Reaper's Fall

“I keep my attention focused where it needs to be focused,” he replied, reaching up to touch the side of my face. It took everything I had not to turn toward his hand, rub against him like a cat. I felt breathless, expectant . . . Hold on. Why was he touching me like this? It didn’t make sense—he’d made it damned clear he didn’t want anything more than friendship.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” I whispered. “We’re just friends, remember? You made that very clear last night.”

“Friends can touch,” he whispered back. The words hung between us, teasing me. I wanted to lean over and kiss him. Crawl on top of him and grind and writhe and hump and do things I was relatively sure qualified as molestation in the fine state of Idaho. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like you want to . . .”

He stopped talking, licking his lips as his eyes drifted to mine. He was going to kiss me. My eyes started to flutter closed. Then his phone chimed, breaking the spell.

Painter blinked—he’d been as lost in the moment as I was.

“I should check that,” he said. “Might be an update on Chase.”

Chase. How could I have forgotten about Chase? A man was dying, yet all I could think about was getting laid. A man I’d gone to school with. What was wrong with me?

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.”