“I’m sorry, Reese,” she replied, lowering her head and biting her lip. “I guess I just lost control. I’ll have to talk to my counselor about it . . .”

That was enough to set us both off laughing, which really wasn’t very nice because Reese was a good guy—not only was he batshit crazy about Loni, he treated both me and Jess like his own daughters.

“I have a secret for you, too,” I admitted as our giggles finally died down.

“What’s that?”

“Loni totally thought he had it coming, too. I overheard her telling Reese that if you hadn’t taken out the windshield, she would’ve. He got pissed, too.”

“Really?” Jess asked, obviously surprised. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, he said that if she needs windows broken, she should talk to him. He’ll send a prospect to do it for her, because he doesn’t want her getting cut. Then they started kissing again and I snuck off before all the PDA made me barf.”

Her mouth dropped.

“He’s a seriously good guy,” she said quietly. I nodded, thankful that things felt right between us again.

“I’m sorry I asked you.”

“I know.”

She gave me a sad smile, and there were secrets in her eyes I still wondered about. There was a connection there, between what’d happened to her and Painter going to jail. I’d written to him, asking what he wanted me to do with his car. He’d told me to hold on to it, and sent a funny cartoon sketch of himself studying a tray of prison food, looking confused and disgusted.

Tilting my head up, I stared at the ceiling, contemplating the situation. Were we ever really friends at all?

“Jess, I know everyone says the Reapers do some seriously fucked-up shit,” I said softly. “Do you think the rumors are true? I mean, if Reese is such a good guy . . .”

Jessica sighed heavily.

“The rumors are true, Mel,” she said, her voice bleak. “Whatever shit you think they’re doing, it’s worse. Way worse. Trust me on that one.”

I blinked rapidly, wondering why the hell my eyes were suddenly watering, because I’d been through way too much in my life to cry over a boy.

No, not a boy. Painter Brooks was definitely a man. Jess reached for the remote, turning on the TV we’d gotten as a housewarming present from Loni, along with three big bags of groceries. Some stupid reality show came on, and after a few minutes I remembered that I needed a Fudgsicle so I went into the kitchen to hunt one down.

Shitty to be me, because Jess had already eaten the last one. I grabbed a Greek yogurt instead, then settled in to watch a bunch of spoiled rich women arguing over whose life was the hardest.

Ha. Maybe I should fix one of them up with my dad—now that would be reality TV.

CHAPTER FIVE

PAINTER

I didn’t bother driving back out to the party.

Taz needed his ass kicked and I had the feeling I wouldn’t be able to stop myself if I saw his fucking face. That wouldn’t be good—the Devil’s Jacks might be our allies at this point, but the history between the two clubs wasn’t pretty. Pic still “joked” about killing Hunter, his daughter’s old man, all the time. Last thing he needed was me throwing gas on the fire.

So here I was, alone on a Friday night, balls blue as a Smurf’s butt despite the fact that I’d gotten sucked off earlier, before Mel showed up. Now that I’d seen her—felt her against me—I couldn’t deny reality. She was different. Special. Just touching her felt better than fucking anyone else, and I didn’t want to settle. Felt like the real thing.

But sooner or later this little infatuation would pass.

I knew that about myself. I’d thought Em was the woman for me. Then I’d held off too long and lost her. Thought my world was ending. It didn’t. I felt not one damned thing when I looked at her these days, despite the fact that I’d been 100 percent convinced I’d never get over her.

Whatever I felt for Mel would pass, too.

I pulled the bike into the alley behind my new place, an old carriage house that had an apartment up above and a garage down below. The rental was only about four blocks from Mel’s house, something that was a total coincidence. The fact that I’d decided to look for something downtown right after we moved her didn’t mean a thing—pure coincidence.

I opened the door and walked inside, turning on the work lights in the garage. They were strung along the ceiling on hooks, plugged into each other in one long chain. Walking upstairs, I grabbed a beer, then started back down because I was way too worked up to sleep.

Instead I walked over to the oak veneered plywood I’d been prepping, testing the surface to see how the matte medium was coming along. Dry. I’d been working on it for close to a week. Now it was finally ready, which meant I could start my first real painting since I’d gotten out. Between work—both legitimate in the body shop and side stuff for the club—and finding somewhere to live, I’d been too busy.

Tonight it was exactly what I needed.

I took off my club colors, grabbing my rolling mechanic’s stool and tugging it toward the workbench. My paints were waiting, along with the brushes I’d bought to replace the ones I’d lost when they locked me up. A couple of the old ladies had gone to my old apartment and boxed shit up after the arrest, but they hadn’t known how to pack the brushes. These ones weren’t nearly as good, but they were the best I could swing for now and I didn’t want to wait any longer.