Reaper's Fall

They’d dragged him down into this.

Them and their “club business.”

We stood awkwardly with the rest of the visitors, ranging from other young mothers with kids to people in their fifties and sixties. A few of the women could’ve passed for hookers—for all I knew, they were.

Do prostitutes visit their pimps in jail?

That was a dark thought, but darker still, how many women were forced into prostitution to support their kids once their fathers were locked up? I looked down at Izzy, sleeping peacefully in my arms, and knew I’d do anything to take care of her. Anything at all.

A door at the far end of the room opened, and then men wearing orange jumpsuits started walking in. A little boy next to me shouted “Daddy!” as he tore off toward a scary-looking Hispanic guy covered in gang tattoos. He smiled, swinging the boy up in his arms, holding him tight as he kissed his hair.

Then Painter came in.

My breath caught, a thousand different emotions fighting for control. Anger. Love. Hurt . . . Some detached part of me noted that he looked better than ever, although his face was harder than ever. His hair had grown out, hanging down to his shoulders loosely. Pale blue eyes searched for us, dropping instantly to the precious bundle of life in my arms.

He stopped walking, then swallowed.

“C’mon,” Puck said, reaching down to touch my elbow, urging me forward. I stepped toward Painter, our eyes locked on each other. Then I was standing in front of him, tense and uncomfortable. Puck wasn’t with me, I realized. He’d stepped back, offering what privacy he could under the circumstances.

“Hey,” I said softly.

“Hey,” Painter replied. “Thank you for coming.”

This was even harder than I’d imagined.

“I wanted you to meet her,” I told him, feeling uncertain. “You should know your daughter.”

He looked down, taking in the tiny, sleeping face. She’d been born with a head full of pale blonde fuzz. I’d put a little white headband on her with a flower on it—it matched her sundress, a gift from Loni.

“Can . . . can I hold her?” he asked softly.

“Sure.”

He put his arms out and I handed her over carefully, catching my breath when our skin touched. It was still there, the awareness between us. Intense and electric. Izzy startled, her little hands lifting up as her eyes opened.

Pale blue, just like his.

They stared at each other, father and daughter, and something inside my chest broke. He reached a finger toward her and little Isabella grabbed it tight, making a soft, gurgling noise.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, and even though we were surrounded by people it felt like we were the only ones in the room. Just me, him, and our daughter . . .

“Do you want to sit down with her?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I looked around, finding an open table. “Let’s go over there.”

Painter walked over slowly and carefully, holding Izzy like she was made of spun glass. He seemed to be whispering to her, and any doubts I’d had that he’d love her disappeared. He’d already fallen for her—fallen for her just as hard and fast as I had the first time I saw her in the NICU.

“Em sent me pictures,” he said, once we were settled at a table. “She told me about when she was born, too. It sounds like you did an amazing job.”

“I tried. The C-section was rough—I really wanted to do it all natural, you know? They say that’s better for the baby. But I just couldn’t. I tried and tried, but she wasn’t coming.”

He looked up at me, eyes intense.

“She’s perfect,” he said again, emphasizing the word. “You did everything right, Mel. They told me about all you went through, fighting for her. I can’t imagine anyone ever doing better.”

Blinking rapidly, I fought back the tears prickling at my eyes.

“I wish you could’ve been there,” I whispered.

“I wish I could have, too.”

Izzy gave a little squawk. His eyes flew back to her, widening in something like panic. She raised her arms, stretching them high as she yawned. Then her eyes narrowed as her nose scrunched. I knew that look.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked quickly, his voice almost panicky.

“She might have gas,” I said. “Or she could be pooping. Just give her a minute.”

Izzy didn’t need a minute, though. A series of loud, wet, squelching noises exploded outward. Painter’s face twisted, a combination of shock and horror—like he half expected her head to spin around or something. He looked back at me.

“What do we do?”

I laughed—couldn’t help myself.

“Just give it a couple minutes,” I told him. “Make sure she’s done. Then I’ll go change her.”

PAINTER

Melanie’s ass twitched as she walked away with Isabella. My daughter—how unreal was that? I could see the differences in Mel’s body since the pregnancy—she’d filled out. Her boobs were bigger, too. A lot bigger. I’d missed her so fucking much since I’d gotten locked up. This was different than it’d been before. Worse. Not that spending time in a cell is ever good, but knowing I was missing out on something so amazing—so important—turned it into pure torture.

And this time I didn’t even have letters from her to get me through.

I hoped it wouldn’t take long to change Izzy. We had only a limited time for visitation, and I didn’t want to waste any of it. God only knew when—or if—she’d ever make it down again. Christ, I loved the kid more than I ever thought was possible, and now I might not see her again for months.