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)
“So when he took off for California he left me his car—it was just supposed to be for a couple days. Then he got arrested, he told Reese I could keep using it. I wrote to thank him, and I guess it just went from there,” I said. “Painter’s letters were so sweet, even though I only met him a couple times before they locked him up. He didn’t even treat me like a girl, not really. But he was so . . . protective. I felt stupid writing to him to begin with, but when he kept writing back I felt special. Then one day—right before they let him out—I got this letter from him saying it was weird I didn’t have a boyfriend, and that maybe I should be dating more. I felt like I’d gotten kicked in the stomach. I think I’d managed to fool myself about how big my crush on him was.”
“I tried to warn her,” Jessica said mournfully. “She didn’t listen.”
“They never do,” Kit replied, her voice full of sad wisdom. “I swear, if people would just follow my instructions they’d all be a hell of a lot happier.”
I glanced at Em, who rolled her eyes.
“Might as well spill the rest,” Jess ordered. I sighed.
“Okay, so after that I never heard from him again—he didn’t call when he got back to town. Nothing. Then we moved in here last weekend and Reese showed up with some of the club guys to help us . . .”
The words trailed off as I remembered. It’d been so humiliating. Reese and Loni had pulled up with this big truck, and right behind them was Painter, riding his motorcycle, along with a couple other bikers, younger guys not much older than me. I watched—mesmerized—as he carefully backed his Harley into place then swung one broad leg over his seat, looking up to catch my eye.
He was more beautiful than I remembered.
Bigger, too. I guess he’d spent some of that time in jail lifting weights. His hair had grown out some. When I’d first met him, it’d been short and spiky and bleached so blond it hurt. It still wasn’t long, but it wasn’t bleached bright white anymore and it was shaggy. Natural. His cheekbones were sharp, his features chiseled and harder than I remembered, and there was something scary in his pale blue eyes.
He wasn’t looking at me—he was looking through me. Up to that point I’d held out hope that he was just busy or something. How stupid was that?
“All he said was ‘hey,’” I told the girls. “Like I was a stranger, and it was obvious he didn’t want to talk. Just nodded his head when I thanked him and walked away. He helped move our shit, but I swear, he was friendlier to Jessica than he was to me.”
That part particularly hurt, because I knew their secret. Jessica and Painter had slept together. Or fooled around. Whatever. She’d never given me all the details, but I knew her lips had been in contact with his dick at one point, back before she pulled her shit together and settled down.
“Mellie, that didn’t mean anything,” my best friend said softly. “You know he’s not interested in me.”
“In you?” Kit asked, her voice sharp. “I thought the issue was between him and Melanie?”
My mouth snapped shut, because it wasn’t my story to tell.
“I used to be wilder,” Jess said, taking a deep breath. “Last year I got drunk and went out to the Armory for a party. I fucked around with Painter and another guy named Banks. Then London showed up and dragged me out and a lot of other shit happened.”
“Wow,” Em said, eyes wide. “He must not like you very much, Jessica. He never sleeps with the girls he actually likes.”
I gaped as Kit leaned over and smacked her head.
“That’s a shitty thing to say,” she snapped. My chest felt tight—Jess had enough on her plate, she didn’t need to hear stuff like that.
“Hey, it’s not my fault he has a Madonna-whore complex,” Em protested.
“Shut the fuck up!” Kit hissed. “Jesus, Em, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“It’s okay,” Jess said, flapping her hand at them. “I’m so sorry, but just the thought of the whole thing is so ridiculous. Believe me—I could give two shits if Painter likes me or not. It’s just . . . he doesn’t fuck girls he likes? What the hell is wrong with him?”
“How much time do you have?” Em asked seriously. “It could take a while to break it all down.”
I held up a hand.
“Do I get a vote?”
“No,” Kit said. “Em, give her the short and dirty.”
“I spent more than a year chasing after Painter,” Em said. “He was into me—everyone said he was. But the club always came first, and it’s like he expected me to be some kind of perfect, precious angel while he fucked around with his club whores. Finally I got sick of it and ran off with Hunter.”