Reaper's Fall
He gave a laugh, and I felt his arm rise, rubbing across my back to soothe me. “No worries, babe. I’m not planning on it. But I’m on parole, remember? That means they let me out early, on the understanding that I’ll play nice and make good choices. They catch me so much as running a red light, my ass is in a cell again. That’s all.”
I pushed against his chest, raising up to see his face. I’d never considered that he might go back inside—just the thought made me feel almost panicky.
“You’ve got to watch yourself,” I told him, dead serious. “Is the club making you do things that might land you in prison? You don’t have to do what they say, Painter.”
He grinned at me, rubbing my back as he shook his head.
“Nice to know you care,” he said. “But they don’t make me do anything, Mel. I’m a big boy—I can take care of myself. It’s not like that.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not some little pawn for them to play with. Anything I do is by my choice. I know there’s clubs out there where men blindly follow orders and get sacrificed like chum. But the Reapers are my brothers—we stand up for each other, we vote on everything, and if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be. I’m a Reaper, too, you know. This is my world. I’m proud of this patch and I’d do anything to protect it.”
His eyes bored into mine, cold and hard. Even the hand around my back tightened, like he was bracing for action.
“But you’re careful, right?” I asked. Painter nodded.
“Yeah, of course I’m careful,” he said. “But I’m also one of the younger full-patch members, and I don’t have a family or anything. When there’s shit that needs doing, I volunteer. All the brothers do, but some of us got less to lose than others.”
I closed my eyes against the painful clenching deep inside of me, laying my head back down so I wouldn’t have to look at him.
“You mean the guys with old ladies?” I asked, already knowing what the answer had to be.
“Old ladies, families . . . The guys with kids do their part, no question. But I’m not gonna stand back and watch while a brother with that kind of responsibility takes risks he doesn’t need to. And a lot of the guys do work that’s important—they’d never pussy out of anything, but we can’t just replace them if something happens. Horse is a fuckin’ genius with money, and Ruger can build anything. We need those skills. It’s my job to protect the club, and part of that’s protecting the brothers who keep the club alive.”
“That’s crazy,” I said. “What about your life? Doesn’t that matter?”
“The club is my life, Mel.”
Gee, brainwashed much? His hand rubbed me soothingly as he spoke, which sucked because I wanted to hit him or yell at him or at the very least give him a stern lecture, although I don’t know what it would be about. Maybe the top five reasons jail sucks?
But I guess he already knew that a lot better than I did.
Instead I settled into his form, forcing myself not to think about what he’d said—there were plenty of other things to focus on. The warm night air. The frogs. The way his hand felt, still rubbing up and down my back, soothing and distracting. Then his fingers caught on the bottom of my tank top, sliding it up just a couple inches until I felt his skin bare against mine. My stomach twisted.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, feeling almost desperate.
“Doing what?”
“Touching me. You’re sending some seriously mixed signals for a guy who’s not interested.”
He froze, the hand on his chest reaching to catch mine.
“I never said I wasn’t interested,” he replied, his voice quiet with a hint of strain. “I said you deserved better.”
“God, you’re so fucking frustrating,” I said, pushing myself up to glare at him. “You ignored me when you got out, you made me come last night, and now you’re sticking your hand up my shirt while you’re telling me I deserve better. Have you ever considered seeing a shrink? Because I think you could use one.”
He gave a low chuckle, his hand sliding my shirt back down across the small of my back.
“No, but earlier tonight someone else told me I should talk to a professional.”
“Well maybe you should,” I huffed, glaring at him. “Because you’re playing games and that’s not very nice.”
“I’ve never pretended to be nice,” he said, his voice hardening. “And I’ve never promised you anything, Mel. Remember that. Nobody made you come riding with me tonight—not like I held a gun to your head. What the fuck do you want from me?”
“The truth,” I snapped. “Let’s start with that. What the hell do you want from me?”
He gave a low, dark laugh.
“We’re not going there.”
“Oh yeah, we are,” I informed him, poking his chest with a finger. “Because I’m done playing mind games with you—we’re hashing this out, here and now. Otherwise you’re taking me home. Or I can call someone and get a ride.”
Painter’s eyes narrowed, then his hand caught mine, holding it tight.
“You’re not calling anyone—I’ll take you home when I’m ready. And you think you want answers? How’s this for a fucking answer. I want this.”
He dragged my hand down his stomach toward the front of his pants. My pulse rate rose. Then he was pushing my hand down across the length of his cock, which was hard and ready. His hips lifted under my touch and his fingers squeezed around mine, gripping himself tight.