Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
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.