by Joanna Wylde
“No big.” I shrugged.
“Any questions for Painter?” Pic asked the table at large.
“Was the cop hot?” Horse asked, smirking at me. “Did she give you a full pat-down?”
“Any real questions for Painter? No? Okay, then that’s it for now, unless someone has something else to bring to the table.”
This was it, I realized. Time to talk about Mel. Fuck, they were gonna give me so much shit . . .
“I got something.”
Pic cocked a brow. “Killin’ a guy wasn’t enough for you?”
I shrugged. “It’s been a busy couple of days. Seriously, though—I want to talk about Melanie.”
Silence fell across the table. I looked over to find Duck smiling his big, shit-eating grin at me.
“So, I want her to be my old lady,” I said, watching Pic’s face. If anyone gave me trouble, it’d be him.
“You sure?” Pic asked. “She’s a nice kid, but she doesn’t really know our life. Might be better to give her a little more time first. This is happening fast.”
“But it hasn’t happened fast,” I reminded him. “I’ve known her for more than a year and we wrote letters that whole time. She’s pretty, she’s smart—the whole package. I’m taking her.”
Pic looked around, and I waited for someone to say something.
“I like her, and it’s not like it’s a huge surprise,” said Ruger. “I mean, he did loan her his car for a goddamn year. She pussy-whipped him long distance—that takes talent.”
Horse laughed, and I took a deep breath, wondering how long they were going to drag this out.
“She’ll probably be good for him,” Bolt said more seriously. “You’re smart, Painter, but you’re fuckin’ reckless. You can’t do the club any good back in prison—maybe having an old lady will motivate you to be more careful. Give you something to lose.”
He would know—he’d lost his woman, Maggs, for a while. They were back together now but it hadn’t been easy.
“It’s a good point,” Pic said. “You may see yourself as cannon fodder, but you’re not. Wouldn’t hurt if you were a little more settled. It’s fine with me.”
“Now what, a group hug?” Horse asked, rolling his eyes. “Enjoy your girl, try not to break her. I don’t think you should patch her just yet, though—give her some time to adjust. Get used to all of us. Save both of you a lot of hassle down the road.”
“He’s right,” Pic said. I frowned, not liking where this was going. “It’s probably for the best if you take it slow. Your call, but if you care about her, you’ll give her time to adjust. Any more business?”
Nobody spoke, so he raised his gavel, hitting the table with a sharp whacking noise.
“Fantastic. Let’s get out of here. Loni’s got dinner waiting at home and I’m fuckin’ starved. Not only that, Kit’s staying over at a friend’s place tonight, which means I’ll finally get some time alone with her. Girl’s hardly been home a week, but it feels like a year. Painter?”
“Yeah?” I said.
“I hope you and Mel live happily ever after and all that shit, but don’t have daughters. That goes for all of you—no more daughters in this club. I can’t handle it.”
“She ever going back to Vancouver?” Duck asked. Pic shrugged.
“Dunno,” he admitted. “She says she is, but all of her classes are online this semester. I think there’s shit going on she hasn’t told me about but I’m not gonna push her. She’s been stoppin’ by to see that cowboy a lot—the one the bull tried to kill.”
“What’s the story there?” I asked. “She into him or something?”
“Hell if I know. Doubt even she does. Whatever. At least the guy’s still alive. Now, if you don’t mind, I want out. Loni made dumplings, and if they’re cold by the time I get home I’m shooting one of you. I’ll let you decide who.”
Duck snorted, and that was that.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ONE MONTH LATER
PAINTER: Wanna meet for dinner?
MEL: Sure
PAINTER: My place—I’ll buy if you’ll cook
MEL: So you don’t want to meet for dinner so much as have me cook for you
PAINTER: No—I want to fuck you, too. See? I’m about a lot more than eating
MEL: Complicated guy!
PAINTER: Damned straight. see you at my place
MELANIE
“Painter has never dated anyone longer than a week, let alone a month,” Em said in my ear. I was standing outside his apartment, holding the phone cradled against my shoulder while digging through my purse for the key. “I think he’s really serious about you.”
“He acts serious,” I said. “He even says he loves me, but aside from that one time he’s never mentioned anything about me being his old lady or anything. And he doesn’t tell me where he’s going when he takes off on trips, just says it’s club business, like I should know what that means already.”
My fingers found something solid and pointy. Ha! I pulled my keychain out triumphantly.
“I keep forgetting how much you don’t know about club life,” Em replied, sighing. “They don’t talk about their business. Ever. It’s just the way it is, not something personal that has to do with you.”
“Never?” I asked, finding that hard to believe. “But what about you and Hunter? Do you seriously mean to tell me that he’s gone all the time and you have no idea where?”
“This is . . . a sticky thing,” she said slowly. “Let’s talk hypothetically. Women aren’t supposed to know this stuff. We’re supposed to be good old ladies and support our men and just trust that they know what they’re doing and that they have our best interests at heart. In reality, I think a lot of guys talk to their women—pretty sure my mom was in on most of the club’s business, although I don’t know about Loni. How much they share depends on the relationship and how involved she is with club life. Consider this, though—do you really want to be in a position where you’d have to testify against Painter?”
“Damn. Never thought of that.”
Clearly I’d never thought of a lot of things. Opening the door, I walked through the studio to the stairs leading upward.
“Well, keep it in mind,” she said. “Unless you’re married, they can compel your testimony. You could lie to protect him—and that’s expected of an old lady, by the way—but isn’t it better if you truly don’t know anything? That way they can’t trick you into giving him away.”
“Does it ever bother you?”
She laughed.
“Narrow it down for me—does what bother me?”
“The fact that you might have to lie to protect Hunter?”
“No,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “I’m sure it helps that I grew up in this life, but I trust that whatever Hunter does, he has a good reason for doing it. I’ve learned to trust his brothers, too, which means that when he gets a call in the night from one of them, I know it’s important. But me knowing all the details can only hurt him, and I want him safe. See how it works?”
“I trust Painter,” I said slowly. “But I’m not sure I trust his club. I’m sorry—I know we’re talking about your dad’s world here, but this is really strange to me. I keep feeling like I have to turn off a chunk of my brain to be with Painter.”
“You don’t have to turn off your brain. You just need to learn what’s actually important and how to tune out the things that aren’t.”
“Wait—you can’t tell me that your man disappearing in the night and not calling for days isn’t important.”
“Of course it’s important,” she said with a laugh. “When Hunter takes off, I worry about him. I think about him and I miss him. What I don’t do is spend too much time trying to figure out what he’s up to, because nothing good can come of it. Instead I put my energy into the things that matter. My job. Taking care of business around home. People always talk about how guys in clubs are controlling, but I pay all the bills and run our money. He doesn’t have ti
me.”
I dropped my bag on the table, then walked into Painter’s bedroom. My favorite shirt—without the motor oil this time—was laid out and waiting for me. Over the past few weeks I’d learned that me wearing his clothes was a huge turn-on for Painter. This worked, because it was a huge turn-on for me, too.
“It’s a lot to think about,” I told Em. “But I should get going—he’ll be here soon and I want to get ready.”
“Have fun,” she said with a knowing chuckle. “And stay safe. I’m not sure I could handle a little Painterling running around just yet.”
“Take it back,” I hissed. “God, can you imagine? I’m not even twenty-one yet. Getting pregnant would suck so bad.”
She didn’t respond right away, and I frowned. “Em?”
“Hey, sorry,” she said. “I just got distracted. Have a good time with Painter tonight, okay? And don’t worry about things you can’t change. The club is what it is. On the surface they sometimes don’t look that great, but over time I think you’ll come to appreciate having them behind you. Bye!”
“Bye.”
I turned on some music and then stripped down so I could wear his shirt. It was long on me—almost like a dress. Visions filled my head of cooking while he came up from behind, catching the fabric, slowly raising it . . . Oh, nice. Very nice.
The door slammed downstairs.
“Mel, you up here?”
Putting a little sway in my step, I sauntered out of the bedroom, then stopped cold. Painter was carrying a big bouquet of red roses. Like, a huge one. My eyes went wide.
“Had a good day today,” he said, grinning at me. “Guy called me—custom client from the Bay Area. He wants a full-sized portrait of his bike and he’s offered me a fuckin’ fortune to do it. But that’s not even the best part. He owns a gallery down there. Says he might be interested in doing a show of my work. I’ve been runnin’ around all afternoon buying supplies.”
“Really?” I squealed. “Oh my God, that’s incredible! I’m so happy for you.”
I rushed to hug him, nearly knocking him down in the process. The groceries and roses fell to the floor as he kissed me hard and deep.
“Bedroom?” I whispered when he finally gave me a break.
“Food,” he said, offering a rueful smile. “Today’s been crazy, and on top of everything else my phone ran out of power right after I messaged you—haven’t eaten anything since that donut I had for breakfast.”
Sighing, I stepped back because the man really did deserve a chance to eat. The roses caught my eye.
“You don’t happen to have a vase or anything, do you?” I said shyly, picking them up. Not much damage from the fall—a couple bent petals here and there . . .
“What makes you think those are for you?”
I froze. “I’m sorry—I thought that—”
He started laughing, then caught my face in his big hands. “Of course they’re for you.”
Then he gave me a soft, sweet kiss.
“I’m gonna get changed,” he said. “There’s fixings for tacos in the bag. Think I remembered everything.”
• • •
You know those rare moments in life when everything is perfect? The first half of that evening was one of those beautiful times . . . There’s no real way to describe it, because nothing special happened. We ate dinner together and then he had me come down to the studio so he could sketch me in his T-shirt and nothing else. Naturally that led to other things, and we were just getting to the good part when someone knocked on the door.
“Shit,” Painter muttered, reaching for his pants. He threw me a sheet that he used as a drop cloth and I pulled it over my half-naked body as he walked to the door. “Yeah?”
“This is Kandace Evans,” a woman’s voice rang through. “I’m your new parole officer. Please open the door.”
“I thought your parole officer was a guy,” I whispered.
Painter frowned. “He was. Be ready to call Picnic, okay? I got a bad feeling about this.”
He ran a hand through his hair, then stepped over to peer through the peephole.
“I’m opening the door,” he announced, turning the dead bolt. A tall woman with dark hair pulled back behind her head waited outside. Behind her were two cops. The look on her face wasn’t friendly.
“Levi Brooks?” she asked, looking him up and down. Painter crossed his arms over his bare chest.
“I’m Levi.”
She peered around him to look at me. “And this is?”
“Melanie Tucker. My girlfriend.”
She stepped inside, staring me down.
“What’re you hiding under the sheet?”
I coughed, looking away. “Um . . .”
“She’s naked,” Painter said bluntly. “You caught us in the middle of something. I don’t know you. Where’s Torres?”
The woman turned back to him, expressionless.
“Chris Torres is on administrative leave, pending further investigation.”
“Why?” Painter asked, frowning. This couldn’t be good news for him . . . shit. I needed to get dressed and find my phone. Call Reese. There was something seriously fucked up going on here.
“He and four others have been accused of taking bribes, including his supervisor,” she said, her voice cold. “His files have been reassigned to me. I’ve reviewed yours, and it’s very clear that he’s been giving you a pass. Where were you this morning, Mr. Brooks? Around eleven a.m.?”
“Work.”
“No, you weren’t,” she said, and I caught a hint of triumph in her voice. “I checked. And you just lied to me about it—that’s a parole violation. Your second violation, because according to your file, you were pulled over out of state without permission, yet Torres only sent you to jail for the weekend. You’ll be spending more than a few days inside this time. I still have nearly a month of discretionary detention time left and I plan to use it. Now. The officers are here to take you into custody.”
“You’re just taking him away?” I asked, stunned. “You can’t just do that—he was working, it just wasn’t down at the shop. He had to get supplies for a commission.”
“Parole is a privilege, not a right,” she replied, her voice smug and satisfied. “The Reapers have been holding themselves above the law for way too long now. Time for that to end, starting with Mr. Brooks. We’ll be searching the entire apartment as well. You’ll need to leave.”
“But . . .” I looked to Painter, feeling almost panicky.
“Call Picnic,” he said, his voice firm and reassuring. “He’ll get it all figured out. Go up and get dressed and grab your stuff. I’ve given up my right to a search without a warrant, but you haven’t.”
“I’ll send an officer with you,” the parole officer said. I narrowed my eyes at her. I didn’t like this woman. Not even a little bit.
“I’d like to see some identification first,” I said.
She strutted over to me, holding out a badge.
Kandace Evans, sure enough.
“That name looks familiar,” I said, frowning. Kandace cocked her head.
“You probably read about my brother, Nate,” she said, her voice cold. “He disappeared a little over a year ago. We don’t know what happened, but he was investigating the Reapers and then suddenly he was gone. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence? Now get your things and get out of here. Run off and tell Reese Hayes that I’ve got his boy here, and he won’t be the last Reaper to go down. Then I’d suggest you find a new boyfriend. This one’s future isn’t looking bright.”
FOUR WEEKS LATER
I ran for the bathroom, hoping rather desperately that Jessica was still sound enough asleep that she wouldn’t hear me barf. Again. Today marked the fifth time that I’d woken up puking . . .
At first I’d been in denial.
Maybe it was just stress—my boyfriend was in jail, after all. She’d dragged him off and locked him up and there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do to stop her. That kind of s
tress lowers your immune system’s ability to fight off bugs. That had to be why I was so tired out all the time and why I was having strange hormonal swings . . . and no period . . . and the throwing up . . .
Unfortunately, after a life like mine (drunk dad, missing mom—Go team!) you can’t afford denial long-term. Not if you want to survive. That’s why I’d stopped by Walgreens last night and picked up a couple pregnancy kits (two different brands, because if they carried news that would explode my life, I wanted to be damned sure). I planned to take them just as soon as I stopped puking long enough to pee.
Ten minutes later I sat leaning against the tub, staring down at the two sticks on the floor. One of them had a bright blue plus sign. The other had a picture of a baby on it, like they thought I wasn’t smart enough to read the results without illustrations.
This couldn’t be happening. I refused to accept this as my reality. True, we hadn’t always used a condom, but he’d never actually come inside me, either. I mean, what were the odds?
The sticks pointed toward me accusingly.
Okay, in my case apparently the odds were 100 percent.
“Hey, you almost done in there?” Jess shouted through the door. “I have a test this morning—I need to get showered. Not much time left.”
I ignored her because I didn’t care about her test. I didn’t care about school or friendship or anything, because I was pregnant and it was real and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it . . . except I could. I could just make this problem go away.
Nobody ever had to know.
It could be my little secret, just a quick visit to the doctor and poof! Problem solved. Running a hand over my stomach, I tried to picture a baby inside. I couldn’t feel it yet, but there was definitely a little more pooch around my tummy lately. I had a kid in there. For real. An actual, live baby inside me.
In that instant, I knew that I absolutely couldn’t kill it.
No fucking way.
“Open the door, Mel!” Jess called again.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the tub, trying to wrap my head around the situation. Okay, so I was going to have a baby. Counting down the months, I figured out that it would come this summer, after the semester finished. That was something . . . The door rattled again.