Reapers and Bastards: A Reapers MC Anthology - Wylde Joanna - Страница 26
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“No, that’s all right, I’ll take it,” he said, so we carried the dishes into the kitchen together. He stood and watched while I loaded the dishwasher. Every time I passed him, I caught his scent. Leather and something strange . . . like paint thinner.
“Is Painter your real name?” I asked, avoiding his eyes.
“Nope, my real name is Levi Brooks,” he said. “But I like to paint, and most guys in the club use a road name, so there you have it.”
“Like, paint houses?”
He laughed. “No, pictures. I’m into art.”
That surprised me. It must’ve shown on my face, because he gave another low chuckle. “Let me guess, you assumed bikers aren’t sophisticated enough to appreciate art?”
I coughed, looking away. I’d be damned if I’d answer.
“You’re cute when you blush,” he said, reaching over to catch a lock of my hair, tugging on it gently. He called me cute! My heart stopped for an instant, and it was hard to follow the rest of his words. “And yeah, I like art. I do a lot of the custom work down at the body shop. All the gold on my Harley is my own, too. Sometimes I do bigger projects. Usually painting on boards for customers who want portraits of their bikes, believe it or not.”
“Wow,” I said. God, he was so out of my league—hot and talented.
“What about you?” he asked. “What do you do?”
“Well, right now I’m waiting tables,” I told him, wishing I had a more interesting job. “But I’m starting school in the fall, at North Idaho College. And once I get all my prerequisites done, I’m going to study nursing. I like taking care of people.”
“Yeah, I can see that. You’re friends with Jessica, right? London’s niece?”
I nodded.
“You take care of her a lot?” I shrugged, because I took care of her all the time, but he didn’t need to know that. At least, I’d taken care of her until she’d run off to California to live with her mom. She’d been super pissed at London for dragging her out of a party at the Reapers clubhouse, which was my fault in a way.
I was the one who ratted her out.
I’d heard a lot of rumors about those parties, about how wild they were. How a girl could get into trouble. Looking at Painter, I believed those rumors, too—if he crooked his finger at me, I’d come running like a shot.
The thought caught me off guard, and I frowned. Since when did I come running for a guy?
“You okay?” Painter asked.
“Sure,” I said, although I was feeling more than a little off balance. Not physically, but mentally, because in the past two days I’d gone from being afraid of bikers to really, really liking this particular one.
How many girls did he have waiting for him, back at that clubhouse of his?
I looked up to find him staring at me, his face thoughtful.
“Let’s go see what Puck found for movies,” he said. “And Mel?”
“Yeah?”
“Things aren’t okay, but they will be. You can get through this.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, and to my disgust I felt hot tears filling my eyes. I hated crying, hated the kind of girls who cried. Hated looking and feeling weak, but Painter just pulled me into his arms, holding me tight as sobs started shaking my body.
I missed my mom really bad, and I was scared.
He rubbed my back, whispering softly into my ear, although I had no idea what he was saying. All I knew was that for the first time in forever—maybe years—I felt safe.
________
An hour later, that whole “safe” thing had passed.
I was sitting in the living room, huddled in a blanket on the couch as I watched a scarred and twisted man carrying a chain saw creep up behind an innocent young woman.
He was going to kill her.
I knew this because I’d already watched him kill at least ten other people with his horrible weapon, and the movie wasn’t even halfway over yet.
Why the hell hadn’t I gone upstairs when I had a chance?
Now I couldn’t, of course. Not alone in the darkness of the stairwell—not even if I turned on every light in the damned place. My mind could tell me there wasn’t anyone lying in wait to murder me all it wanted, but my gut knew better—the instant I stuck my feet outside the blanket, they’d get cut off.
This sucked, because I really had to pee.
“You okay?” Painter murmured, leaning down close to me. I jumped, startled, and then he was wrapping his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer to him. The saw roared through the sound system, and I closed my eyes tight as the girl started screaming and screaming. Painter’s hand rubbed my shoulder, and he gave me a squeeze. “You want us to turn it off?”
Shaking my head, I burrowed into the warmth of his body. The saw roared again and I moaned.
“Seriously, we can turn it off,” he whispered, close enough to the side of my face that I could feel the heat of his breath, and smell the faintest hint of beer.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, wondering if I’d ever sleep again. I hated horror movies. Hated them. Jessica made fun of me for it all the time, but I’d be damned if I’d admit how scared I was. Not to Painter.
“Okay, then,” he said, and I felt something brush my hair. His hand?
“Good news,” Puck announced, sounding almost cheerful. He was sitting in a chair across the room, watching us with something like humor in his eyes. “This is a whole series. We can do a marathon.”
I moaned again, wondering if I could just roll up into a ball and die, right here.
It would be better than spending the night watching blood spurt. Would it ever end?
________
I woke up in bed, fully clothed under the bedding.
Staring at the ceiling, I blinked, trying to figure out how I’d gotten here. There had been the never-ending, hateful movie marathon. Painter holding me, which was significantly less hateful. London coming home, talking to him in the kitchen and then locking herself in the bedroom.
Had I fallen asleep next to Painter on the couch?
Maybe he carried me upstairs, tucked me in. God, how sexy was that?
Not as sexy as him crawling into bed next to you . . .
A wave of heat spread through me. What would it feel like to sleep with him? Or maybe we wouldn’t sleep at all, just spend the night—
Stop it, I told myself firmly. Stop it right now. If he wanted to make a move, he could’ve. He didn’t. Get over yourself, already.
________
“Mel, how much longer until I can put you on the schedule again?” asked Kirstie, sounding impatient. She was my manager at the restaurant and I was talking to her on my new phone. She’d been horrified to hear about the explosion and so far hadn’t complained about all the time off, but that wouldn’t last forever. Either I needed to move somewhere I could walk to work, or I needed a car.
At least I could make calls again.
The phone was a gift from Reese. He’d tossed it casually across the table at me over breakfast on Sunday morning, not long after I’d dragged my chainsaw-traumatized ass downstairs. Puck was sitting at the breakfast table, and I looked around, hoping to see Painter.
No such luck.
After we finished eating, I tried to pin Loni down again, but she didn’t want to talk. Neither did Reese. Everyone just seemed to think I should sit quietly in the corner and stay out of their way—but how was I supposed to rebuild my life stuck in a corner?
There was a reality disconnect here, and it felt like I was the only person who could see it.
I spent Sunday sulking, and by Monday—yet another day alone in the house—I was on the edge of losing it. London came home in the late afternoon and started fixing dinner, even more distracted and out of focus than she’d been before. I tried to help her, but I just kept getting in her way so eventually I went upstairs.
By myself.
Again.
I was laying on the bed, reading an old science fiction book I’d found in the closet. It wasn’t really my thing, but seeing as this was my fourth straight day of doing jack shit, I’d decided to expand my horizons.
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