I really needed to stop drinking out of Kit’s cup.

“So all he did was look at her and say ‘hey,’” Jess was telling them when I got back. Shit. She was talking about Painter again, possibly my least favorite subject on earth.

He’d been home from jail for two weeks now. I’d expected him to call me. Instead I’d gotten a text from Reese telling me to drop the car and the keys off at his house, then nothing. Not that I thought Painter owed me anything—of course he didn’t—but I’d wanted to at least thank him. (Okay, that’s not true—I wanted to jump him because I had a huge crush, but I also had some dignity. I would’ve settled for a quick “thanks” and maybe baking him some cookies.)

“Let’s talk about something else,” I declared.

“No, I want to hear this,” Kit said, slurring her words slightly. “You distracted me earlier, but now that we’ve got the whole stripper thing figured out, we can focus.”

I sighed, wondering if I could just strangle Jessica. No, probably not. She wasn’t very big, but she was wiry and unnaturally strong. It wouldn’t end well for me. Might as well give in to the inevitable and tell them.

“So, I met Painter last year,” I started, frowning. I really didn’t want to talk about this. “You know what? I’m hungry. Let’s order a pizza.”

“We’ll let you eat once you tell the whole story,” Kit said, scenting blood. “Spill it. I want to hear everything.”

This sucked. I didn’t even know Reese Hayes’s daughters very well—we’d only met a couple times before today, at holidays. I’d already felt like an intruder in Reese’s home, and with his kids there it’d been worse. On Christmas last year I’d left right after dinner for my dorm, making up some bullshit story about volunteering somewhere just to get away.

“So I met Painter last year,” I started again. “Only a couple of times, really. Then he went to prison and I started writing him letters.”

“I told her that was a bad idea,” Jessica said piously. “He’s not a nice guy, despite the whole loaning you a car thing.”

“That’s true,” Em chimed in. “Not nice at all.”

“Do you want to hear the story or not?” I asked, refilling my wineglass. Thinking about Painter was stealing my buzz. Couldn’t have that.

“Tell the story,” Kit said, narrowing her eyes.

“So when he took off for California he left me his car—it was just supposed to be for a couple days. Then he got arrested, he told Reese I could keep using it. I wrote to thank him, and I guess it just went from there,” I said. “Painter’s letters were so sweet, even though I only met him a couple times before they locked him up. He didn’t even treat me like a girl, not really. But he was so . . . protective. I felt stupid writing to him to begin with, but when he kept writing back I felt special. Then one day—right before they let him out—I got this letter from him saying it was weird I didn’t have a boyfriend, and that maybe I should be dating more. I felt like I’d gotten kicked in the stomach. I think I’d managed to fool myself about how big my crush on him was.”

“I tried to warn her,” Jessica said mournfully. “She didn’t listen.”

“They never do,” Kit replied, her voice full of sad wisdom. “I swear, if people would just follow my instructions they’d all be a hell of a lot happier.”

I glanced at Em, who rolled her eyes.

“Might as well spill the rest,” Jess ordered. I sighed.

“Okay, so after that I never heard from him again—he didn’t call when he got back to town. Nothing. Then we moved in here last weekend and Reese showed up with some of the club guys to help us . . .”

The words trailed off as I remembered. It’d been so humiliating. Reese and Loni had pulled up with this big truck, and right behind them was Painter, riding his motorcycle, along with a couple other bikers, younger guys not much older than me. I watched—mesmerized—as he carefully backed his Harley into place then swung one broad leg over his seat, looking up to catch my eye.

He was more beautiful than I remembered.

Bigger, too. I guess he’d spent some of that time in jail lifting weights. His hair had grown out some. When I’d first met him, it’d been short and spiky and bleached so blond it hurt. It still wasn’t long, but it wasn’t bleached bright white anymore and it was shaggy. Natural. His cheekbones were sharp, his features chiseled and harder than I remembered, and there was something scary in his pale blue eyes.

He wasn’t looking at me—he was looking through me. Up to that point I’d held out hope that he was just busy or something. How stupid was that?

“All he said was ‘hey,’” I told the girls. “Like I was a stranger, and it was obvious he didn’t want to talk. Just nodded his head when I thanked him and walked away. He helped move our shit, but I swear, he was friendlier to Jessica than he was to me.”

That part particularly hurt, because I knew their secret. Jessica and Painter had slept together. Or fooled around. Whatever. She’d never given me all the details, but I knew her lips had been in contact with his dick at one point, back before she pulled her shit together and settled down.

“Mellie, that didn’t mean anything,” my best friend said softly. “You know he’s not interested in me.”

“In you?” Kit asked, her voice sharp. “I thought the issue was between him and Melanie?”

My mouth snapped shut, because it wasn’t my story to tell.

“I used to be wilder,” Jess said, taking a deep breath. “Last year I got drunk and went out to the Armory for a party. I fucked around with Painter and another guy named Banks. Then London showed up and dragged me out and a lot of other shit happened.”

“Wow,” Em said, eyes wide. “He must not like you very much, Jessica. He never sleeps with the girls he actually likes.”

I gaped as Kit leaned over and smacked her head.

“That’s a shitty thing to say,” she snapped. My chest felt tight—Jess had enough on her plate, she didn’t need to hear stuff like that.

“Hey, it’s not my fault he has a Madonna-whore complex,” Em protested.

“Shut the fuck up!” Kit hissed. “Jesus, Em, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“It’s okay,” Jess said, flapping her hand at them. “I’m so sorry, but just the thought of the whole thing is so ridiculous. Believe me—I could give two shits if Painter likes me or not. It’s just . . . he doesn’t fuck girls he likes? What the hell is wrong with him?”

“How much time do you have?” Em asked seriously. “It could take a while to break it all down.”

I held up a hand.

“Do I get a vote?”

“No,” Kit said. “Em, give her the short and dirty.”

“I spent more than a year chasing after Painter,” Em said. “He was into me—everyone said he was. But the club always came first, and it’s like he expected me to be some kind of perfect, precious angel while he fucked around with his club whores. Finally I got sick of it and ran off with Hunter.”

“Seriously?” I asked. She blushed.

“Okay, it’s a little more complicated than that,” she admitted. “But there was definitely something between us, yet he never got off his ass and did anything about it. The guy has issues.”

“Painter’s problem is he likes the idea of a relationship but he’s too fucking chicken to follow through,” Kit said, giggling.

“No, Painter’s problem is that he’s complicated,” Jess said, her voice more serious. “I’d say he was a total asshole, but he helped save my life last summer. He wound up in jail because of it. It doesn’t change the real truth, though—Painter is a great guy to have around if your life’s in danger and you need someone to rescue you. But other than that? He’s not one of the good ones, Mel. You shouldn’t talk to him, because he’s dangerous. They all are.”

Kit and Em had grown quiet—now the awkward had changed direction.

“You do realize you’re talking about my dad and Em’s old man, too?” Kit asked softly. Jess met her gaze head-on.