by Joanna Wylde
Guess I was good enough when he was bored in jail and wanted letters. Now? Not so much. I looked over at Jess, wondering exactly what’d happened between them. She’d said that they’d “fucked around,” but what did that really mean? She said not to worry about it, that it wasn’t important . . . But Jessica was gorgeous. Stunning. And while she might be younger than me, she was decades older in terms of experience. No wonder Painter wasn’t interested in yours truly.
I wasn’t his type.
“So who gave you a ride?” she asked, frowning. “Em and Kit were drunk. Was it Hunter? Or did they send you with a prospect?”
I thought about lying . . . making up a name or something. Jess tended to have a short attention span, so she’d probably forget all about it unless I was stupid enough to tell her—
“Omigod, you got a ride home with Painter!” she accused suddenly. “I can see the guilt written all over your face. How the hell did that happen?”
Shit.
“Yes,” I admitted slowly. Might as well tell her the whole ugly story. “He’s not interested in me—just ignored me, like he did the day we moved. But then I met another guy and . . .”
“What?” she demanded. I closed my eyes, trying to think and then opened them again because the room was spinning like crazy. For an instant I thought I might puke. Thankfully it passed.
“So he dragged me off and told me I didn’t belong there,” I admitted. “We were arguing about it and he was all up in my face, and then he was holding my hair so I kissed him.”
Jess scowled.
“He’s not a good guy,” she said. “I mean, he’s done some good things, I’ll give him that. But these bikers are dangerous, Mel. I’ve told you all along—you have to stay away from him.”
This wasn’t the first time we’d had this talk—she’d been furious when she first learned we’d been writing to each other. Suddenly a dreadful thought occurred to me. I’d had it before, but I’d never asked her about it because it seemed wrong.
I wasn’t feeling so inhibited tonight, though.
“So, I have to know . . .” I started, wondering how to say it. Gee, Jessica, do you still want to have sex with my weird, nonfriend prison pen pal? Hmm. That didn’t sound right. What exactly was the most tactful way to ask your BFF if she hoped to bone the guy you’re secretly in love with but who has no interest in you because he sees you as a helpless child?
This hadn’t been covered in my English lit class.
“What?” she asked, shutting her laptop and leaning it against the side of the couch. “Let me guess—you’re trying really hard to figure out a nice way to ask me if I’m still lusting after Painter, because that’s the kind of girl I am? Always chasing guys?”
I coughed, feeling like a complete bitch for even thinking about it. But that was the problem—it’d been eating at me for a while, which was so not fair on so many levels, because Jess had changed her ways. Mostly. (It was the “mostly” part that caused the concern.)
“Maybe. I noticed he pulled you aside to talk to you for a few minutes during the move . . .”
“I can’t decide if that’s funny or insulting as hell.”
“Funny?” I asked weakly. Jessica leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed.
“One, I’ve taken a temporary vow of celibacy.”
“Yes, but you’ve never said for how long and even you have to admit you’re impulsive as hell,” I pointed out, figuring I might as well play it out now that we’d started the discussion. “For all I knew, the vow ended earlier today.”
“Good point,” she said, rolling her head to grin at me. Oh, thank God. She wasn’t too pissed. But she hadn’t answered my question yet, either. “No worries. I’d never touch Painter, Mel, assuming he was even interested—and he isn’t. He doesn’t give two shits about me. Not only that, you’re way more important to me than some asshole biker. And I’m really working on the whole impulse control thing. I know I’ve got a long way to go, but it’s actually going pretty well. Admit it—there’s been at least a twenty-five percent reduction in drama.”
I laughed, feeling almost giddy with relief. “Give yourself some credit—I’d say thirty. You’d be at forty if it wasn’t for the Tire Iron Incident.”
Jessica sighed.
“Yeah. That wasn’t my finest moment. Although you want to know a secret?” she asked, pulling back to offer me a wicked grin.
“What?”
“I know I told Reese and Loni that I was sorry, but I’d totally do it again. The asshole deserved it in a big way. I swear, I practically came when I finally broke through the windshield on that dickwad’s car. I’ll take vengeance over sex any day.”
She waggled her eyebrows at me again, and I gave her a fake stern look, channeling Reese.
“This isn’t a fuckin’ joke, Jess,” I said, mimicking his tone and words exactly. “Your ass would be in jail right now if that little fuck wasn’t so scared of the Reapers. Next time I’ll let them haul you away, too.”
“I’m sorry, Reese,” she replied, lowering her head and biting her lip. “I guess I just lost control. I’ll have to talk to my counselor about it . . .”
That was enough to set us both off laughing, which really wasn’t very nice because Reese was a good guy—not only was he batshit crazy about Loni, he treated both me and Jess like his own daughters.
“I have a secret for you, too,” I admitted as our giggles finally died down.
“What’s that?”
“Loni totally thought he had it coming, too. I overheard her telling Reese that if you hadn’t taken out the windshield, she would’ve. He got pissed, too.”
“Really?” Jess asked, obviously surprised. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, he said that if she needs windows broken, she should talk to him. He’ll send a prospect to do it for her, because he doesn’t want her getting cut. Then they started kissing again and I snuck off before all the PDA made me barf.”
Her mouth dropped.
“He’s a seriously good guy,” she said quietly. I nodded, thankful that things felt right between us again.
“I’m sorry I asked you.”
“I know.”
She gave me a sad smile, and there were secrets in her eyes I still wondered about. There was a connection there, between what’d happened to her and Painter going to jail. I’d written to him, asking what he wanted me to do with his car. He’d told me to hold on to it, and sent a funny cartoon sketch of himself studying a tray of prison food, looking confused and disgusted.
Tilting my head up, I stared at the ceiling, contemplating the situation. Were we ever really friends at all?
“Jess, I know everyone says the Reapers do some seriously fucked-up shit,” I said softly. “Do you think the rumors are true? I mean, if Reese is such a good guy . . .”
Jessica sighed heavily.
“The rumors are true, Mel,” she said, her voice bleak. “Whatever shit you think they’re doing, it’s worse. Way worse. Trust me on that one.”
I blinked rapidly, wondering why the hell my eyes were suddenly watering, because I’d been through way too much in my life to cry over a boy.
No, not a boy. Painter Brooks was definitely a man. Jess reached for the remote, turning on the TV we’d gotten as a housewarming present from Loni, along with three big bags of groceries. Some stupid reality show came on, and after a few minutes I remembered that I needed a Fudgsicle so I went into the kitchen to hunt one down.
Shitty to be me, because Jess had already eaten the last one. I grabbed a Greek yogurt instead, then settled in to watch a bunch of spoiled rich women arguing over whose life was the hardest.
Ha. Maybe I should fix one of them up with my dad—now that would be reality TV.
CHAPTER FIVE
PAINTER
I didn’t bother driving back out to the party.
Taz needed his ass kicked and I had the feeling I wouldn’t be able to stop myself if I saw his fucking face. That wouldn’t be good—t
he Devil’s Jacks might be our allies at this point, but the history between the two clubs wasn’t pretty. Pic still “joked” about killing Hunter, his daughter’s old man, all the time. Last thing he needed was me throwing gas on the fire.
So here I was, alone on a Friday night, balls blue as a Smurf’s butt despite the fact that I’d gotten sucked off earlier, before Mel showed up. Now that I’d seen her—felt her against me—I couldn’t deny reality. She was different. Special. Just touching her felt better than fucking anyone else, and I didn’t want to settle. Felt like the real thing.
But sooner or later this little infatuation would pass.
I knew that about myself. I’d thought Em was the woman for me. Then I’d held off too long and lost her. Thought my world was ending. It didn’t. I felt not one damned thing when I looked at her these days, despite the fact that I’d been 100 percent convinced I’d never get over her.
Whatever I felt for Mel would pass, too.
I pulled the bike into the alley behind my new place, an old carriage house that had an apartment up above and a garage down below. The rental was only about four blocks from Mel’s house, something that was a total coincidence. The fact that I’d decided to look for something downtown right after we moved her didn’t mean a thing—pure coincidence.
I opened the door and walked inside, turning on the work lights in the garage. They were strung along the ceiling on hooks, plugged into each other in one long chain. Walking upstairs, I grabbed a beer, then started back down because I was way too worked up to sleep.
Instead I walked over to the oak veneered plywood I’d been prepping, testing the surface to see how the matte medium was coming along. Dry. I’d been working on it for close to a week. Now it was finally ready, which meant I could start my first real painting since I’d gotten out. Between work—both legitimate in the body shop and side stuff for the club—and finding somewhere to live, I’d been too busy.
Tonight it was exactly what I needed.
I took off my club colors, grabbing my rolling mechanic’s stool and tugging it toward the workbench. My paints were waiting, along with the brushes I’d bought to replace the ones I’d lost when they locked me up. A couple of the old ladies had gone to my old apartment and boxed shit up after the arrest, but they hadn’t known how to pack the brushes. These ones weren’t nearly as good, but they were the best I could swing for now and I didn’t want to wait any longer.
An hour later I took a break, finishing off my beer as I studied the outline of the Reapers symbol I’d started. They’d asked me to do a sort of mural for the chapel. Originally I’d planned to paint it on the wall, but Pic suggested I do it on a board so they could move it around. It was a solid idea—a board like this could last for decades.
Damn, but it felt good to be painting again.
So maybe I didn’t get to have Mel—at least I still had this. I was good at it, too. I’d done some custom design work for guys even inside. Now that I was out again, I’d already talked to a couple of them about hand-painting their bikes. One was a weekend warrior who had too much money and didn’t mind me holding on to his bike for a couple weeks while I did the art.
Guess some of us live to ride more than others.
Not that I cared either way, so long as they brought cash.
Cranking up the music, I leaned toward the board again. Looked good. Real good. Maybe I’d take my brother Bolt’s suggestion and set up a website for my work. See if I could drum up some more business. It occurred to me that a guy with his own business—a commercial artist—might be the kind of guy a girl like Mel could settle down with. Christ, but I needed to stop thinking about her.
Wasn’t gonna happen.
Time to get over it.
• • •
Justin Bieber was singing in my bedroom.
The fuck?
Blinking, I stared at the ceiling, trying to wake up. Maybe figure out who I needed to kill to make the unholy wailing end. After an eternity, the noise died and I rolled over, pulling the pillow over my head, trying to figure out what crime I’d committed to deserve that nightmare.
That’s when it started again.
Fucking hell, it was my phone. I reached for it, a random picture of Puck’s middle finger flashing across the screen . . . And yeah, I recognized the finger because I’d seen it pointed at me at least ten times a day for more than a year. Sort of his morning salute back in prison . . . I frowned, answering.
“Like your new ringtone?” my best friend asked.
“Eat shit and die, fuckwad,” I managed to growl, but the insult wasn’t my best work—brain was still foggy.
“Someone didn’t get laid last night,” he replied, and I could practically smell him gloating. Dick. “Saw you took off with Mel and didn’t come back. Disappointed in you, bro.”
I hung the phone up, dropping it next to me on the bed. Damn, I felt like hell. Staying up all night painting can be worse than drinking, at least in terms of hangover. I’d finally passed out around six that morning—according to the clock it was only nine now. Used to be I’d pop something to wake me up, but I’d stayed clean through prison and I planned to keep it that way, so no joy for me.
Justin started howling again. I grabbed the phone, resigned.
“How the fuck did you break into my phone?” I demanded.
“Guessed the password, dumbass,” Puck said. “Know you too well—you can’t hide shit from me. Got a reason for calling, though, so don’t fucking hang up on me like a butt-hurt teen girl this time, ’kay?”
“You got thirty seconds.”
“We’re having the meet in an hour—all three clubs,” he told me, his voice growing serious.
“Thought that was this afternoon.”
“They changed it. Something came up. Guess Boonie needs to head out early, so we’re talking at ten.”
“Fucking great,” I said, rubbing my eyes. Shit, I was tired. “I’ll see you then.”
Hanging up, I dropped the phone back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The water stains overlapped each other in circular patterns and I had a feeling things might get damp in here once the weather turned. Not that I gave a shit—the garage below made a perfect studio, and that’s all I cared about.
The Biebs burst out singing again, polluting my airspace. I should really kill Puck, I decided. Community service.
“What now?” I asked, answering.
“Just thought you’d like to hear the song again.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
• • •
Once I was awake, the ride out to the Armory wasn’t so bad—fresh air felt good. This was the first big club gathering since I’d gotten out. They’d thrown me a party when I got home, of course, but we’d kept it small. Seemed safer that way, given the drama with Puck down south.
Today we had representatives from the Devil’s Jacks, the Reapers, and the Silver Bastards. Between our clubs we could claim most of Idaho, Montana, Oregon, and Washington. I wasn’t aware of any urgent business, but I’d been out of the loop for a while now.
The Armory was crawling with people, although how the hell they were all up so early after the party last night, I had no fuckin’ idea. I backed my bike into line and walked toward the main door. Standing outside was a group of Silver Bastards, including Puck. He looked ridiculously healthy and well rested. So far as I knew he hadn’t partied at all last night—guy was still fucked in the head over what’d gone down with that girl in Cali.
Couldn’t blame him for that . . . ugly shit.
These last couple weeks since we’d gotten home, I’d missed him, especially at night. Kinda messed up, but it’d been just me and him for the past year. We’d kept each other safe, standing guard, watching each other’s backs. Surviving. That kind of brotherhood doesn’t just end once your time is served.
“How goes it?” I asked, walking up to him.
“Nonstop thrills and excitement,” he replied, his voice dry. “Got
a new driver’s license yesterday. Had to wait forever and the bitch next to me wouldn’t shut up. Still the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since we got home, so maybe we need to explore our options.”
“Callup’s a great little town to settle down in,” I told him, smirking. “You’ll get used to hitting the sack at seven every night, I swear. Of course, you could just go back to Montana. Love havin’ you around and all that shit, but if you’re not happy there, why stay?”
He shrugged. “Feels like I have unfinished business.”
“Yeah, but that business is jailbait, so you might as well get over it. Unless it’s true love, of course,” I said, taunting him. “True love is worth any sacrifice, right? Up to and including your balls?”
“Fuck off,” he said, punching my shoulder. I punched him back, but it didn’t go any further. Much as I loved sparring with him, now wasn’t the time.
“Good to see you again,” said Boonie, the Silver Bastards’ president. “Puck’s been tellin’ us everything you did for him inside.”
“Went both ways,” I admitted. “Woulda been a lot worse in there without him. Just glad we both came through alive.”
“Well, we appreciated it.”
“He’s a good brother.”
I glanced over to see BB lumbering toward us. The big prospect should’ve been a full member by now, but he’d dropped out for a while when his mom was dying. Cancer.
“Prez says it’s time to go in,” he told us. “They’re ready to start. Up in the game room.”
We all shuffled inside, passing through the main room, which served as a lounge, bar, and general hangout space. It filled the front half of the bottom floor, with a kitchen in the rear on the left, offices in the center, and a workshop that mirrored the main room on the backside.
The place wasn’t in half-bad shape, considering how big the party had been. There were empties tucked here and there, and a bra that’d gotten caught on the light hanging over the pool table. I saw a few girls wandering around, cleaning shit up. Didn’t recognize any of them, which wasn’t a huge surprise. I still wasn’t fully integrated back into the life of the club, and none of them gave off old-lady vibes. Then I spotted the one who’d blown me last night. She offered a little wave. I gave her a nod but didn’t make eye contact—no reason to encourage her.