Reaper's Fall

by Joanna Wylde

  “I keep my attention focused where it needs to be focused,” he replied, reaching up to touch the side of my face. It took everything I had not to turn toward his hand, rub against him like a cat. I felt breathless, expectant . . . Hold on. Why was he touching me like this? It didn’t make sense—he’d made it damned clear he didn’t want anything more than friendship.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that,” I whispered. “We’re just friends, remember? You made that very clear last night.”

  “Friends can touch,” he whispered back. The words hung between us, teasing me. I wanted to lean over and kiss him. Crawl on top of him and grind and writhe and hump and do things I was relatively sure qualified as molestation in the fine state of Idaho. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like you want to . . .”

  He stopped talking, licking his lips as his eyes drifted to mine. He was going to kiss me. My eyes started to flutter closed. Then his phone chimed, breaking the spell.

  Painter blinked—he’d been as lost in the moment as I was.

  “I should check that,” he said. “Might be an update on Chase.”

  Chase. How could I have forgotten about Chase? A man was dying, yet all I could think about was getting laid. A man I’d gone to school with. What was wrong with me?

  I flopped back as Painter pulled out his phone, the screen obscenely bright in the darkness.

  “Group text from Em,” he said. “He’s alive. There’s about three hundred people at the vigil so far, and more showing up every minute. He’s in surgery.”

  I shivered, trying to imagine what his family was going through. How awful would it be, sitting and waiting to hear if the man you cared about was dying? How would you feel if it was Painter? The thought chilled me, and I closed my eyes, willing it to disappear.

  “You cold?” he asked. “Come here. I’ll keep you warm.”

  I wasn’t cold, and touching him was a very bad idea. Whatever this thing was between us, touching wouldn’t help. But then I imagined the warmth of his body around mine. The strength of his arms, not to mention that broad chest. I wanted it. I wanted it so bad.

  And he did make the offer . . .

  “Thanks,” I whispered, sliding toward him. Seconds later I was tucked against Painter’s side, one arm under my head. My body had turned into his, and there wasn’t an easy place to hold my arm. I shifted awkwardly, and then he was catching my hand and resting it on his chest, right next to his own.

  Our fingers weren’t touching, but they would be if I slid my pinkie over half an inch.

  Painter’s head tilted toward mine—was he smelling my hair? Oh God, I think he was. This was going to kill me. My leg shifted restlessly, because I wanted to lay it over him and straddle his thigh. I forced it to be still instead. Now what? I needed to make some conversation or something, because this was too weird and stressful.

  “So are things good, now that you’re back?” I asked. “How’s the work situation? You’d mentioned that they were holding a job for you at the body shop.”

  “It’s all good. I do the custom design there,” he said. “You know, bikes and cars and shit like that. A lot of it’s for guys in clubs, but we get RUBs in there, too—city types who play biker on the weekends, looking to dress up their rides. Also a lot of rich fuckers who want hot rods. I’ve done some paintings of motorcycles and cars that are up on the walls—people seem to like ’em. Got two guys waiting for me to do portraits of theirs. Right now I’m workin’ on something for the club, though. Sort of a happy-to-be-home-again present for the Armory.”

  “Do you ever get pissed off about what happened?” I asked.

  “At who?”

  “The club—I mean, I don’t totally understand how you ended up getting arrested down in California, but obviously it had something to do with the Reapers. Do you ever get pissed that you were put in that position?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and I wondered if I’d overstepped with my question. I’d just opened my mouth to apologize when he spoke again, answering.

  “Yes and no,” he said. “I hate the fact that something needed to be fixed and I took a hit for it. But I’m not pissed at my brothers. They did their part, I did mine. Shitty luck that I got caught, but that’s just the game, you know? Could’ve been any of us.”

  I pondered his words.

  “So you’d do it again?”

  “Well, I’d be more careful about following the speed limit,” he said, giving a low laugh. “Me and Puck only got caught because we were doing forty in a twenty-five zone. Cop pulled us over and then they found the guns. But other than that? Yeah, I’d do it again. It needed to happen, and your girl Jess wouldn’t be alive today if we hadn’t done it. You think the rest of her life was worth a year of mine?”

  Holy shit.

  “So you were down there to save her?” I asked. “I mean, I sort of suspected something, but she’s never really explained what happened. Nobody will talk about it.”

  Painter sighed.

  “I’m too comfortable around you,” he admitted. “Feels safe, but I need to watch my fuckin’ mouth. Already said too much. I regret getting caught, nothing more. It is what it is. Just hope I never have to go back.”

  “What do you mean, go back?” I asked, stiffening. “You don’t go back—they let you out. You’ve done your time.”

  He gave a laugh, and I felt his arm rise, rubbing across my back to soothe me. “No worries, babe. I’m not planning on it. But I’m on parole, remember? That means they let me out early, on the understanding that I’ll play nice and make good choices. They catch me so much as running a red light, my ass is in a cell again. That’s all.”

  I pushed against his chest, raising up to see his face. I’d never considered that he might go back inside—just the thought made me feel almost panicky.

  “You’ve got to watch yourself,” I told him, dead serious. “Is the club making you do things that might land you in prison? You don’t have to do what they say, Painter.”

  He grinned at me, rubbing my back as he shook his head.

  “Nice to know you care,” he said. “But they don’t make me do anything, Mel. I’m a big boy—I can take care of myself. It’s not like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not some little pawn for them to play with. Anything I do is by my choice. I know there’s clubs out there where men blindly follow orders and get sacrificed like chum. But the Reapers are my brothers—we stand up for each other, we vote on everything, and if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be. I’m a Reaper, too, you know. This is my world. I’m proud of this patch and I’d do anything to protect it.”

  His eyes bored into mine, cold and hard. Even the hand around my back tightened, like he was bracing for action.

  “But you’re careful, right?” I asked. Painter nodded.

  “Yeah, of course I’m careful,” he said. “But I’m also one of the younger full-patch members, and I don’t have a family or anything. When there’s shit that needs doing, I volunteer. All the brothers do, but some of us got less to lose than others.”

  I closed my eyes against the painful clenching deep inside of me, laying my head back down so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

  “You mean the guys with old ladies?” I asked, already knowing what the answer had to be.

  “Old ladies, families . . . The guys with kids do their part, no question. But I’m not gonna stand back and watch while a brother with that kind of responsibility takes risks he doesn’t need to. And a lot of the guys do work that’s important—they’d never pussy out of anything, but we can’t just replace them if something happens. Horse is a fuckin’ genius with money, and Ruger can build anything. We need those skills. It’s my job to protect the club, and part of that’s protecting the brothers who keep the club alive.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. “What about your life? Doesn’t that matter?”

  “The club is my life
, Mel.”

  Gee, brainwashed much? His hand rubbed me soothingly as he spoke, which sucked because I wanted to hit him or yell at him or at the very least give him a stern lecture, although I don’t know what it would be about. Maybe the top five reasons jail sucks?

  But I guess he already knew that a lot better than I did.

  Instead I settled into his form, forcing myself not to think about what he’d said—there were plenty of other things to focus on. The warm night air. The frogs. The way his hand felt, still rubbing up and down my back, soothing and distracting. Then his fingers caught on the bottom of my tank top, sliding it up just a couple inches until I felt his skin bare against mine. My stomach twisted.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked, feeling almost desperate.

  “Doing what?”

  “Touching me. You’re sending some seriously mixed signals for a guy who’s not interested.”

  He froze, the hand on his chest reaching to catch mine.

  “I never said I wasn’t interested,” he replied, his voice quiet with a hint of strain. “I said you deserved better.”

  “God, you’re so fucking frustrating,” I said, pushing myself up to glare at him. “You ignored me when you got out, you made me come last night, and now you’re sticking your hand up my shirt while you’re telling me I deserve better. Have you ever considered seeing a shrink? Because I think you could use one.”

  He gave a low chuckle, his hand sliding my shirt back down across the small of my back.

  “No, but earlier tonight someone else told me I should talk to a professional.”

  “Well maybe you should,” I huffed, glaring at him. “Because you’re playing games and that’s not very nice.”

  “I’ve never pretended to be nice,” he said, his voice hardening. “And I’ve never promised you anything, Mel. Remember that. Nobody made you come riding with me tonight—not like I held a gun to your head. What the fuck do you want from me?”

  “The truth,” I snapped. “Let’s start with that. What the hell do you want from me?”

  He gave a low, dark laugh.

  “We’re not going there.”

  “Oh yeah, we are,” I informed him, poking his chest with a finger. “Because I’m done playing mind games with you—we’re hashing this out, here and now. Otherwise you’re taking me home. Or I can call someone and get a ride.”

  Painter’s eyes narrowed, then his hand caught mine, holding it tight.

  “You’re not calling anyone—I’ll take you home when I’m ready. And you think you want answers? How’s this for a fucking answer. I want this.”

  He dragged my hand down his stomach toward the front of his pants. My pulse rate rose. Then he was pushing my hand down across the length of his cock, which was hard and ready. His hips lifted under my touch and his fingers squeezed around mine, gripping himself tight.

  Need wrenched through me.

  “What I want is to fuck you,” he said, his voice a harsh, intense whisper. “I want to fuck your pussy, I want to fuck your face, and I’ve given some serious thought to fucking your ass, too. I want to lock you up and play with you . . . Sometimes I think about owning you, and what I’d do if you tried to get away. Christ, you have no idea.”

  He pushed my palm down hard across the top of his erection, hips twisting under my touch. His other hand reached down to catch my butt, digging in deep. My leg went up and over him, which was perfect because it brought my clit into contact with his thigh.

  God, why were we wearing so many clothes?

  “Oh crap,” I whispered, dropping my head against his shoulder as his fingers worked down between my ass cheeks, finding the crotch of my pants. Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? Wait, fuck that. Why the hell hadn’t I worn a skirt?

  The whole time, he kept my fingers wrapped around his dick, jacking him slowly through the fabric while his fingers danced between my legs. His hands were big, strong, working me as the world started spinning. Then his hand slipped off mine, coming up to catch the back of my head, forcing me to meet his gaze.

  “Here’s the ugly truth, though,” he whispered. “I’ll want all of that—all of you—for about a week. Then I’ll get busy or bored or whatever, and I’ll stop calling you. That’s how I am, Mel. I’m the guy who doesn’t call and I don’t even regret it, because I truly don’t give a shit who I hurt. Except for some fucked-up reason, I care about you. If some guy treated you the way I dream about every night, I’d kill him. I’m not into suicide, so that means we can’t go there. Got it?”

  Our hands had stopped moving as he spoke, although his cock still pulsed under my hand. His fingers dug into my ass, holding me captive against his body even as I processed his words.

  “You’d really do that to me?”

  Painter’s mouth tightened.

  “Yeah, Mel. I’d really do that to you. We’d have a few great days, maybe a week. Then I’d get bored and dump you, because that’s who I am. But you’re the only female friend I’ve ever had and I actually give a fuck about you, so I don’t want to hurt you like that. Is that such a terrible thing?”

  My breath caught, torn between the rush of joy at hearing us called friends and utter, pissed-off disgust that he’d assume he had the power to break me. I opted to run with the angry disgust—far more empowering.

  “You know what?” I said. “I get that we don’t have a long-term romantic relationship ahead of us . . . but don’t treat me like a child. I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. If I get hurt, that’s on me, not you. You don’t have that kind of power, asshole.”

  Painter’s eyes widened, and a slow smile crept across his mouth, utterly confusing me.

  “God, you’re amazing,” he said, loosening his grip on my hair. “I need you, Mel. I need you way too much as a friend to risk it. I know I’ve done a truly shitty job trying to communicate with you about this, but if you had any idea how important you are to me . . . Christ, you’re one of the few things that kept me sane inside. Thinking about you, getting your letters. We gotta find a way, babe. We can’t do this.”

  “I hate men,” I muttered, rolling off him and onto my back, glaring at the sky. How could one guy be so evil and so sweet at the same time? Because he was sweet. I swear, my heart was melting even while I wanted to strangle him.

  I wasn’t ready to forgive him, though. Not yet.

  “And take your fucking arm out from under my head. Cuddling is for closers.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PAINTER

  The ride back to town took forever, every minute torture because Mel was wrapped tight around my body, totally fuckable and completely off-limits.

  Sometimes I wished I didn’t know myself so well. It would be easy to lie, to pretend that she’d be different from the others. But she wouldn’t be, and hating myself for who I was wouldn’t change the endgame here. If I wanted her in my life longer than a few weeks, I couldn’t fuck her. This was my reality.

  By the time we reached town, I was still utterly resolved to keep my hands off her . . . but Taz was at her place, and I didn’t trust that asshole for shit. That’s why I took her back to my apartment instead . . . and you can shut right the fuck up about that.

  I already know I’m a douche.

  • • •

  “Figured you wouldn’t want to be alone tonight,” I said, cutting the engine. Mel slowly unpeeled herself from my body, sliding off the bike. I waited for her to protest, maybe tear into me because I hadn’t taken her home. Instead she surprised me with a tentative smile. Guess she’d had enough thinking time on the ride back to get over her snit.

  “Thanks. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Jess and Taz crawling all over each other. I don’t know about him, but she’s a screamer.”

  The words fell between us like a brick, because I would know, wouldn’t I? Except I didn’t, because Jess’s mouth had been full the entire time we’d . . . Oh fuck. This wasn’t good.

  “Look—”

  “I kno
w—”

  I coughed as Mel gave a nervous laugh, looking anywhere but at me.

  “Let’s get it out there, once and for all,” I said, deciding it was inevitable. I swung my leg off the Harley and started toward the garage’s side door, reaching for my keys.

  “Get what ‘out there’?” she asked. I turned to look at her, raising a brow. It was hard to tell in the dim glow of the porch light, but I think she was embarrassed. Whatever. We had enough shit to figure out already, we didn’t need London’s niece coming between us, too.

  “You know—me and Jess. I’ll tell you what happened, because you’re obviously wondering. Didn’t she tell you the details?”

  “Um, not really,” she admitted, frowning. I opened the door, reaching for the cord next to it to turn on the lights. I found the switch and the room flooded from the six work lights I’d hung along the ceiling. “I know part of it, but I’m not sure that I want to know the rest. It’s kind of—oh, wow . . .”

  She stepped inside, looking around my studio space. Lining the walls were narrow workbenches, one side covered with motorcycle parts and the other with my art supplies. There was the mural I’d started for the Armory there, but I’d forgotten about another half-done painting I’d leaned against the wall. I’d been working on it when I got arrested. It wasn’t in the greatest condition (the girls had done their best, but they hadn’t known how to handle it), and I was trying to decide whether to toss it or not.

  Now I watched as Mel walked over to study it, eyes wide. I came up behind her and she glanced back at me.

  “You’re good.”

  I laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised. I do this shit for a living, you know.”

  She gave a rueful smile.

  “Sorry. I guess I thought you painted flames on bikes and stuff like that, but this is real art. How did you learn how to do it?”