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.”

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.”