Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
“Have you lost your mind?” she asked, eyes wide. “Both of you! So you get drunk and share a quick fuck . . . Where does that leave Izzy? What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Oh God. I was such a slut.
“Get the hell out of here, Jess,” Painter said, eyes narrowing. “It’s none of your business.”
Puck stood, shoving off the girl sitting on his lap as he stepped toward my best friend in a way that could only be described as menacing.
“No!” I said, pushing against Painter again, harder this time. He let me go reluctantly, people turning to stare at us. Oh shit. I was that girl—the one who caused scenes in bars.
Fucking alcohol. Hadn’t I learned a damned thing from watching my dad?
“Jessica’s right,” I said, standing up. I bumped into the table in the process, sending an impressive collection of drinks sloshing. “This is a huge mistake.”
“Let’s go,” Jess said, catching my arm. Painter surged up, catching me around the waist and pulling me back into him.
“Stop,” he said, his voice cracking like a shot. We all froze. “This is between me and Melanie, so none of you get a fucking vote. Mel, we need to talk. Somewhere quiet. Private. Puck, take care of my tab and I’ll catch you later. Sound good?”
“Sure,” Puck said. Jess opened her mouth to protest and then Banks stepped into her space, snaking an arm around her upper chest and pulling her into his body. It almost looked like a casual embrace, but when she pushed against him angrily he didn’t give an inch. A wolfish smile crossed Banks’s face as he leaned down, whispering something in her ear. I couldn’t hear what he said, but the expression on her face freaked me out—was that anticipation or fear?
Painter pushed me across the floor, big hands on my shoulders to guide me. Then we were passing through the door, out into the cool night air, music spilling out of the bar behind us.
“What the hell, Painter?” I managed to ask as he dragged me down the street, walking so fast I could barely keep up.
“We’re gonna talk this shit out.”
I stumbled over a curb. He steadied me, and I glared up at him.
“Your fucking long legs are going to get me killed,” I spat. “Slow down, asshole.”
Painter answered by swinging me up and over his shoulder. I shrieked, and across the street a group of drunk guys started hooting and laughing at us.
“Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” I shouted, not entirely sure if I was yelling at Painter or the guys. He could be a murderer for all they knew.
We reached his SUV, and he balanced me like a sack of potatoes as he dug out his keys. The lock chirped at us happily, and then he was opening the door and dropping me down on the passenger seat.
“Stay,” he said, reaching around to grab the seat belt, buckling me in. I scowled as he walked around to the driver’s side, trying to decide if I should make a run for it. It was late, though, and I needed a ride home.
Might as well talk to the jerk and get it over with. He climbed in, turning on the truck with a comforting roar. The seats were soft leather, decadent and lush. Apparently the art world was treating him well.
“For an asshole I hate, you have a very nice vehicle,” I said grudgingly. Painter gave a short, bitter laugh.
“So glad to hear you approve. Now I’ll be able to sleep at night.”
“Why do you have to turn everything ugly?”
“Because my balls are blue and my dick’s so hard it hurts,” he growled, turning to face me. “This is fucking ridiculous, Mel. Why do we keep fighting like this? I want you, you want me, we have a kid together. What’s the big fucking deal?”
“You left me alone!” I shouted, glaring at him. “Izzy was so sick, Painter. They weren’t sure she was going to make it. You don’t have a fucking clue what it was like, sitting there, waiting for her to take her next breath, hoping it wouldn’t be her last. We needed you. I needed you. Am I just supposed to pretend all that didn’t happen? That you didn’t choose prison over us when we needed you the most?”
“That’s not true!” he yelled back. “Yes, I fucked up. I’ve admitted I fucked up a thousand times. A thousand and one, counting just now. But it’s not like I had the fucking choice to come and help you, Mel—they don’t just let you leave prison because you say ‘pretty please, Mr. Warden, let me out because my girl needs me.’”
“That’s bullshit!” I screamed at him. “You had a choice, Painter. You were on parole, you knew they were out to get you, and you still turned and ran off with your club like a fucking coward when I told you I was pregnant. Do not tell me you didn’t have a choice. You always have a choice.”