by Joanna Wylde
“You didn’t signal when you were passing the white minivan,” she said.
No fucking way. I’d signaled . . . Was the bitch messing with me? Her face was serious, blank. I didn’t get that hostile vibe that I got from so many male cops, though. Probably a legit stop. Still, this was gonna complicate things if they ever made me as a suspect in the Hands situation.
But what were the odds of that? The only ones who knew were my Reaper brothers, and if the Nighthawks found out, the cops would be the least of my worries.
“I don’t doubt what you’re saying, but I’m pretty sure I used the signal,” I said, giving her a nice smile as I handed over my paperwork. “Maybe there’s a problem with the bike.”
She smiled back—nice. Took the bait. Might talk my way out of this one yet . . .
“It’s possible. Would you like me to look while you test the lights?”
“That’d be great,” I told her. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” she said, stepping back. I turned on the bike and flipped the signal.
“It’s on.”
“No good,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s not working. I need to run your license and registration. Please stay seated on the bike with your hands on the handlebars while you wait.”
Fucking hell—must’ve blown a fuse. I watched the occasional car fly by while she ran the license, wondering if I’d get a ticket. Took a good ten minutes before she came back, her expression cooler this time.
“Mr. Brooks, it says you’re under supervision,” she said. “Is your parole officer aware that you’re out of state?”
“Yes,” I lied. If anyone called Torres, he’d confirm it. Of course, his payoff would have to go up—cost of doing business.
“I’m going to let you off with a warning. But I don’t want you riding farther tonight without lights.”
“Has to be a fuse,” I told her. “I’ve got some extras. If it’s all right with you, I can probably swap it out pretty fast.”
“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll hold a light for you.”
Sure enough, the fuse had blown. Changing it out was easy enough, and ten minutes later I was on my way home again.
Back to Melanie.
MELANIE
The first light of dawn had filtered through the windows when I woke up. It took me a minute to figure out where I was—Painter’s bed. It smelled good. Like him. I smiled, rolling to the side as I stretched.
Reese had given me a ride last night, along with Kit, Em, Jess, and London. He’d been pissy as hell, although it was clear I wasn’t his target. Neither was Loni—he’d taken one look at her boobs in that wet shirt and all was forgiven. (Dancer was a genius.) He’d given me a ride to Painter’s place, unlocking it for me and making sure I was safe and settled before moving on to Jessica’s stop.
My clothes were soaked, so I’d changed into one of Painter’s shirts to sleep in. Because I’m a creeper, I’d grabbed a dirty one he’d had hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It smelled like him, which made me feel all warm and safe.
At least, that was my drunken logic last night.
Now I noticed that there were greasy, black streaks on my arms. They were all over the bed, too, and my stomach tightened into a knot.
Maybe the dirty shirt had been hanging up so it wouldn’t touch anything else . . . oopsie.
The bedroom door opened and I looked up to find Painter watching me. Crap, he had nasty bruises under both his eyes, and his nose looked a little off-kilter. Had he gotten in a fight?
“Are you okay?” I asked, forgetting about the greasy mess as I stood to walk over to him. He pulled me into his arms roughly and then his mouth covered mine, tongue plunging deep. It wasn’t a sweet, gentle kiss. Not at all—this was a branding, a reminder that even when we were apart I still belonged to him. Then his hands were on my ass and my legs were wrapping around his waist. He turned, shoving me into the wall as his hips ground into mine.
I’d never been so turned on so fast—clearly my body recognized him and wanted to make him welcome. Good thing, too, because he pulled his hips back just enough to loosen his fly, and then he was shoving deep inside, so hard and fast that it hovered between pleasure and pain. Then he bottomed out and I gasped, clutching at his shoulders for balance.
“Jesus, Mel,” he gasped, pulling his head back. “I like seein’ you in my place, wearing my shirt.”
I opened my mouth to apologize for the mess on the bed, but he swiveled his hips, grinding deep inside me and I forgot all about it. His hips swiveled again, pushing his pelvic bone hard against my clit, and I moaned. Oh God. How could a girl be expected to think under these circumstances?
After an eternity and no time at all, Painter started deepening his strokes, reaching new places inside me. Tension built, faster and harder than it ever had before. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was aware of the birds singing outside, of the smell of coffee, and the fact that I was a greasy mess from his shirt and soon he would be, too.
None of that mattered, though.
All that mattered was the fact that I was close—so close—to shattering into a million pieces. I caught the back of his head, pulling his mouth down to mine for another kiss. His tongue plunged deep again and my entire body clenched tight, hovering right on the edge.
Then he pulled back before filling me again, followed by a hard grind that threw me right over the edge. I stiffened and shuddered as waves of explosive release crashed through me.
Painter ripped out of me and then I felt the hot spurt of his come hitting my thighs.
We stayed that way for a minute, trying to catch our breath. Then he turned and carried me over to the mattress, lowering me down and covering me with his body. My legs still wrapped around his waist as he looked down, touching my cheek softly with one finger. Then he raised it, showing off a streak of dirty black.
“Mel?”
“Yeah?”
“Any particular reason you’re covered in motor oil?”
I bit my lip, offering a soft smile.
“Bachelorette party,” I whispered softly. “They really grease up those strippers, you know? Any particular reason you’ve got big, nasty bruises all over your face?”
“Bachelorette party,” he whispered back. “I get real pissy when I see my girl’s hand on another guy’s dick. So pissy I walked into a wall.”
“You know I didn’t touch that guy on purpose, right?” I asked. “I mean, he was really nasty.”
“Glad to hear it,” Painter growled, then kissed me hard. I forgot all about the strippers.
• • •
An hour later, I’d come two more times, once from him going down on me and once when he fucked me from behind, fingering my clit.
Now we were cuddled up together, bodies naked and covered in black oil streaks that didn’t seem to bother him a bit, so I decided I wouldn’t let them bother me, either. I traced my finger through the marks on his chest, seeing that one side had been darkened by a bruise.
“How was your trip?” I asked. He frowned.
“I can’t talk about club business, Mel.”
I rolled my eyes. “Like I care about the details? I just wanted to know how you’re doing and whether things went well, despite these marks all over you. You know, because I care?”
His face softened.
“Sorry. I guess it went okay, but it still sucked because I wasn’t here with you. The bruises are from a stupid little fight, didn’t mean a thing, so don’t worry about it. I did get pulled over by a cop in Washington, though. Turn signal wasn’t working right.”
“That’s no good,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Was it an expensive ticket?”
“Yes and no,” he said, leaning over to kiss my neck. “I got off with a warning—just a popped fuse and I was able to fix it right on the spot. But technically it’s a parole violation. I’ve got an understanding with my PO, but he’ll probably have to ding me just to cover his own ass. Maybe a few days in the county j
ail. No big deal.”
His tongue flicked out, tracing my collarbone, but I pushed him back—we needed to talk about this jail business.
“How can he just lock you up again?”
Painter sighed, then rolled off me to look at the ceiling. I turned on my side, watching him carefully.
“The judge ordered up to thirty days of discretionary jail time in case I get out of line,” he said, his voice careful. “My PO can use it whenever he wants. But they can’t send me back to prison without a parole board hearing. Jail’s just a smack on the wrist.”
I stared at him, stunned.
“You think going to jail is a wrist slap?”
“Compared to finishing out my term? It’s nothing. I still got two years of my prison sentence left, Mel.”
The words hit me like a blow.
“Two years?” I whispered. “They could send you back for two years?”
“Babe, I could get murdered by ninjas, too,” he said with a laugh. “Doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. The club has a lot of influence with the probation department here in town—my conditions are seriously loose. I’m not supposed to leave the state, but it’s up to the PO when or how I get punished for that. We’ve got him in our pockets. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”
I stared at him, wondering what was going on in that head of his, because none of this was making sense to me.
“So the only thing standing between you and prison is one guy? What if you piss him off? Is it really worth the risk to be traveling when you’ve got that hanging over your head?”
He winced, reaching up to rub his chin. There was one hell of a scruff developing there and for an instant I felt my attention wander. I wanted to touch it. Maybe rub my face against it . . . Suck it up, Mel. This isn’t playtime.
“This is all new to me,” he said, reaching up with one hand to cup my cheek. “I’ve never really worried about risking myself before.”
“You never worried about going to jail?”
“Prison. Jail is for sentences under a year, prison is for longer-term shit.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I snapped. “If you don’t want to talk for real, then don’t talk. But don’t play word games with me.”
“Okay, you want the truth? I’ve been in and out of juvie, jail, and prison since I was twelve years old. It is what it is—you play the game, sometimes you go down. Until then, I’m not going to let my whole fuckin’ life be about sucking up to the parole board.”
I sat up, glaring at him. “Are you for real? You don’t care about sucking up to stay out of prison? Painter, you’re smart and you’re fun and you’re one hell of an artist, so why are you living like this if you don’t need to? Out of habit?”
He sat up, too, glaring right back at me.
“You have no right to an opinion. This is my life and I’m gonna do what I have to do, for my club. Just ’cause I love you doesn’t mean you have a vote. Me and my brothers vote. Old ladies listen and do what they’re told.”
We blinked at each other, his words falling between us like charged grenades. So many things in that sentence. I couldn’t decide whether I was pissed or . . .
“You love me?” I asked slowly, cocking my head.
“Yeah, I do,” he said, still glaring. “You’re all I think about and you’re in my bed—that’s not like me, Mel. I don’t do shit like this. I’m gonna talk to Picnic about you, bring it up with the club. I want you to be my old lady.”
I couldn’t think of what to say—he’d caught me utterly off guard—so I spat out the first thing that came to my mind.
“But I’m not old.”
Painter gave a reluctant smile, reaching over to cup my breast, tweaking my nipple in the process. I gasped as his hand slid lower between my legs.
“You’re not always a lady, either,” he whispered, moving in on me. “But you’re mine. That’s all that matters, okay? Let me worry about the rest.”
Then he was on top of me again and my brain shut off.
I never even noticed how he ducked the prison questions. That’s how good he was.
PAINTER
I pulled up to the Armory just before six that night. Pic had called everyone in for a meeting to discuss the Hallies Falls situation and get an update on Hands. Pulling out my cell, I dropped it onto the counter before heading into the chapel. All the brothers were there, even Duck. He’d been having trouble with his joints—Ruger’d told me quietly that they were concerned he might not be able to ride much longer.
He’d always be a brother regardless, but once a man stopped riding he usually didn’t last very long.
“Grab a seat,” Pic said, nodding toward a spot in the center they’d left open for me. Usually I tried to hang back, but seeing as Pic called the meeting to discuss what’d happened over the weekend, I expected to do a lot of talking. “So, Painter’s got a full report for us—let’s start with the Nighthawks and then move on to the other issue. All yours, brother. Welcome home.”
I gave him a chin lift, then launched into my story.
“Gage is making good progress,” I told them. “Marsh—that’s the president—has a sister he’s fucked in the head over. I don’t know what their relationship is all about, but it’s weird. Anyway, the sister—Talia—is fucking around with Gage, which got us an invite to a party there.”
“What’s this Talia like?” Horse asked.
“She’s a total bitch,” I told him. “But she’s hotter than hell. Gage doesn’t like her, but at least he can bang her without a bag over her head.”
Duck gave a knowing laugh. “He’s always gone for the wild ones.”
“Yeah, well I don’t think he’s going for this one, not more than he has to. On a more serious note, though, things aren’t good in that club. They’re split down the middle between Marsh’s people and the older brothers—the ones who came in before Marsh took over. I got the impression Marsh was scoping us out, like he had work for us.”
Horse and Ruger shared a look, and I saw surprised faces all around the table.
“Oh, it gets worse,” I continued. “Their prospects are a fuckin’ joke. They’re bringing them in fast. Met one kid who doesn’t even own a bike yet.”
“Goddamn it,” Duck grunted. “We can’t let it stand.”
Hard to argue with that.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But we want to be careful about the timing—can’t let the whole network fall apart when we cut off the head.”
“Fair enough,” Pic said, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his arms, his face growing more serious. “So now that we’ve covered that, let’s talk about the real issue. Tell everyone about the snitch.”
“It was a guy called Hands,” I said. Bolt sat up abruptly as our eyes met across the table.
“Same Hands who set up Bolt?” Ruger asked, his voice cold.
“Yup,” I said, my voice grim. “At least according to Gage. That shit went down while I was gone. We spotted him at the party. I managed to knock him out in what looked like an accident, and then I helped one of the prospects haul him home. He never laid eyes on Gage, so no chance he tipped off Marsh.”
“You should’ve called me,” Bolt said, his voice cold.
“Gage said we couldn’t risk a call, not when we planned to take him out,” I said bluntly. I didn’t mention the part about Bolt losing his shit.
“You think they suspect you set him up?” Pic asked. I shook my head.
“No way—it looked like one of their prospects tripped me. Not only that, I’ve got a witness that he was safe and sound asleep when I left him. Don’t think it’ll be a problem. Anyway, we went back after the party and picked him up, then I drove him over to Bellingham in a rig Gage managed to scam up somewhere. They questioned him there.”
Bolt narrowed his eyes.
“Rollins?” he asked.
“Rollins,” I confirmed. Bolt smiled slowly, a smile so dark I could hardly hold his gaze.
“Bet that was ugly.”
“Yeah,” I told him. “It was real bad. I’m sorry we couldn’t call you, brother, but I promise you this—we took care of him for you. Hands wouldn’t talk at first. Guess he was still holding out hope he might get out alive so long as he protected the information. After a few hours I took a break to grab some sleep. Eventually he broke, and they woke me up so I could hear what he had to say for himself.”
“And?”
“Well, he’s been feeding the feds information about clubs in the region,” I said. “Apparently that’s not new information, but this is. He’s working with Marsh.”
“Marsh knows what he’s doing?”
“Think so,” I said. “Not sure how much Marsh trusts him, but he knows that Hands is a snitch. Real question is whether Marsh is using him or he’s using Marsh. Or was using Marsh . . . Rollins finished him off not long after that.”
Pic nodded thoughtfully. “Rance taking care of the mess?”
“He’s got it covered,” I said. “They gave me a ride back to Hallies Falls so I could pick up my bike, and then I started back home. Speaking of, I had a little complication.”
“What’s that?” Pic asked, frowning.
“Fuse blew out on my turn signal and I got pulled over,” I admitted. They all stared at me, then Ruger gave a little snort. Horse laughed outright, and I saw smiles all around the table. Cocksuckers.
“You get a ticket?” Picnic asked.
“No, just a warning. She even held a flashlight for me whi—”
“She?” Duck asked, smirking. “So in the last twenty-four hours, you kidnapped and helped murder a guy, crossed the state twice . . . and you got pulled over for not using a turn signal by a girl cop? Christ, Painter. Only you.”
I flipped him off.
“So she gave me a warning—I’ll have to share that with Torres at my next appointment, I guess.”
“For the best,” Picnic said, frowning. “He’ll probably throw you in jail a couple days for being out of state, but if word filters back that you left Idaho and he didn’t do anything, they’ll start looking at him. We can’t afford that kind of attention.”