Reaper's Fall

by Joanna Wylde

  “I want to use the restroom before we go,” I said, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut about Painter. The man wasn’t even here, yet somehow I couldn’t look at Aaron without comparing the two.

  “Sounds good. Why don’t you do that while I pay,” Aaron said, reaching over to catch my hand. “Hey, are we okay?”

  “Of course,” I said, giving him a smile that wasn’t quite real. “I’ll meet you out in the parking lot—how does that sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  He gave me a smile that I think was supposed to be seductive. My return one was significantly less so. Crap, how awkward was that? Here I was, out for the night with a perfectly decent man. Why didn’t I feel more for him?

  Pisser.

  Jessica and Sherri were going to be so disappointed by this one, I realized, because there was no way I’d be going home with Aaron Waits tonight. Hopefully things wouldn’t get too weird back at work.

  He really was a nice guy.

  Of course, the dentist had been nice, too. Ugh.

  • • •

  Callup was a picturesque little town.

  Small. Like, seriously small, with an old-fashioned main street lined with all sorts of pretty stone buildings. It looked like something out of a very old newsreel, you know, the kind where you can see a few cars, but mostly horses and there’s no sound?

  We passed through it slowly and then continued out along an old road for a couple miles before I saw a concrete-block building that’d seen better days. Parked in front of it was a long line of motorcycles along with several guys wearing leather vests. Then I saw a mural on the outside wall, one that looked suspiciously like Painter’s work. There was an image of a skull wearing a miner’s hat and the words “Silver Bastards MC.”

  No.

  Oh fuck no. This was bad—bad, badder, baddest.

  We had to get out of here, because this was Puck’s club, and he was Painter’s best friend.

  Oblivious, Aaron pulled to a stop at the far end of the gravel parking lot, well away from the line of what had to be club bikes. A guy wearing a prospect’s cut started toward us and I realized that I had about thirty seconds before my world imploded around me.

  “We have to leave,” I told Aaron, without climbing off the bike. He turned to look at me, frowning.

  “We just got here,” he said, confused.

  “No, you don’t understand,” I said, feeling almost panicky. “This is an MC clubhouse. I can’t go in there.”

  Aaron gave me a sweet, if borderline condescending, smile. “Don’t worry—I have friends here. You don’t need to be afraid. I’ll protect you.”

  “My ex is a member of the Reapers MC,” I told him. “If he finds out I’m here, there’ll be trouble.”

  He frowned. “You didn’t mention that before.”

  “It didn’t seem relevant then. Now it does. Let’s go.”

  “No,” he said, his voice hardening. “I have to meet my friend and pick something up.”

  “Then take me back into town and drop me off. I’ll wait for you.”

  “Hey,” the prospect said, coming up to us. He looked between us, and Aaron bristled. “We have a problem here?”

  “No problem,” Aaron said quickly. “I’m friends with Gunnar. My date’s just a little shy about the clubhouse. Guess she’s not used to being around bikers.”

  God, what a prick. I opened my mouth to call him on his shit, then snapped it shut again. Clearly Aaron wasn’t going to take me back to town, which meant I had to play this through. It might even work—I didn’t really know the Silver Bastards, with the exception of Puck. If I got really lucky, he wouldn’t even be here tonight.

  Or if he was, maybe I could hide in the bathroom or something . . . I’d call Painter when I got home, explain what’d happened. Not that I owed him any explanations, but all blustering aside, I really didn’t want to get into it with him over something this stupid. Not after the whole Greg debacle. The fact that I was innocent wouldn’t do a damn thing to save me if Painter got his panties in a twist.

  Aaron smiled at me tightly. Obviously he wanted me to keep my mouth shut. We’d had a good time so far, but I was starting to think that maybe Aaron wasn’t such a great guy after all. Sherri was going to hear about this.

  No more blind dates.

  “Gunnar’s inside,” the prospect said, still eyeing us. I climbed off the bike, then stood there like a good little woman while Aaron got off, too. He caught my hand, giving it what I suspect was meant to be a reassuring squeeze as we started toward the door. Several big men stood around watching us and the bikes, and I thought I recognized one of them.

  Oh, crapsicles.

  That was a Reapers prospect, and where there were Reapers prospects, there were Reapers. I looked more closely at the bikes, starting to feel just a little sick to my stomach. There was Reese’s ride, and Horse’s. Then I saw a midnight blue custom-painted masterpiece, and knew that I was completely and totally fucked.

  Painter was here.

  My feet stopped, and I tried to jerk my hand out of Aaron’s.

  “We have to go,” I hissed, eyes wide.

  “Not until I get my shit,” he said, and while I think he was trying to sound soothing, his hand tightened on mine. “If your ex was really with a club, you’d know it’s a bad idea to argue with me in front of them. Just do what I say and you’ll be fine—you’re totally overreacting here.”

  “I’m sorry, Aaron, but you have no idea what you’re talking about. He’s inside, and he can’t see me with you,” I said. “That’s his bike, right there.”

  Aaron frowned, and for the first time I thought I saw understanding in his eyes.

  “Okay, we’ll make it fast,” he said. “But I can’t leave you out here—it’s one thing if you’re with me, but no way I’d leave a date alone in a place like this. We’ll leave as soon as I find Gunnar.”

  For an instant, I considered making a break for it. Just kicking him in the shin and taking off into the trees surrounding the building, but the only thing stupider than showing up at a Silver Bastards party with a strange guy would be causing a big scene. Instead I forced myself to take several deep breaths, then followed him into the bar. Maybe I could hide in the corner, blend in somehow. God, I hoped I could.

  The place was packed.

  There were girls everywhere—girls in tiny tank tops, girls in bikini tops, and even a few without anything on their tops at all. I could still remember when my boobs were perky like that. Pre-baby, of course. Sigh. Some were carrying around trays of drinks, while others were perched on the laps of more big, burly bikers than I’d ever wanted or needed to see in my life.

  Most of them wore Silver Bastard colors, but here and there I saw Reapers patches. There was Reese, standing not far from me. As I watched in horror, a girl who had to be younger than me sidled up to him, wrapping her arm around his waist and nuzzling his chest.

  For an instant my heart froze.

  Was he cheating on London?

  Fuck fuck fuckity fuck, this was bad.

  Reese scowled, pushing the girl away roughly enough to make it clear he wasn’t interested. She must have been stoned or something, because she immediately turned to another man, doing the exact same thing to him. I didn’t recognize him, thank God.

  This was a nightmare.

  “Gunnar!” Aaron shouted, and a huge man wearing only his Silver Bastard colors turned toward us. He had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, a dark beard, and rich, sexy eyes that scanned me quickly before offering me a smile that sent a shiver down my spine.

  Oh my.

  Granted, he wasn’t as hot as Painter, but still . . . Why couldn’t Sherri set me up on a date with someone like him? The thought was ridiculous, of course, because I already had way too many bikers in my life. Aaron started walking toward him.

  Still no sign of Painter. Perhaps I’d live to date another day after all.

  I put my head down, crossing my fingers. Maybe we’d get thr
ough this all right after all . . .

  “Good to see you,” Gunnar said. “Who’s the girl?”

  Aaron put his arm around my shoulder possessively, and I could practically smell the smug he radiated. Ah, wasn’t that sweet—he was proud to have me as a date. Wasn’t that just suicidal of him. God. In the distance, I heard the sound of glass breaking, cutting through the music and conversation all around us. I glanced up, sensing danger. Then Reese’s voice rang out.

  “Hold on, son.”

  I looked at him, then followed his gaze across the room to see Painter.

  Enraged.

  He was stalking toward us, eyes full of murder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In an instant, Reese was pushing through the crowd, grabbing Painter’s arm. I focused on the gesture—Reese was trying to save me. Pulling away from Aaron, I hissed urgently, “We have to get out of here right now.”

  He was too busy watching the show, though, too stupid to realize how much danger he was in. Just like a big, dumb puppy. God, Painter was going to slaughter Aaron. He’d go back to jail, and it would all be my fault. On the bright side, I probably wouldn’t outlive my dumbass date by long, so I guess I had that going for me. Why hadn’t Aaron listened when I told him we needed to leave?

  Painter shoved Reese off, then he was in front of us before I could get out a word of explanation. I screamed when he caught the front of Aaron’s shirt, jerking him into the center of the room as his fist slammed into his face. He hit him again, and I found myself screaming even louder when Aaron fell to the ground, Painter following him down like a rabid dog, raining vengeance.

  “You asshole!” I shouted, shocked and horrified, because this was hell. It had to be. I’d fallen through a hole in the world, straight into hell, where all my worst fears were coming true. Suddenly Puck was there, dragging Painter off my date, who was moaning and whimpering on the ground.

  Puck let Painter go, and now he stood over Aaron, taking deep breaths, the effort to stop fighting almost more than he could handle.

  “Get him out of here,” he growled. “Get him out of here before I kill him.”

  “Fuck,” Horse said, grabbing Aaron under the arms. A path cleared between him and the door, and I shrieked wordlessly at Painter, angrier than I’d ever been before. What if Aaron pressed charges?

  How dare he pull this kind of shit?

  He turned on me, face full of terrible purpose as Reese stepped between us, blocking his path.

  “Not happening, son,” he said.

  “It’s none of your business,” Painter snapped. Damned right—it wasn’t anybody’s business. Stupid fucking bikers, telling people what to do. I was an adult, free to date whoever the hell I wanted. Painter needed to go straight to hell. I’d take him there, too—he might be the big, tough guy but I was a motherfucking nurse. I knew exactly how to kill a man, kill him in ways so terrible he’d be begging for death before I finished.

  “She’s the one who came here,” Painter added with a sneer. Oh, fuck him. Fuck him.

  “I didn’t even know where we were going!” I shouted. “It was just a date, you asshole!”

  “He’s a fucking biker. You broke the rules, Mel. Get your ass over here.”

  “Not happening,” Reese said, his voice like thunder. “I am not dealing with this tonight. Painter, get your ass home. Melanie, you’re with me.”

  Something dark filled the room, some sort of swirling tension I didn’t understand and didn’t care about, because I’d had just about enough of this shit. Painter and I needed to have this out once and for all. Using every bit of my strength, I shoved Reese out of the way, launching myself toward Painter.

  “What I do is none of your goddamned business!”

  Painter stared at me, a slow and terrible smile coming over his face.

  “Fuck it,” Reese said. “I’m done with both of you.”

  I felt a moment of triumph, then Painter took a step toward me, hell in his eyes.

  “I’ll give you a ride home, Mel,” he said, softly menacing. “We can talk when we get there. Privacy, you know?”

  Oh shit. I looked around frantically, but the wall of men around me didn’t break. They were all there—Ruger, Horse, Banks. Their faces were hard, and I realized in that instant that these men—men who had been so helpful toward me over the years—weren’t my friends.

  They were Painter’s brothers.

  “Fuck . . .” I whispered, suddenly terrified.

  “Maybe we’ll do that, too.”

  In an instant he caught me, throwing me over his shoulder and striding toward the door. I screamed again, my throat sore as he pushed through the crowd, carrying me through the parking lot. At first I thought we were headed for his bike, but he passed it, crossing the road instead.

  I raised my head, staring blindly at the prospects. Two of them had laid Aaron on the ground next to the building, obviously trying to figure out how seriously injured he was. A third stood and stared, something like shock on his face as Painter hauled me into the trees.

  Then we were in the woods, surrounded by darkness. His hand came down over my ass, swatting me hard before he dropped me to the ground. If he hadn’t steadied me I would’ve fallen over.

  “It’s over, Mel. It’s all over. You’re mine now.”

  Steadying myself, I smacked his chest, because two could play at that game. “You had no fucking right to hurt him—he didn’t do anything to you.”

  “He touched my woman,” Painter snarled. “I’ve held off. I’ve given you so much fucking space you could build a goddamned kingdom, but I told you what would happen if you came back to my world. So far as I’m concerned, that means you’re mine. I’m sick of this shit. C’mere.”

  With that, he grabbed me, jerking me into his body for a hard kiss that I wanted to hate, just as much as I wanted to hate him. But there was still that fire between us, one I could never quite kill. Now it was roaring to life.

  I wanted him.

  No, I needed him. Inside me. Over me. Filling me and hurting me and keeping me safe, because my body had decided I belonged to him, even if my mind thought that was complete and utter shit. One hand was tight in my hair, holding my head captive as he ravaged my mouth. The other slid down into my pants, clutching my ass so tight I knew there’d be handprints in the morning. My arms went around his neck and then Painter was lifting me, my legs wrapping around his waist.

  He was so hard.

  I remembered what his cock felt like when we’d made Isabella. How he’d claimed me and I’d felt so protected and loved, before everything fell apart and I was suddenly alone and scared. I wanted that feeling again—only Painter could give it to me. I’d tried to find someone else, but it was like he’d broken me, destroying every chance for happiness away from his touch.

  God, but I hated him for that.

  He pushed me up against a tree, grinding his hips deep into mine. It hurt. The bark dug into my back and his cock pushed against me so hard I felt every seam of my jeans, but I didn’t care. I wanted more. Digging my fingers into his back, I clawed him, because if he was going to mark me then I was damned well going to mark him, too.

  His hips grew more frantic and suddenly it wasn’t enough. I broke free, moaning. “Fuck me.”

  Backing away from the tree, he pushed me down into the dirt. Then his hands were ripping apart my fly and jerking down my jeans. They stuck. I kicked wildly, trying to get them off but it was too slow for him. Jerking me up by the waist, he turned me and shoved me down in front of him. I landed hard on my hands. Then I heard the rip of his zipper and he grabbed my hips, steadying my body as he lined up the head of his erection with the aching, empty space between my legs.

  “I am the last man you’ll ever fuck,” he growled, thrusting into me hard. His cock slammed home in one motion, stretching me as I screamed in agonized need.

  It hurt.

  I wanted more.

  I hated him.

  “Missed this,” he
groaned, jerking his hips back, only to slam into me again. His hands wrapped around my waist, holding me tight as he fucked me harder than anything I’d ever experienced. “Jesus.”

  Bracing on my hands, I thrust my ass back toward him, wondering how something this hateful could feel so good. How he could feel so good, with his big, violent hands and his caveman desire. I’d never been so turned on in my life, every thrust hitting a space deep inside that sent aching swirls of painful need shattering through my body.

  This wasn’t sex.

  It was a fight for dominance, a fight I knew I couldn’t win but I was damned if I wouldn’t try. Every time he filled me, I squeezed down, hoping to hurt him or hold him or I don’t know what. He’d groan in agonized satisfaction and then we’d do it again, over and over and over until I felt like my heart might explode.

  Suddenly his hand reached around me, finding my clit, and then I did explode.

  Exploded and died.

  My vision shattered, my pulse pounded, and every muscle in my body clenched hard, taking him with me as he shouted his own release. Hot seed spurted deep inside my body as I sagged forward into the dirt, spent. Painter collapsed on top of me, both of us gasping for air. Slowly reality came back and I felt his softening cock slide free, his come running down the inside of my legs.

  That’s when it hit me.

  We forgot the damned condom.

  Again.

  PAINTER

  Mel looked like shit.

  She was covered in dirt, her shirt was torn, and she had this lost, haunted look in her eyes. Christ. Picnic would take one look at her and assume I’d beaten her.

  He wouldn’t be that far off.

  Pic wasn’t waiting for me at the clubhouse when we got back, though. Most of the Reaper bikes were gone, and there wasn’t any sign of the fuckwad, either. The Silver Bastard prospects were smart enough to keep their mouths shut, although I saw one duck back into the clubhouse.

  Seconds later Boonie stepped out, followed by Gunnar.

  “Can I have a word?” he asked, eyes flickering to Mel.

  “Sure,” I said. “Give us a sec.”

  Mel nodded, almost like she was in shock. I suppose she probably was. Hell, I felt sort of shocked myself, so I suppose it was fair enough.