Reaper's Fall

by Joanna Wylde

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “You beat Aaron up,” I said softly. “You really hurt him.”

  “You could’ve gone to jail as his accomplice. He deserved it.”

  “You didn’t know that when you attacked him—that was about you being jealous. That’s fucked up, Painter.”

  “Probably,” he admitted. “And I was pissed at you last night, too, but I got over it. It’s true I lost my shit, but it’s also true that I don’t do it very often.”

  “You could go back to jail.”

  “You could get stabbed by a crazy guy in the ER.”

  Pulling away, I frowned up at him. “That’s different. I’m doing something that helps people, remember? You’re . . . running drugs or something. I don’t even know what you do—you won’t tell me.”

  His face grew serious.

  “Mel, I’m not going to lie to you about who I am,” he said slowly. “I don’t always follow the law, and when my brothers need me, I’m gonna take their backs. But I’m an artist—that’s what I do for a living. I’m not running guns, I’m not selling drugs. I paint fucking pictures, and then I sell them to rich assholes so they can brag about my ‘primitive art’ at their cocktail parties. I’ll take their money with a smile, pay my club dues, and then I’ll always come home to you and Izzy. I love you.”

  I closed my eyes, tasting the words. We’d known each other so long, been through so much. He’d always been there, even when he wasn’t. My life had revolved around Painter for six years, from little girl crush to need to hatred to . . . this.

  “I love you, too,” I admitted slowly, opening my eyes to take him in.

  He cocked his head, studying my face.

  “Usually people don’t look so unhappy when they say that for the first time,” he said.

  “Usually people get to sleep at some point, but it’s been twenty-four hours,” I replied quietly. “Like I said, I’m too tired to fight, so might as well lay it all out there.”

  “Does that mean you’ll tell me this was all some kind of sleep-deprived hallucination at some point?”

  I considered the question, then shook my head.

  “No, I’ve loved you for a long time. I tried to move on, but I can’t. Still kind of pisses me off, because there’s all kinds of things I don’t like about you . . . but it is what it is.”

  “Some guys would be offended by a declaration like that,” Painter said. “But I think I’m gonna count this as a win.”

  I gave him a smile, then pulled away, looking around the room. There were cans of paint everywhere, big and small. All different colors.

  “Where did this all come from?” I asked, waving my hand toward the mess.

  “Oh, I picked them up here and there,” he said, shrugging. “Been planning the mural for a while. Last night I was pissed off, and when I get pissed I usually fight or paint. I already did enough fighting this week.”

  “How did you figure out that I was working?”

  “Jessica,” he said. “I called her.”

  That surprised me. “Jessica hates you.”

  “I know,” he said. “She didn’t want to talk to me at first. I may have threatened her a little bit.”

  My eyes widened. “Did you hurt her?”

  He gave a low laugh, shaking his head.

  “Not that kind of threat.”

  “What kind of threat?” I asked, eyes wide.

  “I threatened to call someone,” he said. “Maybe send him some pictures, that’s all. You don’t want to know—trust me.”

  “Is this about all those years ago, when you and Jess—”

  “No,” he said firmly, cutting me off. “It’s nothing to worry about. Just let it go—when she’s ready to tell you, she will. Or not. Either way, I used it against her last night, and I don’t regret that at all. I was still pissed with you, by the way—but after a few hours of painting I got over it, and then I was just relieved you weren’t with another guy.”

  I studied his face, taking in the high cheekbones, his crystal blue eyes, and pale skin. “We’re really lucky Izzy got my skin. You never tan.”

  He laughed again. “You’re punch-drunk.”

  I shrugged, then sat down suddenly. Okay, “sat” was probably a stretch—it was more like my legs gave out, but with a controlled landing. Painter lowered himself next to me.

  Looking at the cans of paint, I saw a small red one not far away and grabbed it.

  “Do you remember that night you taught me how to paint ladybugs?”

  “Vividly. One of the best nights of my life.”

  “Do you think I could paint one on Izzy’s wall?”

  Painter stared at me, assessing. “You know, with anyone else I’d say yes, but I’m kind of scared you’ll give her nightmares. Zombie mutant ladybugs or something. Maybe if we did it together?”

  I frowned, but he had a point.

  “Okay, show me.”

  “Sure,” he said, glancing around. There was a pile of smaller brushes near the wall. He leaned over on his knees to grab one, then sat back down. Prying off the lid, he opened the can and handed me the brush.

  “Let me find something for you to practice on.”

  I dipped the brush into the paint, letting the bright red drip slowly from the bristles back into the can. So much had happened over the years together—hard to wrap my head around all of it.

  “I’d do it again, you know,” I said suddenly. Painter glanced at me, a question in his eyes.

  “All of it,” I clarified. “I’d do it all over again. Us. I can’t imagine life without Izzy. Having her made me stronger—I don’t think I’d have gotten this far if it wasn’t for her. It was worth it, even all the fighting with you.”

  Painter smiled, then shook his head. “You would’ve accomplished all kinds of things, no matter what.”

  I raised the brush, studying the color. He was right about the ladybugs—if I tried to paint something on the wall, I’d give Izzy all kinds of nightmares. Biting my lip, I studied his face. Then I leaned over and drew a bright red line down the length of his nose.

  Painter blinked.

  “Why the hell did you just do that?”

  “You painted me,” I said. “Remember? You practiced on me all those years ago. Now I think you should let me practice on you.”

  Heat flared in his eyes, and then he dropped his hands to the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it up and over his head.

  “All yours, babe.”

  Biting back a laugh, I dipped my brush again and drew a circle around first one nipple, then the other. I followed this with a broad semicircle across his stomach.

  “Look, it’s a smiley face.”

  He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop me when I dipped the brush again, this time painting a line down the length of his arm. I loved his arms—they were strong, roped with thick muscle. If I had to fall in love with an asshole, at least he was a hot asshole.

  “Glad you think I’m hot,” Painter said, and I blinked.

  “I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.”

  He leaned forward and kissed me slowly. Oh, that was nice . . . I kissed him back and he caught me by the waist, dragging me over to straddle his body. I deepened the kiss, savoring his taste. How had I ever convinced myself I could live without this? Then Painter was pulling my scrub top up and over my head. Reaching around behind my back, I unhooked my bra without letting his lips go, launching myself back into him with enough force to push him over backward with a thump.

  We both burst out laughing, which didn’t stop him from grabbing my scrub bottoms and shoving them down, too. I kicked them free, sitting up and reaching for his fly. He scrambled to help me, and then his cock sprang out, hard and ready to go.

  This was what I wanted.

  What’d been missing, all along. Painter. Admitting it was a relief. Lowering my head, I licked the edge of his dickhead, then let my tongue trail down his length.

  “Jesus, that feels good,” he
muttered. “But if—”

  I shot a quick glare at him. “Less talk. If you don’t talk, you can’t say something stupid and fuck this up.”

  “Gotcha.” He shut his mouth so I opened mine, sucking him down as I started pumping his cock with my hand. His head dropped back and he draped one arm over his eyes, groaning. His other hand burrowed into my hair, guiding me as I moved more quickly.

  Eventually it wasn’t enough—I wanted him inside. Not that I didn’t enjoy the foreplay, but right now I needed to ride him fast and hard. Sliding up his body, my knee hit something and it fell over with a thud.

  “Shit,” I said, realizing I’d knocked over the can of red paint. “Oh shit!”

  I pushed off him as he tried to sit up, which set us off-balance. Grabbing for his shoulder, I missed, and then I fell over sideways, right into the bright red pool.

  Painter started laughing.

  I tried to push up again, but the tarp was slippery as hell and my hands slid out from under me. Painter laughed harder, so I scooped up as much paint as I could, throwing it toward his face.

  It hit with a wet smacking sound.

  Now I was the one laughing as he tried to wipe it away. Scooping up more, I flung it at him again, hitting his chest. He lunged for me and I shrieked, scuttling backward through the mess. Then he was on me, and we were wrestling. He was stronger, but I was slippery as hell and his pants were wrapped around his knees, hobbling him. I kept swiping at the paint and trying to rub it on his face, until finally he caught me, rolling me under him for a deep kiss.

  Unfortunately, not even a kiss from someone that sexy is enough to overcome the taste of paint. On the other hand, his dick was still hard, and if I had to choose between kissing or fucking, the kisses weren’t my first choice. I reached down, grabbing for it. I wanted him inside me . . .

  Shit.

  Even his cock was covered in latex, and not the pregnancy-preventing kind.

  “Condom,” I managed to gasp. “Do you have one?”

  “Yeah, in my wallet,” he said, reaching for a rag. He wiped off his hand, then fished the wallet out of his back pocket. Pulling out a condom, he tossed the leather wallet across the room, presumably to save it from the paint. I watched anxiously as he rolled the rubber down over his erection, thinking back to the night before.

  “We forgot to use a condom again last night,” I pointed out. “I don’t think it’s the right time of my cycle to get pregnant, but . . .”

  Painter looked at me, his eyes fierce.

  “If you’re knocked up again, we’re getting married.”

  My jaw dropped.

  “You’d marry me just because I was pregnant?”

  He shook his head, giving me what I think was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but looked more like a zombie leer, given the red smeared across his face.

  “No, we’re getting married anyway,” he said. “But if you’re knocked up, we should probably do it while you can still fit into a wedding dress.”

  “Holy shit.”

  He shrugged, then pushed me back down, centering himself between my legs. I gasped as he pushed in, savoring the stretch even as I realized we’d have to take it easier this time—I was still sore.

  “Careful,” I warned. “You look like a vampire, did you know that? The paint on your face is like blood.”

  “This whole place looks like a crime scene,” he said, winking at me.

  “Oh, God. What a metaphor for our relationship.”

  He laughed. “We’d better take a shower together just as soon as we finish up here. No help for it.”

  “I think we can make that happen,” I replied, wrapping my arms and legs around him. He twisted his hips, grinding into me slowly, and I sighed.

  This was good. Really good. Too bad we’d destroyed Izzy’s room to get here . . .

  “You think this tarp will be enough to protect the carpet?”

  He pulled back, then thrust into me again, hard.

  “Absolutely not,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll probably have to pull it up and replace it. Totally worth the effort, no question. Now less talk and more fucking. Please?”

  “You got it,” I whispered, closing my eyes and letting the sensation take me.

  I wasn’t quite ready to marry him—not yet. I wanted to be sure we could go more than a week without trying to kill each other . . . But this had potential. Not only that, I’d never have to go on a blind date again.

  Forgiving him was probably worth it, just for that alone.

  PAINTER

  I tiptoed out into the living room wearing only my briefs, because my jeans were soaked through. The paint was still smeared across my body, too, but I’d managed to wipe off my feet. Now I was on a mission to find paper towels.

  That’s when the door opened and Isabella ran in, followed by Reese and London.

  All three froze.

  “What did you do?” London asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. I frowned—a little paint never killed anyone. Izzy screamed and started to cry. London gathered her up, staring at me in horror.

  “Where is she?” Reese asked, his voice grim.

  “Mel? She’s in the bedroom. I was just getting some towels to start cleaning up the mess. We’ll probably have to pull out the carpet, though.”

  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Reese said. “Loni, get that kid out of here.”

  I frowned, then caught a glimpse of my arm . . . dripping red.

  “Wait!” I said. “This is paint, not blood. What the hell did you think, that I killed her?”

  London nodded slowly, and I realized she was serious.

  “No,” I told them, outraged. “I love Melanie—I’d never hurt her.”

  “Given how you treated her the other night . . .”

  “No, no fuckin’ way,” I replied, raising my voice. “She might kill me, but I’d never kill her. Mel, get out here. Izzy’s home and she needs to see that you’re okay.”

  “Just a sec,” she shouted back, and I saw Loni visibly relax. Then Mel walked into the living room, wrapped tight in a bathrobe. Her feet had been rinsed off, but the rest of her was still covered in red. It was even matted into her hair. I winced—we probably should’ve at least moved to a cleaner part of the tarp.

  “Hi,” she said, offering a feeble smile. Reese sighed heavily, then looked at Izzy.

  “Let’s go get some ice cream. I think Mommy and Daddy need a little more time.”

  Mel nodded, and I thought she blushed. Hard to tell, given the situation. “That’s probably a good idea.”

  “Yup, we definitely need ice cream. Maybe a nice breakfast mimosa,” London announced. “We’ll be back in an hour. That should give you two enough time to get cleaned up. I want to . . . never see anything like this again.”

  Then she turned and walked out the door, Izzy gaping at us over her shoulder. Reese sighed again.

  “Have fun, kids,” he said, following her.

  Mel giggled again, and I shook my head. They were gonna crucify me out at the clubhouse for this one.

  Guess I should just be glad he hadn’t started snapping pictures.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  OCTOBER

  MELANIE

  “You look adorable,” Duck said, kneeling down next to Isabella. She was dressed up like a princess, of course, and the little purse she carried was already stuffed full of candy.

  We were out at the Armory for their annual family Halloween party. Later it would turn into their annual grown-up Halloween party, and I had a feeling the costumes would be getting significantly skimpier. For now, though, we were surrounded by crowds of cute kids going slowly insane as they ate their weight in processed sugar.

  “I’m a biker princess,” Izzy said proudly. “Just like on my wall. Daddy helped me paint it.”

  “Well, here you go, princess,” Duck said, pulling a dollar out of his pocket and handing it to her. He glanced at me and shrugged. “Uncle Duck didn’t remember to buy candy.”

&nbs
p; “There doesn’t appear to be a shortage,” I said dryly, looking around the courtyard. The air was crisp, but it was one of those perfect October afternoons—sunny, with the smell of fall filling the air. Rows of tables were full of food, and they’d already started the bonfire. I couldn’t help but notice there were a disproportionate number of little bikers wearing their own MC cuts. Painter came up behind me, sliding a hand around my waist as he kissed the back of my neck.

  “You hittin’ on my girl?” he asked Duck. The old man shrugged.

  “Maybe,” he replied. “But I can’t decide which one. Mel’s pretty, but this little princess of yours will probably be even prettier once she grows up.”

  “If you wait for me, I’ll marry you,” Izzy told him gravely. “But only if you let me bring my unicorns to live at your house. And I’m having an operation later this week, so you should bring me Popsicles, too. Daddy said I can have as many as I want.”

  Duck shot me a glance. Tonsils, I mouthed. He pretended to consider her offer, then nodded.

  “We got a deal,” he said, offering her his hand for a shake. “I’ll start buildin’ you a unicorn stable right away.”

  “Hey, Melanie!” London shouted. I looked up to find her waving at me from the food tables. She was in her element, bossing everyone around as she got the meal ready. “Can you give me a hand? I need someone to cut the pies.”

  “Sure,” I yelled back, then looked down at Izzy. “You keep an eye on Daddy for me, okay? Make sure he makes good choices.”

  Painter nipped the back of my neck. Smacking him, I headed over to London, who handed me a knife.

  “Is this for Painter or the pie?” I asked.

  “I haven’t forgiven him yet. Could go either way,” she said, winking. “Cut each one into eight pieces, except the big ones from Costco. We can get twelve out of those.”

  I started in on the pies, noting that one of them was huckleberry—I wonder who’d brought that? I needed to make friends with them ASAP.

  “Can you hand me that towel?” someone asked. I looked up to find a girl with skin just a little darker than mine and a head full of springy black ringlets. “I wanted to wipe off this casserole dish.”