Reaper's Stand
Page 28

I let myself in the front door to find Melanie sitting next to Painter, his arm draped loosely across the back of the couch over her shoulders. She was buried in a quilt with only her eyes showing. They were glued to the TV screen, where a chainsaw-wielding man was about to cut a woman’s hand off.
I threw up a little in the back of my throat, grasping the door frame for support.
Another young man leaned back in the lounge chair, feet propped casually on the end of the coffee table. He had short dark hair, heavy stubble, and eyes so cold and dead he could’ve been holding the chainsaw. It was hard to see in the dim light, but it looked like tattoos completely covered his arms. Handsome and unnerving—a very dangerous boy, I decided.
Painter paused the movie, standing up slowly. I glanced between him and Melanie, shaking my head. Couldn’t believe I’d fallen for his shit—apparently this was International Fuck Over London Armstrong Day.
“London,” he said quietly.
“Painter,” I replied, wondering if we were starting some kind of standoff. I guess we were, because he’d promised to stay away from her, yet here he was. Although to be honest, my perspective on that whole issue had changed in the past twelve hours, what with watching Jessica’s finger get cut off. Somehow Melanie’s virtue wasn’t seeming quite as important in comparison.
“We’ll talk in the kitchen,” he told me, then jerked his chin toward the scary young man. “This is Puck. He’s a prospect with the Silver Bastards. Pic asked him to stay out here tonight. Said it wouldn’t hurt to have some extra security, given how many people are in town right now.”
Panic closed my throat. Extra security? That didn’t make any sense—they must know something. Painter was going to take me into that kitchen and kill me for betraying the club.
Shut up! My brain snapped. Chill the fuck out, because there’s no way they could find out so fast.
Good point. I took a deep breath and tried smiling at the young prospect. He just studied me, crossing muscular arms in front of his chest. He really was extremely attractive. Black hair, dark eyes, dusky, thick eyelashes—near perfect, except for the scar running up one cheek, along his nose and into his forehead.
Damn. Looked like someone had tried to cut his face off.
Not that it hurt his looks at all. If anything, it kept him from being too pretty. Dark skin said he came from a mixed background. Maybe one of the local tribes? Or Latino … Hard to tell, and not really any of my business anyway.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, then looked back at Painter. “I assume you got him settled upstairs?”
“It’s covered,” Painter replied. “Let’s talk in the kitchen.”
I nodded, pausing to give Mel a quick squeeze on the shoulder. She seemed to be operating on the theory that no murderers or monsters would be able to get her so long as she stayed under the covers. Clearly she wasn’t willing to risk that safety for a hug, which made me smile sadly.
I was learning the hard way that nothing can protect us from the real monsters.
“What’s up?” I asked Painter once we reached the other room. He caught and held my gaze, his expression focused.
“I didn’t lie to you about Melanie,” he said. “I won’t do anything to hurt her. She was just scared of the movie. Puck and I had no idea she’d be so frightened, and she didn’t say anything ahead of time. Otherwise we would’ve watched something else. Pic didn’t want her out here alone, and I knew you’d be pissed if I took her back to the Armory.”
I would’ve felt extremely relieved to hear that if I hadn’t been so completely focused on keeping Jessica alive.
“Good to know.”
“I’ve fucked up before,” he continued. “I’m a dick and an ass-hole. But I promise you—I’m not gonna screw her over. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He nodded, as if something important had been decided. I wasn’t even close to understanding what was going on behind those eyes of his, and it didn’t matter. All that mattered was saving Jessica.
“You wanna watch the rest of the movie with us?”
I have my own horror movie playing on a loop in my head. But thanks for asking.
“No, I think I’ll get to bed,” I told him, smiling weakly. “Nice to meet your … friend? Brother? I don’t know what to call him.”
“Call him Puck,” he said, giving me a charming grin. “You might want to get used to him, too. I think Pic plans to have him stick with you for the next week or so. Security.”
Well. That was inconvenient. I decided I’d think about it tomorrow, because I’d burned through the last of my energy when I’d come home to find the living room full of young bikers I was pretty sure were capable of killing me without blinking.
Painter—apparently oblivious to my terrible tension—ambled toward the fridge and pulled out a beer.
“Want one?”
I shook my head.
“No, I’m going to bed. Ready for this day to end in a big way.”
Nothing.
I lay sprawled in the center of Reese’s bed, staring up at his bedroom ceiling and trying not to cry. It was four in the morning. He’d texted me at two saying not to wait up for him, so I’d made the most of the opportunity, going through every drawer, every box, every inch of his bedroom looking for anything that might be valuable to the sadists down in California.
Not a goddamned thing.
Although I knew a lot more about Reese now. For example, I knew Heather had written him a beautiful letter saying good-bye right before she died. She told him to be happy. She said that when her girls got married, she wanted him to give each of them a diamond pendant, set in silver, from her. She called them “something new” for the big day.
She also told him she didn’t want him to grow old alone.
According to Em, I was the first woman he’d really let in since Heather died. “Guilty” just wasn’t strong enough to describe how that made me feel, given my current plan to betray him. At least I didn’t need to worry about him knowing I’d searched the room. I’d been incredibly careful, taking pictures of his things before moving them, so I could put them back exactly where they’d been before. Realistically, there wasn’t any more that I could do, but I couldn’t sleep, either.
I rolled over and turned off the light, wishing I were better at praying. Now would be a real good time for it …
Big hands slid under my shirt.
I sighed and shifted, confused. Reese caught my breasts and squeezed lightly. Then I felt his lips touch my stomach and I squirmed, heat pooling between my legs.
“Missed you last night,” he said, his voice low. I opened my eyes, but the room was still dark. Must be very early morning, right before dawn.
Then I remembered. Fuck. Oh, fuck. Jess was in danger, Amber was dead, and I had to screw over the first man who’d made me feel anything real in years. Maybe ever.
“Sleepy,” I murmured, which was true. It was also a great way to get out of conversation, because I hadn’t had a chance to figure out the proper etiquette one uses when destroying a man’s life. His fingers burrowed under the fly of my jeans, and then I felt him opening them. Wow. I hadn’t even gotten undressed last night.
I didn’t remember falling asleep at all.
My jeans opened and then he tugged at them, murmuring for me to lift my hips. I obeyed without thinking. He slid them down, along with my panties, and tossed my clothing across the room.
Then I felt his lips on my stomach again.
Instead of teasing me, this time they moved steadily downward, and then his hand caught at my inner thighs, pushing them apart. His tongue felt like fire on my skin and I shifted restlessly. A finger slid along the edges of my labia, pushing in just enough to collect some of the moisture growing there. He rubbed upward, finding my clit as it started to swell, circling it and teasing. I wiggled under him.
“Did I mention I missed you?” he whispered. “Probably a hundred bitches out there tonight, half of them ready and willing, but all I could think about was getting home to this.”
“Do you really have to call them bitches?” I asked, trying to focus. “Seems kind of ugly.”
“Just a figure of speech, doesn’t mean anything,” he said. Then I felt him shake his head, and he laughed. “No, guess you got me on that. We call ’em bitches because they aren’t that important.”
“Sharon seemed important enough to you,” I muttered, wondering if I was losing my mind. Why would a woman interrupt a man about to go down on her—or at least I assumed that’s what this was leading up to—to argue about what he calls someone else?
“You wanna talk semantics or get your clit sucked?”
Hmmm …
“That second thing,” I said. His mouth opened on my stomach and he made a huge raspberry noise. I squealed because it tickled, and then he was tickling me with his hand, blowing raspberries on my stomach over and over until I screamed.
“Stop! You have to stop it!”
He stopped, sliding up to cover me with his body, holding my hands prisoner on either side of my head.
“Now give me a kiss and let me know you’re happy to see me,” he said. “You wanna talk about other women, we can do that tomorrow. Right now’s about you and me.”
I lifted my head and met his lips. Despite the tickling and playing, this wasn’t a teasing kiss. It was hard and fast, nipping and dueling until I felt faint from desire.
Or maybe that was lack of air?
He pulled away, and we both gasped.
“Now. What would you like me to do?”
“Um, you could …” I trailed off, squirming. I still wasn’t so great at the explicit talk in front of him. Why I felt so inhibited I couldn’t imagine. I’d always assumed that I’d have things figured out by my thirties. Not even close.
“What did you say? I don’t understand,” he asked. I couldn’t see his smirk in the darkness, but I knew it had to be there.
“You could go down on me,” I said, the sentence ending on a squeak. “I think I need more practice talking about sex. It feels really weird.”
“Yeah, sort of picked up on that,” he whispered into my ear, nuzzling at it. “Kinda hot when you get all embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I insisted. “I just don’t have a potty mouth.”
He stilled.
“Did you seriously just use the phrase ‘potty mouth’?”
I giggled. “I think I did.”
“Okay, let’s try this again. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Will you suck my clit, Reese?”
“Why, yes, London. I’d be happy to suck your clit for you.”
“Gracious of you,” I muttered, but at least he was moving back down my body. His fingers found my folds again, and then his mouth caught me, hot and wet and completely amazing as he attacked my most sensitive place.
Within minutes I was moaning and squirming under him. When he started thrusting two fingers inside me, sliding up and along my inner wall, I lost the power of speech. Fortunately that didn’t matter, because I didn’t need words to scream when I blew apart into a thousand pieces.
I also didn’t need words to express my approval when he pushed into me hard and fast a minute later. Instead I wrapped my arms and legs around him, savoring the feel of him deep down inside because it was beautiful.
He was beautiful.
And he was wrong about using dirty words, too, because this wasn’t something dirty and it wasn’t fucking.
We were making love.
Under the circumstances, I’d rather fuck. The only thing worse than destroying the man you care about is destroying him after he makes heartbreakingly beautiful love to you.
I was still going to do it, though.
I didn’t have a choice.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“It’s not good enough,” the man whispered in my ear. “I told you to find me something or I’d cut off another piece of her. Did you think I was joking?”
No. I really, really didn’t think he was joking.
I don’t know which grip was tighter—my hand holding the phone or the one holding the steering wheel. Thankfully I’d been driving when he called, which was the only time I’d gotten any privacy since Saturday. Now it was Monday and Reese’s minion, Puck, was following me everywhere in the name of “extra security.” Fortunately, when I’d very politely told Reese that the minivan was off-limits, Puck quickly volunteered to ride his bike instead.
I could’ve cried with relief.
Puck scared the hell out of me. I knew he was young—probably only nineteen or twenty—but he had the eyes of a killer and that scar across his face wasn’t exactly reassuring. For once I was happy to have Painter around, because Puck was also weirdly sexy and I suspected Melanie would’ve fallen for him in a heartbeat if she weren’t already sighing heavily every time she saw Painter.
God, when had he become the lesser evil?
“There’s nothing else for me to find,” I said to the man on the phone, willing him to believe me. “I’ve looked everywhere I can. There’s always a prospect with me, or Reese. Even at work they follow me.”
“Why?” he asked. “Have you given yourself away? If that’s the case, you aren’t useful to me anymore and neither is this little teenage shit. Might as well kill her now.”
Oh God oh God oh God oh …
“No, please,” I whispered. “I’ll figure something out. There has to be a way.”