Reaper's Fall

“I can’t talk about club business, Mel.”

I rolled my eyes. “Like I care about the details? I just wanted to know how you’re doing and whether things went well, despite these marks all over you. You know, because I care?”

His face softened.

“Sorry. I guess it went okay, but it still sucked because I wasn’t here with you. The bruises are from a stupid little fight, didn’t mean a thing, so don’t worry about it. I did get pulled over by a cop in Washington, though. Turn signal wasn’t working right.”

“That’s no good,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Was it an expensive ticket?”

“Yes and no,” he said, leaning over to kiss my neck. “I got off with a warning—just a popped fuse and I was able to fix it right on the spot. But technically it’s a parole violation. I’ve got an understanding with my PO, but he’ll probably have to ding me just to cover his own ass. Maybe a few days in the county jail. No big deal.”

His tongue flicked out, tracing my collarbone, but I pushed him back—we needed to talk about this jail business.

“How can he just lock you up again?”

Painter sighed, then rolled off me to look at the ceiling. I turned on my side, watching him carefully.

“The judge ordered up to thirty days of discretionary jail time in case I get out of line,” he said, his voice careful. “My PO can use it whenever he wants. But they can’t send me back to prison without a parole board hearing. Jail’s just a smack on the wrist.”

I stared at him, stunned.

“You think going to jail is a wrist slap?”

“Compared to finishing out my term? It’s nothing. I still got two years of my prison sentence left, Mel.”

The words hit me like a blow.

“Two years?” I whispered. “They could send you back for two years?”

“Babe, I could get murdered by ninjas, too,” he said with a laugh. “Doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. The club has a lot of influence with the probation department here in town—my conditions are seriously loose. I’m not supposed to leave the state, but it’s up to the PO when or how I get punished for that. We’ve got him in our pockets. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”

I stared at him, wondering what was going on in that head of his, because none of this was making sense to me.

“So the only thing standing between you and prison is one guy? What if you piss him off? Is it really worth the risk to be traveling when you’ve got that hanging over your head?”

He winced, reaching up to rub his chin. There was one hell of a scruff developing there and for an instant I felt my attention wander. I wanted to touch it. Maybe rub my face against it . . . Suck it up, Mel. This isn’t playtime.

“This is all new to me,” he said, reaching up with one hand to cup my cheek. “I’ve never really worried about risking myself before.”

“You never worried about going to jail?”

“Prison. Jail is for sentences under a year, prison is for longer-term shit.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I snapped. “If you don’t want to talk for real, then don’t talk. But don’t play word games with me.”

“Okay, you want the truth? I’ve been in and out of juvie, jail, and prison since I was twelve years old. It is what it is—you play the game, sometimes you go down. Until then, I’m not going to let my whole fuckin’ life be about sucking up to the parole board.”

I sat up, glaring at him. “Are you for real? You don’t care about sucking up to stay out of prison? Painter, you’re smart and you’re fun and you’re one hell of an artist, so why are you living like this if you don’t need to? Out of habit?”

He sat up, too, glaring right back at me.

“You have no right to an opinion. This is my life and I’m gonna do what I have to do, for my club. Just ’cause I love you doesn’t mean you have a vote. Me and my brothers vote. Old ladies listen and do what they’re told.”

We blinked at each other, his words falling between us like charged grenades. So many things in that sentence. I couldn’t decide whether I was pissed or . . .

“You love me?” I asked slowly, cocking my head.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, still glaring. “You’re all I think about and you’re in my bed—that’s not like me, Mel. I don’t do shit like this. I’m gonna talk to Picnic about you, bring it up with the club. I want you to be my old lady.”

I couldn’t think of what to say—he’d caught me utterly off guard—so I spat out the first thing that came to my mind.

“But I’m not old.”

Painter gave a reluctant smile, reaching over to cup my breast, tweaking my nipple in the process. I gasped as his hand slid lower between my legs.

“You’re not always a lady, either,” he whispered, moving in on me. “But you’re mine. That’s all that matters, okay? Let me worry about the rest.”

Then he was on top of me again and my brain shut off.

I never even noticed how he ducked the prison questions. That’s how good he was.

PAINTER

I pulled up to the Armory just before six that night. Pic had called everyone in for a meeting to discuss the Hallies Falls situation and get an update on Hands. Pulling out my cell, I dropped it onto the counter before heading into the chapel. All the brothers were there, even Duck. He’d been having trouble with his joints—Ruger’d told me quietly that they were concerned he might not be able to ride much longer.