by Joanna Wylde
“I was never with him in the first place.”
“All the more reason to do this right,” she said. “If you’re going out there, you’re going to look hot. Really hot. He’ll blow his wad when he sees you, I swear. Then you can make him grovel and come back home.”
Ewww.
“I don’t want him blowing his wad.”
She cocked her head at me, smirking.
“Now who’s living in denial?”
I sighed, because the bitch was right.
• • •
Jessica worked fast, and fifteen minutes later I found myself looking in the mirror again, but this time I’d definitely left job interview territory behind. I looked good, I had to admit. Jess had me in a black push-up bra and a loose, off-the-shoulder black summer top with silver bangles around my wrists and big hoop earrings. She’d paired it with a short plaid skirt, sort of a cross between a kilt and one of those little skirts girls wear at Catholic schools. She’d finished it off with combat boots.
“You can use those to kick Painter in the nuts if he says something stupid,” she said, smirking at me.
“But shouldn’t I be wearing something more . . . I don’t know. More. Heels or something?”
“Trust me, you don’t need the fuck-me pumps. You have fuck-me lips and a fantastic rack. Not only that, Painter”—she sneered as she said his name—“is an idiot, so I can almost guarantee he’ll need a nut punch and you don’t want to break a nail or something. Any shoe with a real heel would get stuck in the grass anyway, and flats are simply not an option. That leaves us with wedges or sandals, and those would totally ruin the feel of the outfit. This is what you need to wear.”
I studied my reflection again. It wasn’t me at all, but I had to admit, the clothes totally worked with my dark hair and smoky eyes. Half sexy skater girl, half . . . hell if I knew. Something not Melanie, something almost reckless.
“I guess so. It just feels weird.”
Jessica came to stand next to me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.
“When you helped me write my first English lit paper, I listened to you,” she said, her voice serious. “I listened because you understand that stuff better than I do. It’s what you’re good at. Here’s the thing—I may have taken a temporary vow of celibacy, but I know guys and sex. This works on you. You’re gorgeous. I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”
I blinked rapidly, unexpectedly emotional. Then Jess leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “If you were a hooker, I’d pay full price for you, baby. And you know I don’t pay full price for anything.”
I pulled back and she burst out laughing.
“You’re crazy, you know that?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “I’m the crazy one, you’re the one who’s good at school and shit. So tonight we’ll switch it up. You go out and have fun—just stick close to London, okay? I’ll stay home and do my homework. That should fuck with all their heads.”
“Head fuckery is a noble goal,” Kit declared, stepping into the room to join us. “London’s gonna be here soon—she’s our ride. She’s doing a Costco run for more ice and chips—you can never have too much of those. Nice work on the outfit, Mel.”
“It was all Jessica.”
“Figures. Now let’s go. We’re out of sangria again and Em’s looking thirsty. God only knows what she’ll do once she realizes I drank it all while she was talking to lover boy on the phone. That bitch is violent when she’s sober. We need more to drink—safety first, you know?”
• • •
“This is Mel,” Kit announced proudly, pushing me toward a tall guy with dark hair pulled back in a man bun. (Those always confuse me—they really shouldn’t be sexy yet on some guys they just work.) He wore a denim Devil’s Jacks MC cut, and I would’ve been interested in studying the patches if he weren’t completely bare chested underneath it . . . and what a chest. Damn.
I know it’s shallow, but if you asked me to pick his face out of a police lineup I would’ve drawn a blank. Those pecs? I think they were burned on my soul.
“Mel’s connected to London, my dad’s old lady,” Kit continued. “She’s nice, so try not to break her.”
“Hey, Mel,” he said, his voice smooth with just a hint of humor. “I’m Taz. Over from Portland.”
“Taz is in the same chapter as Hunter, Em’s old man,” Kit informed me. “He’s a great guy, aren’t you, Taz?”
“Fuckin’ prince,” he agreed. “You want a drink, Mel?”
I nodded, mesmerized. Taz was very, very pretty. No, “pretty” was the wrong word. Hot. Yeah, that was better. Taz was hot—like, on the alphabet of hotness I’d give him an “H” for Hemsworth. I wanted to lick him, to see if he tasted as good as he smelled, although that may have been the sangria talking . . . His eyes were green and sparkling, his lips were quirked in this adorable half smile, and when he put his hand against the small of my back, guiding me gently toward the kegs, I nearly fainted.
Fuck Painter—he had his chance.
In all fairness, I’m not usually that shallow . . . but I’d been at the party for nearly two hours now, and while I’d seen Mr. Brooks in the distance, he hadn’t even bothered acknowledging me with a friendly wave, let alone talked to me. He’d glared for a minute, then stomped off toward Reese without a second look.
At least London had been happy to see me, although I could tell she was disappointed Jess wasn’t here. I knew she’d been banned from the Armory for a while last summer after she’d gotten herself in trouble at one of their parties. But she’d really pulled her shit together since then. Reese had even started inviting her to some of the club’s family events last winter.
So far as I knew, she’d never been back out here, and I’d only been out once, helping London with some groceries. Today, Loni had warned me to stay outside in the courtyard with the main group and to let her know when I wanted to go home so she could arrange a ride. Then she’d given me a hug and a kiss before setting me free to run around with Kit.
Em had already ditched us by then, glued to her old man, Hunter.
“She’s dick-whipped,” Kit had confided. “Pathetic. If I ever fall for some guy like that, please shoot me. My dad has lots of guns—you can borrow one if you need to.”
We’d spent the next two hours wandering around together. Kit had grown up playing at the Armory and she gave me the full scoop on everyone we saw. She seemed to agree with London about staying outside with the main crowd in the courtyard, rather than exploring the big, three-story building behind us. It looked sort of like a castle to me—apparently they’d bought it from the National Guard.
Surprisingly, the party really was family-friendly.
Mostly.
There was loud music and plenty of booze, but there were also kids running around laughing and screaming, stealing cookies and drinking endless lemonade.
It wasn’t all sunshine and light, though. There were lots of big, scary-looking guys surrounded by women wearing a lot less clothing than I was used to seeing. Something told me the whole family-friendly vibe would end once the sun went down. At least Jess made the right call on the boots—the few women I’d seen wearing slutty heels were having a really hard time getting around, given the mixture of cracked concrete, gravel, and grass that blanketed the area.
My boots made me feel strong and tall and capable.
That’s why—when Taz poured me a drink and smiled big at me—I didn’t even notice Painter watching us. I also didn’t notice him after the second drink, which was really more like my . . . well, I’d sort of lost track at the house, to be honest. (Let’s just say I was feeling festive.) That’s also why I completely forgot what London told me about staying in the courtyard. To be fair, I’d pretty much forgotten about everything by then—I’d been drunk before, but never quite like this.
It was fun. No wonder Jessica used to do it so much.
“You want to go for a walk?” Taz asked me after we’d been talking for what fel
t like forever and no time at all. I looked around, realizing that the sun had started to set. There were a lot fewer kids running around. Someone had lit a bonfire, and the music was louder.
“Sure,” I said, feeling adventurous. Maybe he’d kiss me. That would show Levi Fucking Painter Brooks a thing, now, wouldn’t it? Just because he wasn’t interested in me didn’t mean I wasn’t sexy and fun.
Taz caught my hand, leading me back along the big cement-block wall surrounding the courtyard toward a gate in the back. It was open, but a guy wearing a prospect’s cut stood guard, watching everyone who came and went. I didn’t recognize him, but when he saw me, his eyes widened. Then he whipped out his phone and started texting.
“This is really pretty,” I said, looking over the wide meadow we found on the other side of the wall. Beyond it the ground rose in a steep slope covered with trees, but back here it was just like a park. Gorgeous. There were quite a few tents and even another bonfire.
“We’re camped over there,” Taz said, nodding toward the far end of the meadow. “Let me show you.”
I frowned as his words penetrated my brain fog. My sense of self-preservation kicked in, pointing out quietly but insistently that going off with a strange guy in the dark at a biker party might not be the brightest of moves.
Shit. I really was turning into Jessica.
“Mel, get over here.”
I knew that voice. Turning slowly, I saw Painter standing behind us, arms crossed in front of him.
He didn’t look happy.
• • •
In retrospect, my mistake had been letting Kit into the house that afternoon. Truly, from that moment forward the whole day had been fucked, a runaway train careening down the track into a dark void of . . . well, mostly one very angry biker.
Why Painter was pissed, I had no clue.
Wasn’t like he’d spoken to me even once during the damned party. I’d been there for hours, yet the only times I’d seen him he’d been talking up slutty girls wearing painted-on jeans and stamp-sized bikini tops.
Not that I cared. Not at all. He could screw around with whoever he wanted, because . . . Double shit. His gaze met mine, burning through me, and I swear—the world started spinning. I forgot all about Taz as I fell into Painter’s eyes, mesmerized. Then I realized what I was doing and forced myself to look down, which wasn’t much better. I swear, the man was made entirely of muscles—delicious muscles that I could see all too clearly because he only wore a short-sleeved T-shirt under his leather Reapers cut. Faded blue jeans covered his legs, clinging to his thighs in a way that made my own clench. Worn black boots covered his feet. Together it was too much. Throughout the party, I’d tried to convince myself that he wasn’t as strong—or sexy—as the man I fantasized about every night. Nobody could be.
Except he totally was.
Painter’s gaze flicked between me and Taz, calculating and cool as he swaggered our direction, because apparently it wasn’t enough to look so sexy that my heart nearly exploded. Nope. He had to walk sexy, too. Breathe sexy.
I remembered every second I’d spent with him last year, every touch, every time I’d wrapped myself around his big, strong body while his Harley throbbed beneath us. He’d given me three rides. Less than thirty minutes total . . . And that one kiss—enough to mark me forever.
I wanted more in a big way.
“Painter,” Taz said, startling me. I’d forgotten he was there.
“Taz. Should probably let that one go. She’s protected.”
“She yours?” Taz asked, sounding surprised. “Guess she didn’t get the message. Not like I dragged her out here.”
“She’s a kid. Drop it.”
“Hey, I’m not a kid,” I protested, indignant. “I’ll be twenty-one in four months.”
Taz gave a low laugh. “You heard her. Fuck off, Brooks.”
Painter stepped toward me, his expression colder than I’d ever seen it. “Mel, get your ass back to the party.”
I stilled, unsure what I should do. I really did want to go back to the party . . . but I didn’t want Painter to win, either.
Shit.
Now I found myself trapped between him and Taz, and because I’m a freaking idiot I wanted to forget Taz and jump on Painter, right there in the middle of the yard. Just wrap my legs around his waist and grind on him like a whore. One very, very happy whore.
Where is your self-respect?
CHAPTER THREE
PAINTER
Mel was staring at me like a spooked rabbit.
She didn’t belong here and she knew it, the little sneak. She had to know—she’d been avoiding the Armory the whole time I was in jail. She’d written me all about it, among a thousand other things. You’d think a guy like me would get bored hearing about her life. There’d been a few club-whore types who’d written me, too—letters full of sex and promises and pictures that should’ve crowded Mel right out of my mind. Never stopped thinking about her, though. Not once. She’d become my anchor. Then she’d stopped writing after I told her to go find herself a boyfriend. Once I got home, I made a conscious decision to be a dick about the car, too. I had to be.
It was the right thing to do.
I’d made it a whole week back in Coeur d’Alene without hunting her down, holding out against temptation. Then Pic had mentioned the girls needed help moving last Saturday and it was all over. I’d kept my hands off her that day—didn’t do more than say hello—but it’d been torture. She was more beautiful than I remembered. Had filled out, going from pretty to gorgeous, all smooth, rich, tanned skin, dark hair, and long legs designed specifically by God to wrap around my waist.
When she leaned over in front of me to grab a cardboard box I’d nearly popped out of the front of my pants.
My fuckwad of a president had been laughing his ass off at me, while London went into full mother hen mode. I’d promised her once that I’d leave Mel alone—a promise that no longer stood in my opinion, given how she’d lied to the club and tricked us. One thing was for sure, though. No fucking way I’d gone through a full year of blue balls so Taz could swoop in and steal the prize.
“London’s looking for you, Melanie,” I lied blandly. “She told you not to come out here, remember? There’s a reason for that. It’s not safe.”
“Perfectly safe with me around, babe,” Taz said, eyes dancing. I didn’t think he was seriously interested in her, but he was definitely getting off on annoying me. Fucker. He was one of Hunter’s brothers, and they’d never liked me. Em might be Hunter’s old lady now, but at one point she’d been mine for the taking. He hated me for that.
I’d hated him, too—he’d stolen her away from me. Looking at Mel, though . . . Fuck, what had I ever seen in Em?
“I probably should get back to the party,” she said slowly. Yeah. No shit.
“Fantastic,” I said, catching her arm and pulling her toward me. Taz laughed behind us as I dragged her off, not toward the gate in the back of the wall but around the side of the courtyard wall, into the darkness. She stumbled along beside me for a few, then tugged on my arm as we rounded the back corner.
Nobody could see us here.
“Hey,” she said. I ignored her, my blood pressure too high already. I could smell her in the darkness. Actually smell her. She wasn’t wearing heavy perfume or anything, but she smelled like oranges and spice and nice . . . What the fuck was wrong with me?
“Hey,” she said again, jerking on my arm hard this time. I stopped, turning on her abruptly. She took a step back, hitting the wall. “This isn’t the way back to the party.”
“You’re not going back to the party.”
She cocked her head, and I saw the confusion in her alcohol-glazed eyes as she wrinkled her nose at me. All cute, like a rabbit.
“You look like a bunny.”
“You look like an ax murderer,” she said, frowning. “And I thought London was looking for me. Aren’t we going the wrong way?”
“I lied. I do that a lot,
” I told her, staring at her lips. I reached out, catching her chin in my hand, running my thumb across her lips. Our eyes locked, and I don’t know if her pulse started to rise but mine sure as fuck did. What the hell had I been thinking, writing to this girl? She was so pretty and perfect and had this amazing, magical life just waiting for her and all I could think about was dragging her down into the dirt and shoving my cock into every hole she had.
She’d scream while I did it, too, the same sweet screams that played in my head every night while I jacked off.
I hated myself.
“Why did you lie?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
“To get you away from Taz. It’s not safe with him.”
Mel’s forehead creased in confusion, her brain moving so slowly I could practically see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She might be smart as fuck most of the time, but she’d transitioned to drunker than fuck tonight. Kit. Kit and Em. They’d done this to her.
I leaned in closer, catching her scent. For an instant I swayed, so tempted . . .
“They told me all about you,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“The other girls. Kit, Em. Jessica. I know how you operate,” she continued. One of her hands rose, touching my chest. Fire burst through me, because if I’d wanted her before I was desperate for her now. She was so soft, so sweet . . . so perfect.
Then her words sank in.
“What did you just say?”
“They told me all about you,” she said, eyes dropping to stare at my lips. “They told me you have a Madonna-whore complex.”
I froze.
“A what?”
“A Madonna-whore complex,” she repeated, her voice earnest. “You like to screw dirty girls and you put clean girls on pedestals, where they can stay perfect and pure. That’s pretty messed up, Painter. There’s no such thing as Madonnas and whores. We’re all just people.”
The words stunned me. What the hell was she talking about? Just because I didn’t want her dragged down in the drama and bullshit of this life didn’t mean I had some sort of fucking complex. And who the hell were the Hayes sisters to have an opinion? I couldn’t tell what pissed me off more—the fact that they’d talked to Mel about me or that they hadn’t done a better job of scaring her off.