hell was wrong with me?
My life had sucked before I moved in with London, but she gave me a second chance. I’d busted ass, working constantly to build a life for myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it was damned good—I had a full ride to college and all the potential on earth, yet here I sat, eating chocolate.
Fuck this.
I grabbed my phone, shooting a text off to Jessica.
ME: What are you doing right now?
JESS: Working on stuff for the carnival tomorrow. You still volunteering, right? Kit’s still around and she said she’d help, but I’ll need more than just her.
Oh shit. I’d totally forgotten in the midst of my Painter-induced haze. Oops.
ME: Of course I’m still volunteering—can’t wait. What did you want me to do?
JESS: Face paint.
ME: Um, you remember how artistic I’m not?
JESS: I want you painting little duckies and ladybugs and lizards and stuff. You know, on the kids cheeks. How hard can it be?
ME: I suck at painting
JESS: I have a book you can use with directions. Super easy
ME: Can’t I run the popcorn machine or something?
JESS: Chicken
ME: Yes I’m chicken. I can acknowledge that
JESS: Stop being such a giant pussy. I’ll give you paint tonight and you can practice. Easy
I glared down at the phone, because it was just like her to stick me with something hard and uncomfortable that I didn’t want to do. Hateful girl.
ME: Ok but you owe me
JESS: Put it on my tab ;)
Fucking winkie face, taunting me . . . I sighed and finished my brownie. I wouldn’t let myself get all pathetic again, I’d already decided that. But I couldn’t just walk away from a brownie midway through a sad eating binge. In all fairness, there wasn’t even enough to wrap up and take home.
ME: If I get all fat we r blaming Painter
JESS: Your insane. I love you butthead.
And just like that, I was smiling again. Grabbing my phone and bag, I started walking down to the college. Class didn’t start for another hour, but I could get some work done on my paper at the library if I hurried.
