My fingers found something solid and pointy. Ha! I pulled my keychain out triumphantly.

“I keep forgetting how much you don’t know about club life,” Em replied, sighing. “They don’t talk about their business. Ever. It’s just the way it is, not something personal that has to do with you.”

“Never?” I asked, finding that hard to believe. “But what about you and Hunter? Do you seriously mean to tell me that he’s gone all the time and you have no idea where?”

“This is . . . a sticky thing,” she said slowly. “Let’s talk hypothetically. Women aren’t supposed to know this stuff. We’re supposed to be good old ladies and support our men and just trust that they know what they’re doing and that they have our best interests at heart. In reality, I think a lot of guys talk to their women—pretty sure my mom was in on most of the club’s business, although I don’t know about Loni. How much they share depends on the relationship and how involved she is with club life. Consider this, though—do you really want to be in a position where you’d have to testify against Painter?”

“Damn. Never thought of that.”

Clearly I’d never thought of a lot of things. Opening the door, I walked through the studio to the stairs leading upward.

“Well, keep it in mind,” she said. “Unless you’re married, they can compel your testimony. You could lie to protect him—and that’s expected of an old lady, by the way—but isn’t it better if you truly don’t know anything? That way they can’t trick you into giving him away.”

“Does it ever bother you?”

She laughed.

“Narrow it down for me—does what bother me?”

“The fact that you might have to lie to protect Hunter?”

“No,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “I’m sure it helps that I grew up in this life, but I trust that whatever Hunter does, he has a good reason for doing it. I’ve learned to trust his brothers, too, which means that when he gets a call in the night from one of them, I know it’s important. But me knowing all the details can only hurt him, and I want him safe. See how it works?”

“I trust Painter,” I said slowly. “But I’m not sure I trust his club. I’m sorry—I know we’re talking about your dad’s world here, but this is really strange to me. I keep feeling like I have to turn off a chunk of my brain to be with Painter.”

“You don’t have to turn off your brain. You just need to learn what’s actually important and how to tune out the things that aren’t.”

“Wait—you can’t tell me that your man disappearing in the night and not calling for days isn’t important.”

“Of course it’s important,” she said with a laugh. “When Hunter takes off, I worry about him. I think about him and I miss him. What I don’t do is spend too much time trying to figure out what he’s up to, because nothing good can come of it. Instead I put my energy into the things that matter. My job. Taking care of business around home. People always talk about how guys in clubs are controlling, but I pay all the bills and run our money. He doesn’t have time.”

I dropped my bag on the table, then walked into Painter’s bedroom. My favorite shirt—without the motor oil this time—was laid out and waiting for me. Over the past few weeks I’d learned that me wearing his clothes was a huge turn-on for Painter. This worked, because it was a huge turn-on for me, too.

“It’s a lot to think about,” I told Em. “But I should get going—he’ll be here soon and I want to get ready.”

“Have fun,” she said with a knowing chuckle. “And stay safe. I’m not sure I could handle a little Painterling running around just yet.”

“Take it back,” I hissed. “God, can you imagine? I’m not even twenty-one yet. Getting pregnant would suck so bad.”

She didn’t respond right away, and I frowned. “Em?”

“Hey, sorry,” she said. “I just got distracted. Have a good time with Painter tonight, okay? And don’t worry about things you can’t change. The club is what it is. On the surface they sometimes don’t look that great, but over time I think you’ll come to appreciate having them behind you. Bye!”

“Bye.”

I turned on some music and then stripped down so I could wear his shirt. It was long on me—almost like a dress. Visions filled my head of cooking while he came up from behind, catching the fabric, slowly raising it . . . Oh, nice. Very nice.

The door slammed downstairs.

“Mel, you up here?”

Putting a little sway in my step, I sauntered out of the bedroom, then stopped cold. Painter was carrying a big bouquet of red roses. Like, a huge one. My eyes went wide.

“Had a good day today,” he said, grinning at me. “Guy called me—custom client from the Bay Area. He wants a full-sized portrait of his bike and he’s offered me a fuckin’ fortune to do it. But that’s not even the best part. He owns a gallery down there. Says he might be interested in doing a show of my work. I’ve been runnin’ around all afternoon buying supplies.”

“Really?” I squealed. “Oh my God, that’s incredible! I’m so happy for you.”

I rushed to hug him, nearly knocking him down in the process. The groceries and roses fell to the floor as he kissed me hard and deep.