by Joanna Wylde
“Better her than the random girls he used to drag home,” Em said, wrinkling her nose. “Half of them were younger than me. One time he even fucked a girl dressed like a carrot. London’s a big step up.”
Jess and I looked at each other. Carrot?
Ask her about the carrot! I mouthed silently at Jess.
No fucking way, she mouthed back, eyes wide.
“Okay, so I can see two ways to do this,” Kit declared. “We can either do whatever it takes to make London happy or we can do whatever it takes to make Dad’s head explode, which would make me happy. So I vote for exploding his head.”
“The key is to plan something she’ll like that still makes his head explode,” I declared, falling into the spirit of things. “We should get her some strippers and then text him pictures of them grinding on her.”
“Could we use The Line?” Jessica asked, intrigued. The Line was a strip club the Reapers owned. I’d driven by it but never been inside.
“It’s a thought,” Kit said. “They won’t want to close it and lose money, but maybe we can get some sort of special ladies’ night event set up. I know they’ve done them before. That way they still make their money, we can have a party for London, and Dad’s head will explode. Everyone wins.”
I stood slowly, swaying.
“I need to pee,” I announced gravely, drunker than I’d realized. Should’ve eaten more crackers . . . except the last one I’d had tried to kill me. Sneaky little bastards.
“Do you need help?” Jess asked, and I started laughing at her joke, because of course I didn’t need help. What did she think I was, a preschooler? Nobody else laughed, though, and I realized she was serious. That was even funnier, so I started giggling even harder. So hard I fell down, setting all of them off, too.
“You sure you don’t need help?” Kit asked. I shook my head, which made me dizzy again.
“No, I think I can handle it.”
• • •
It took a lot longer to finish than I expected, mostly because I’d accidentally locked the bathroom door on the way in and then I couldn’t figure out how to unlock it.
I really needed to stop drinking out of Kit’s cup.
“So all he did was look at her and say ‘hey,’” Jess was telling them when I got back. Shit. She was talking about Painter again, possibly my least favorite subject on earth.
He’d been home from jail for two weeks now. I’d expected him to call me. Instead I’d gotten a text from Reese telling me to drop the car and the keys off at his house, then nothing. Not that I thought Painter owed me anything—of course he didn’t—but I’d wanted to at least thank him. (Okay, that’s not true—I wanted to jump him because I had a huge crush, but I also had some dignity. I would’ve settled for a quick “thanks” and maybe baking him some cookies.)
“Let’s talk about something else,” I declared.
“No, I want to hear this,” Kit said, slurring her words slightly. “You distracted me earlier, but now that we’ve got the whole stripper thing figured out, we can focus.”
I sighed, wondering if I could just strangle Jessica. No, probably not. She wasn’t very big, but she was wiry and unnaturally strong. It wouldn’t end well for me. Might as well give in to the inevitable and tell them.
“So, I met Painter last year,” I started, frowning. I really didn’t want to talk about this. “You know what? I’m hungry. Let’s order a pizza.”
“We’ll let you eat once you tell the whole story,” Kit said, scenting blood. “Spill it. I want to hear everything.”
This sucked. I didn’t even know Reese Hayes’s daughters very well—we’d only met a couple times before today, at holidays. I’d already felt like an intruder in Reese’s home, and with his kids there it’d been worse. On Christmas last year I’d left right after dinner for my dorm, making up some bullshit story about volunteering somewhere just to get away.
“So I met Painter last year,” I started again. “Only a couple of times, really. Then he went to prison and I started writing him letters.”
“I told her that was a bad idea,” Jessica said piously. “He’s not a nice guy, despite the whole loaning you a car thing.”
“That’s true,” Em chimed in. “Not nice at all.”
“Do you want to hear the story or not?” I asked, refilling my wineglass. Thinking about Painter was stealing my buzz. Couldn’t have that.
“Tell the story,” Kit said, narrowing her eyes.
“So when he took off for California he left me his car—it was just supposed to be for a couple days. Then he got arrested, he told Reese I could keep using it. I wrote to thank him, and I guess it just went from there,” I said. “Painter’s letters were so sweet, even though I only met him a couple times before they locked him up. He didn’t even treat me like a girl, not really. But he was so . . . protective. I felt stupid writing to him to begin with, but when he kept writing back I felt special. Then one day—right before they let him out—I got this letter from him saying it was weird I didn’t have a boyfriend, and that maybe I should be dating more. I felt like I’d gotten kicked in the stomach. I think I’d managed to fool myself about how big my crush on him was.”
“I tried to warn her,” Jessica said mournfully. “She didn’t listen.”
“They never do,” Kit replied, her voice full of sad wisdom. “I swear, if people would just follow my instructions they’d all be a hell of a lot happier.”
I glanced at Em, who rolled her eyes.
“Might as well spill the rest,” Jess ordered. I sighed.
“Okay, so after that I never heard from him again—he didn’t call when he got back to town. Nothing. Then we moved in here last weekend and Reese showed up with some of the club guys to help us . . .”
The words trailed off as I remembered. It’d been so humiliating. Reese and Loni had pulled up with this big truck, and right behind them was Painter, riding his motorcycle, along with a couple other bikers, younger guys not much older than me. I watched—mesmerized—as he carefully backed his Harley into place then swung one broad leg over his seat, looking up to catch my eye.
He was more beautiful than I remembered.
Bigger, too. I guess he’d spent some of that time in jail lifting weights. His hair had grown out some. When I’d first met him, it’d been short and spiky and bleached so blond it hurt. It still wasn’t long, but it wasn’t bleached bright white anymore and it was shaggy. Natural. His cheekbones were sharp, his features chiseled and harder than I remembered, and there was something scary in his pale blue eyes.
He wasn’t looking at me—he was looking through me. Up to that point I’d held out hope that he was just busy or something. How stupid was that?
“All he said was ‘hey,’” I told the girls. “Like I was a stranger, and it was obvious he didn’t want to talk. Just nodded his head when I thanked him and walked away. He helped move our shit, but I swear, he was friendlier to Jessica than he was to me.”
That part particularly hurt, because I knew their secret. Jessica and Painter had slept together. Or fooled around. Whatever. She’d never given me all the details, but I knew her lips had been in contact with his dick at one point, back before she pulled her shit together and settled down.
“Mellie, that didn’t mean anything,” my best friend said softly. “You know he’s not interested in me.”
“In you?” Kit asked, her voice sharp. “I thought the issue was between him and Melanie?”
My mouth snapped shut, because it wasn’t my story to tell.
“I used to be wilder,” Jess said, taking a deep breath. “Last year I got drunk and went out to the Armory for a party. I fucked around with Painter and another guy named Banks. Then London showed up and dragged me out and a lot of other shit happened.”
“Wow,” Em said, eyes wide. “He must not like you very much, Jessica. He never sleeps with the girls he actually likes.”
I gaped as Kit leaned over and smacked her head.
“That’s a shitty thing to say,” she snapped. My chest felt tight—Jess had enough on her plate, she didn’t need to hear stuff like that.
“Hey, it’s not my fault he has a Madonna-whore complex,” Em protested.
“Shut the fuck up!” Kit hissed. “Jesus, Em, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“It’s okay,” Jess said, flapping her hand at them. “I’m so sorry, but just the thought of the whole thing is so ridiculous. Believe me—I could give two shits if Painter likes me or not. It’s just . . . he doesn’t fuck girls he likes? What the hell is wrong with him?”
“How much time do you have?” Em asked seriously. “It could take a while to break it all down.”
I held up a hand.
“Do I get a vote?”
“No,” Kit said. “Em, give her the short and dirty.”
“I spent more than a year chasing after Painter,” Em said. “He was into me—everyone said he was. But the club always came first, and it’s like he expected me to be some kind of perfect, precious angel while he fucked around with his club whores. Finally I got sick of it and ran off with Hunter.”
“Seriously?” I asked. She blushed.
“Okay, it’s a little more complicated than that,” she admitted. “But there was definitely something between us, yet he never got off his ass and did anything about it. The guy has issues.”
“Painter’s problem is he likes the idea of a relationship but he’s too fucking chicken to follow through,” Kit said, giggling.
“No, Painter’s problem is that he’s complicated,” Jess said, her voice more serious. “I’d say he was a total asshole, but he helped save my life last summer. He wound up in jail because of it. It doesn’t change the real truth, though—Painter is a great guy to have around if your life’s in danger and you need someone to rescue you. But other than that? He’s not one of the good ones, Mel. You shouldn’t talk to him, because he’s dangerous. They all are.”
Kit and Em had grown quiet—now the awkward had changed direction.
“You do realize you’re talking about my dad and Em’s old man, too?” Kit asked softly. Jess met her gaze head-on.
“I think I know what I’m talking about,” she replied, her voice hard. “Melanie should stay the hell away from him.”
“Someday you’ll have to tell me that whole story,” I finally said, my voice soft. Jess offered a sad smile.
“The club saved me,” she said again. “They can do good things, Mel. Just don’t let that trick you into thinking their world is a good place, because it isn’t. Bad things happen there.”
Silence fell over the group as we contemplated her words.
“We should drink more,” Kit announced suddenly. “And where’s the music? How can you plan a bachelorette party without music?”
“Good call,” Jess said, clearly relieved to change the subject. “I’ll go put something on.” She stood up, walking across the half grass, half dirt of our backyard toward the kitchen porch. Em and Kit looked at her.
“She okay?” Em asked.
“She’s always okay. Jess has a lot going on, but she pulls through. She’s tough.”
“Fucking hell,” Kit burst out.
“What?”
“We’re out of booze,” she announced, mournfully turning the wine bottle upside down. Her vodka cup was empty, too. “Now what are we going to do?”
“We’ll go get more,” Em said. “Except I’m way too buzzed to drive . . . Fuck, now what are we going to do?”
“This is a problem,” Kit replied. “A big problem.”
“We could stop drinking,” I pointed out. Both sisters stared at me blankly. “Okay, we could walk down to Peterson’s and buy some more. It’s only about six blocks.”
“I like this one,” Kit said seriously. “She’s a thinker.”
“Yup. We should keep her,” Em said. “So who’s coming with? I want some chips. And maybe some of that squirty cheese shit that comes in a bottle.”
Kit curled her lip. “That’s disgusting. You’ll die from eating that.”
“You’ll die from eating cock,” Em sneered back at her.
“You’re just jealous because I’ve got some variety in my life,” Kit said, unconcerned. She glanced at me. “Are you a virgin? Em was a virgin when she got together with Hunter. She doesn’t even realize that there’s other dicks out there. For all we know, he’s got a four-inch stick. Never settle, Mel.”
I giggled.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
• • •
“We might need some of this,” Kit said, lifting a long, hard tube of summer sausage out of the deli cooler, hefting it thoughtfully. The thing had to be a foot and a half long, and it was a good three inches thick.
“Not my place to judge,” Em replied carelessly. “But that doesn’t look very sanitary to me. I think you should just buy a dildo.”
I gasped, glancing around to see if anyone had heard us. We were standing in the meat aisle. Peterson’s didn’t sell hard liquor, but we’d loaded up on wine, along with some fresh fruit to make sangria. Why we needed sangria I wasn’t entirely sure, but Kit had been insistent. She kept rolling a lime thoughtfully between her fingers and muttering about scurvy.
Clearly, the Hayes sisters were batshit crazy.
“Let’s just grab some chips and go,” I said, starting to worry about how much the bill might be. I’d gotten enough financial aid that I didn’t have to work this semester, but only if I pinched my pennies tightly. “If you really want tubed meats, I’m sure you can find some guy to share his for free down at the Ironhorse.”
Jess gaped at me.
“Melanie, did you actually just say that?”
“What?” I asked. “You seem to think I’m some sort of quivering virgin. I’m not—I’m just more worried about school and my future than getting laid. Doesn’t mean I’m a prude.”
“Of course she’s not a prude,” Kit declared, throwing her arm over my shoulder proudly. “And tonight we’ll show Painter just what he’s missing out on, because he’s a whiny little pussy. A bunch of Hunter’s brothers from Portland are in town—I’ll introduce you around. You’ll have a great time. Painter can sit and spin if he won’t step up.”
“We’re not going to the party,” I told her. Kit shook her head slowly.
“No, you’re definitely going,” she said. “Someone has to put him in his place.”
Jessica and I looked at each other, eyes wide. She shook her head at me, mouthing, Don’t do it!
“I’ve really got a lot of studying to do . . .”
“You’re coming to the party,” Kit repeated, her eyes going hard. “Don’t worry—we won’t leave you hanging. But this shit needs to end. I’m not letting another girl get hung up on that cockwad for years just because he’s got his thumb up his ass. Dealing with Em’s situation was bad enough. The girl was useless. Totally useless.”
“I’m standing right here,” Em pointed out.
“I’m aware,” Kit replied, her tone suddenly sweet. “You know how much I love you, sis. Now hand me my sausage.”
• • •
Two hours later I still wasn’t sure how I’d wound up staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out what to wear. I didn’t want to go to the party, yet here I was, primping and preening, feeling almost sick to my stomach every time I imagined meeting Levi “Painter” Brooks on his home turf.
Jessica wandered into my bedroom, frowning.
“I still can’t believe you’re going,” she said. “They’ll eat you alive out at the Armory. You have no idea what those parties are like.”
“Kit and Em promised they’d keep an eye on me,” I reminded her. “And this is a family party—not some crazed fuckfest like you went to.”
“Don’t let them fool you,” Jess said darkly. “Bad shit happens at the Reapers clubhouse. Doesn’t matter if they saved my ass or not, the Reapers are dangerous and I’d be a lot happier if you’d just stay home and work on
homework with me.”
I turned to look at her, marveling yet again at how much my best friend had changed over the past year. Back in high school she’d been obsessed with her looks, with partying, and with boys. Now it was a Friday night and she was leaning against my doorframe wearing ragged, cutoff sweats and a stained tank top, hair up in a messy bun. Not one of those cute, sexy messy buns, either. This one looked like a hairy mutant growth on her head.
Turning back, I studied my reflection in the mirror.
“Well I’m going anyway,” I told her, reaching over to grab my jelly glass of sangria. “So do your duty as a friend and help me get ready. Does this make me look fat?”
Jessica licked the Fudgsicle she held thoughtfully.
“No, but it makes you look about forty. And not a hot forty—sort of like a homeless woman going on a job interview, I think.”
I stared at her. “I can’t decide how to take that.”
“Take it as a sign that you should wear something else,” she said, shaking her head. “Now, don’t interpret this as my blessing to go to that party tonight, because I’m still one hundred percent against it. But seriously, Mel. You’re beautiful. All that dark chocolate hair and permanent tan of yours? Fuck, if I had that to work with I’d be . . . Well, I wouldn’t be sitting here watching you get ready to go out when I’m going to be stuck at home studying all night. I see no reason to disguise all that pretty as a bag lady.”
“First up, those are some big words from a woman whose hair is so messy it’s got white-girl dreads,” I replied, frowning. “And second, you’re the one who’s refusing to go out, remember? I want you to come with me.”
“Whatever. Change your clothes.”
Rolling my eyes, I studied my reflection. She was right. Totally right. These were job interview clothes, not party clothes. “I’ve got no idea what to wear—can I borrow something?”
Jessica pondered, walking slowly around me, eyes sharp and critical.
“I can help,” she said. “But I require complete obedience, grasshopper.”
“Never min—”
“Silence!” she snapped, holding up a hand, palm facing me. “Don’t distract me. I’ve got an image . . . We need something very special. Something to make him regret blowing you off—just don’t be a fucking idiot and go crawling back to him.”