Reaper's Fall

by Joanna Wylde

  They’d dragged him down into this.

  Them and their “club business.”

  We stood awkwardly with the rest of the visitors, ranging from other young mothers with kids to people in their fifties and sixties. A few of the women could’ve passed for hookers—for all I knew, they were.

  Do prostitutes visit their pimps in jail?

  That was a dark thought, but darker still, how many women were forced into prostitution to support their kids once their fathers were locked up? I looked down at Izzy, sleeping peacefully in my arms, and knew I’d do anything to take care of her. Anything at all.

  A door at the far end of the room opened, and then men wearing orange jumpsuits started walking in. A little boy next to me shouted “Daddy!” as he tore off toward a scary-looking Hispanic guy covered in gang tattoos. He smiled, swinging the boy up in his arms, holding him tight as he kissed his hair.

  Then Painter came in.

  My breath caught, a thousand different emotions fighting for control. Anger. Love. Hurt . . . Some detached part of me noted that he looked better than ever, although his face was harder than ever. His hair had grown out, hanging down to his shoulders loosely. Pale blue eyes searched for us, dropping instantly to the precious bundle of life in my arms.

  He stopped walking, then swallowed.

  “C’mon,” Puck said, reaching down to touch my elbow, urging me forward. I stepped toward Painter, our eyes locked on each other. Then I was standing in front of him, tense and uncomfortable. Puck wasn’t with me, I realized. He’d stepped back, offering what privacy he could under the circumstances.

  “Hey,” I said softly.

  “Hey,” Painter replied. “Thank you for coming.”

  This was even harder than I’d imagined.

  “I wanted you to meet her,” I told him, feeling uncertain. “You should know your daughter.”

  He looked down, taking in the tiny, sleeping face. She’d been born with a head full of pale blonde fuzz. I’d put a little white headband on her with a flower on it—it matched her sundress, a gift from Loni.

  “Can . . . can I hold her?” he asked softly.

  “Sure.”

  He put his arms out and I handed her over carefully, catching my breath when our skin touched. It was still there, the awareness between us. Intense and electric. Izzy startled, her little hands lifting up as her eyes opened.

  Pale blue, just like his.

  They stared at each other, father and daughter, and something inside my chest broke. He reached a finger toward her and little Isabella grabbed it tight, making a soft, gurgling noise.

  “She’s perfect,” he whispered, and even though we were surrounded by people it felt like we were the only ones in the room. Just me, him, and our daughter . . .

  “Do you want to sit down with her?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I looked around, finding an open table. “Let’s go over there.”

  Painter walked over slowly and carefully, holding Izzy like she was made of spun glass. He seemed to be whispering to her, and any doubts I’d had that he’d love her disappeared. He’d already fallen for her—fallen for her just as hard and fast as I had the first time I saw her in the NICU.

  “Em sent me pictures,” he said, once we were settled at a table. “She told me about when she was born, too. It sounds like you did an amazing job.”

  “I tried. The C-section was rough—I really wanted to do it all natural, you know? They say that’s better for the baby. But I just couldn’t. I tried and tried, but she wasn’t coming.”

  He looked up at me, eyes intense.

  “She’s perfect,” he said again, emphasizing the word. “You did everything right, Mel. They told me about all you went through, fighting for her. I can’t imagine anyone ever doing better.”

  Blinking rapidly, I fought back the tears prickling at my eyes.

  “I wish you could’ve been there,” I whispered.

  “I wish I could have, too.”

  Izzy gave a little squawk. His eyes flew back to her, widening in something like panic. She raised her arms, stretching them high as she yawned. Then her eyes narrowed as her nose scrunched. I knew that look.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he asked quickly, his voice almost panicky.

  “She might have gas,” I said. “Or she could be pooping. Just give her a minute.”

  Izzy didn’t need a minute, though. A series of loud, wet, squelching noises exploded outward. Painter’s face twisted, a combination of shock and horror—like he half expected her head to spin around or something. He looked back at me.

  “What do we do?”

  I laughed—couldn’t help myself.

  “Just give it a couple minutes,” I told him. “Make sure she’s done. Then I’ll go change her.”

  PAINTER

  Melanie’s ass twitched as she walked away with Isabella. My daughter—how unreal was that? I could see the differences in Mel’s body since the pregnancy—she’d filled out. Her boobs were bigger, too. A lot bigger. I’d missed her so fucking much since I’d gotten locked up. This was different than it’d been before. Worse. Not that spending time in a cell is ever good, but knowing I was missing out on something so amazing—so important—turned it into pure torture.

  And this time I didn’t even have letters from her to get me through.

  I hoped it wouldn’t take long to change Izzy. We had only a limited time for visitation, and I didn’t want to waste any of it. God only knew when—or if—she’d ever make it down again. Christ, I loved the kid more than I ever thought was possible, and now I might not see her again for months.

  “How’s it going?” Puck asked, his voice low as he eased into the seat across from me. I shrugged.

  “Well, aside from the fact that I’m in prison and I missed the first five months of my kid’s life, it’s fuckin’ great. How are things on your end?”

  Puck gave a slow smile. “Better than yours. I’ve been keepin’ an eye on her for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I fucked up bad this time, bro. Real bad.”

  He nodded. “Yup.”

  I bit back a laugh, leaning forward over my legs.

  “Love how you always try to make me feel better.”

  Puck cocked a brow. “Like you want me blowin’ smoke up your ass?”

  “Fair enough. How was the trip down?”

  “Good,” he said. “Weird, traveling with a baby, but she was good. Cried a little bit during takeoff. Mel had to nurse her on the plane. Think that made her a little uncomfortable.”

  Frowning, I gave him a hard look. “You check out her tits?”

  “Yeah, because I’ve got a milk fetish,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re a sick motherfucker, you know that?”

  That made me laugh again, and he joined me.

  “So you keepin’ safe in here without me?” he finally asked.

  “It’s tougher this time,” I admitted. “But I got Pipes at my back. This shit goin’ down in Hallies Falls has him worried and a lot of the alliances have fallen apart. We lean on each other a bit. And of course there’s Fester . . . He was real happy to have me back.”

  Puck snorted. “How is the Prince of Perverts?”

  “You’ll be shocked to hear he’s still a disgusting little twat,” I said. “But get this—they’ve started a new art program. I’m helping teach it, and he’s one of my students. He’s not half bad, so long as you keep him focused. A little more interested in anatomy than I’d like. Sort of obsessed with how muscles and joints come together . . . and what they look like ripped apart.”

  “Have fun with that,” he replied, smirking. I flipped him off and we both sat back, staring at each other. There was a whole lot more I could say, but what would be the point? Nothing ever changed on the inside. “Not gonna lie—glad I’m not in here with you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Got some updates for you,” he said quietly. “I know you heard some of this, but figured I’
d fill you in on the rest. They tell you Marsh was carrying a shitload of meth?”

  “Yeah, Pic mentioned it, back up in Coeur d’Alene,” I said.

  “Well he finally pled out. Between stabbing the cop and the drugs he was carrying, he’s going away for at least three years. Maybe more, depending on his behavior—guy’s not exactly known for holding his shit together under pressure.”

  “That’s good news. And the rest of them?”

  “They locked up two others. Talia’s in the wind, nobody knows where. Marsh is pissed—he’s blaming you for what went down, not that it matters.”

  “Good riddance.”

  “Yeah. Gage is still in Hallies Falls. Helping those who are still left rebuild. Those who are worth keeping, that is . . . There’s been some talk of them patching over as Reapers.”

  “Might be for the best,” I said, thinking of Cord and the other brothers who’d been so unhappy under Marsh. “Pipes has filled me in some, but his intel is limited. We’re too far away to stay in touch, you know?”

  Puck nodded.

  “Well, I got good news, too,” he said. “Pic wanted me to go over it with you, actually. They still have your work hanging in the custom shop, and that guy who talked to you about painting his bike has been in a couple more times. Apparently he’s friends with an art dealer, and he showed him some pictures of your work. They’re interested in doing a gallery show.”

  “Huh,” I said, not quite sure what to do with that information. Puck cocked his head.

  “Thought you’d be more excited.”

  “I am. I mean, I think I am. But I’m not quite sure how it would work . . . Don’t have very many pieces, and it’s not like I can do more from inside. And he knows I’m locked up—I wrote to him already, telling him I’d have to pass on the commission.”

  Puck coughed. “This is where it gets weird. I guess you being in prison—you know, hardened felon, motorcycle club, and all that shit—makes you more interesting. Guy says the dealer got off on it, called you dangerous.”

  I snorted.

  “This crap for real?”

  “Apparently. He wants to come see you. Pic got in his face, said we’d reach out to you first. Doesn’t want you treated like some kind of sideshow freak, you know? But it could be money—Mel’s not exactly rolling in it. You start pulling money in, that’ll make a big difference.”

  “Do it,” I said shortly.

  “Do what?” Mel asked, coming up to us. Izzy was wide awake and alert, and she’d been changed into fresh clothes.

  “There’s a guy who wants to put on an art show with some of my work,” I told her. Her eyes widened.

  “That’s great news.”

  “Maybe. I’m not gonna get too excited until we see how it plays out. Can I hold Izzy again?”

  “Sure,” she said. I reached out for the baby, the back of my hand brushing the lower side of her boob. Her eyes flew to mine, and she blinked rapidly. Tears? No, not quite, but her eyes were red and definitely sad. I pulled Izzy close, leaning down to take in her soft, baby smell.

  It hit me that after today, I might never experience that smell again. Christ. This was so much worse than I’d ever imagined life could get . . . felt like my guts were being ripped out, every second with her precious and perfect and speeding faster than should be possible.

  “Puck, can you give us a minute?” I asked him. He nodded, ambling toward the vending machines. Melanie sat down across the table. I’d been hoping she’d sit next to me, but no luck.

  “I already apologized in my letters,” I started. She held up a hand.

  “This is hard enough without listening to your justifications,” she said, her voice carefully blank. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I’m going to be a good daddy.”

  “You can’t be,” she replied harshly. “You’re not there and you won’t be for another year and a half.”

  Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to stay calm.

  “I realize that,” I said slowly. “But once I get back, that’s going to change.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “No, I mean it. I’m going to be there for both of you. I promise.”

  She looked at me steadily, then glanced around the room. Other families sat at tables, other fathers holding their kids, playing games with them or coloring. Reading stories together.

  “How many of them have made those same promises?” she asked, her voice sad. Fuck.

  “Words can’t fix this—I get that. But once I’m out, you’ll see for yourself. I’m going to take care of you and Izzy.”

  She looked away for long minutes. The baby gurgled again, then stretched her little body, kicking out with her legs. Then Izzy smiled at me and the whole world disappeared.

  Yeah, sounds stupid, but it’s the fuckin’ truth.

  “I’ll take care of you,” I whispered, leaning down to kiss her soft cheek. “I promise. Your mama doesn’t believe me yet, but I’ll show her. I’ll show both of you. Daddy’s here, baby girl.”

  “For now,” Melanie muttered. I didn’t say anything—after all, what the hell could I say?

  She was right.

  MELANIE

  Izzy started crying when we finally pulled away from the prison. The visit had been four hours long, but it felt like forty minutes. That’s how fast it was over. I couldn’t blame her for it either—I felt like crying, too.

  “She doing okay?” Puck asked, one big hand draped over the top of the steering wheel.

  “Fine,” I said. “Although she’ll probably want to eat soon.”

  “I’m hungry, too. We can pull off and grab something on the way back to the hotel. Unless you want to do something while we’re down here? Got some time to kill this afternoon.”

  “What, like go sightseeing?”

  “If you want.”

  I considered the idea, but the thought of doing touristy things with Painter’s best friend and a newborn didn’t exactly strike me as fun. “No, let’s just go to the hotel. Izzy could use a nap and I’d like some space.”

  “You got it.”

  He turned on the radio and we settled in for the drive. The look on Painter’s face as we left haunted me. I wanted to hate him for what he’d done, but the pain he’d suffered when he handed Izzy back to me was real.

  He loved her.

  I wasn’t sure that he would—he didn’t want kids. He’d chosen prison over our daughter. Not that he’d sat down and checked a box marked “prison” instead of “fatherhood” on a test, but he’d known damned well that his parole officer was out for blood when he left the state.

  But he truly loved Izzy. I’d seen it.

  “I’m going to start sending him pictures,” I told Puck abruptly. He shot me a quick glance, then nodded.

  “He’d probably like that.”

  And that was it.

  I liked Puck, I decided. He was big and scary, with a nasty scar across his face and all the social skills of an ax murderer, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

  “Thanks. Thanks for bringing us down here.”

  He glanced toward me again.

  “Anytime, Mel. Anytime.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  COEUR D’ALENE

  IZZY’S SECOND BIRTHDAY PARTY

  MELANIE

  “Cake?” Izzy asked, her voice hopeful. I looked at the pyramid of brightly frosted pink cupcakes with little princess cutouts on them and sighed.

  London and Jessica seemed determined to bury me in a mountain of pink, something my daughter was all too happy to encourage. Not only were the cupcakes pink, the plastic tablecloth, the cups, the plates, the napkins, and the balloons were all pink, too. Specifically, the kind of neon pink that almost makes your eyes bleed, with princesses and unicorns, because God is cruel.

  Even worse was the disturbingly poofy dress Painter had given her. Okay, so even I had to admit it was cute, a little tutu thing with a bright tulle skirt attached to a lightweight cotton one-piece.
It even had “Princess” written across the front in silver sparkles. Would’ve been cuter if it hadn’t been so damned pink, though. Sometimes it felt like an Easter bunny had barfed all over my life, because everything was pastel and pretty.

  Thus are the joys of having a daughter.

  In the distance I heard the roar of Harley engines and looked up to see Painter and Reese Hayes pulling around the corner to the parking lot. The sound was enough to break through Izzy’s cupcake-induced trance, something I wouldn’t have bet was even possible.

  “Daddy!” she shrieked, taking off across the lawn toward them. It was a gorgeous day for a birthday party in the park—would’ve been perfect if he weren’t coming. But I also knew how much he was looking forward to sharing a birthday with her.

  Too bad it meant I couldn’t relax and enjoy the party like I wanted to. Asshole. Ever since he’d gotten back, he’d been nice. Too nice. It felt like a game, a show he was putting on to prove that he’d really changed and I should forgive him. This was fine and dandy, but ultimately it meant jack shit because Painter still danced on the wrong side of the law, and we both knew it. I couldn’t afford to get used to having him around, or depend on him. It’d destroy me if—no, when—the next crisis hit. Izzy couldn’t afford for me to be broken.

  Just because he wasn’t in prison right now didn’t mean there wasn’t a cell in his future.

  “You ready for this?” Jessica asked, coming up next to me. She knew exactly how I felt about the situation—I couldn’t exactly talk to Loni about the Reapers, but Jess was a different story.

  “Yup,” I said, pasting a happy smile on my face. “It’s gonna be great. A blast. Too much fun.”

  “You’re overdoing it,” she replied, bumping my shoulder with hers. “Just try to relax. It’ll be over in a few hours and then you’ll be back home again with Izzy.”

  I closed my eyes, fighting off a wave of panic.

  “No, I won’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Painter is taking her for a sleepover tonight,” I said, feeling my smile solidify into something that couldn’t have been pretty. “He’s been wanting to for a couple months, so I set him a series of conditions. He met them. I never expected him to meet them.”