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)
I dropped my bag on the table, then walked into Painter’s bedroom. My favorite shirt—without the motor oil this time—was laid out and waiting for me. Over the past few weeks I’d learned that me wearing his clothes was a huge turn-on for Painter. This worked, because it was a huge turn-on for me, too.
“It’s a lot to think about,” I told Em. “But I should get going—he’ll be here soon and I want to get ready.”
“Have fun,” she said with a knowing chuckle. “And stay safe. I’m not sure I could handle a little Painterling running around just yet.”
“Take it back,” I hissed. “God, can you imagine? I’m not even twenty-one yet. Getting pregnant would suck so bad.”
She didn’t respond right away, and I frowned. “Em?”
“Hey, sorry,” she said. “I just got distracted. Have a good time with Painter tonight, okay? And don’t worry about things you can’t change. The club is what it is. On the surface they sometimes don’t look that great, but over time I think you’ll come to appreciate having them behind you. Bye!”
“Bye.”
I turned on some music and then stripped down so I could wear his shirt. It was long on me—almost like a dress. Visions filled my head of cooking while he came up from behind, catching the fabric, slowly raising it . . . Oh, nice. Very nice.
The door slammed downstairs.
“Mel, you up here?”
Putting a little sway in my step, I sauntered out of the bedroom, then stopped cold. Painter was carrying a big bouquet of red roses. Like, a huge one. My eyes went wide.
“Had a good day today,” he said, grinning at me. “Guy called me—custom client from the Bay Area. He wants a full-sized portrait of his bike and he’s offered me a fuckin’ fortune to do it. But that’s not even the best part. He owns a gallery down there. Says he might be interested in doing a show of my work. I’ve been runnin’ around all afternoon buying supplies.”
“Really?” I squealed. “Oh my God, that’s incredible! I’m so happy for you.”
I rushed to hug him, nearly knocking him down in the process. The groceries and roses fell to the floor as he kissed me hard and deep.
“Bedroom?” I whispered when he finally gave me a break.
“Food,” he said, offering a rueful smile. “Today’s been crazy, and on top of everything else my phone ran out of power right after I messaged you—haven’t eaten anything since that donut I had for breakfast.”
Sighing, I stepped back because the man really did deserve a chance to eat. The roses caught my eye.
“You don’t happen to have a vase or anything, do you?” I said shyly, picking them up. Not much damage from the fall—a couple bent petals here and there . . .
“What makes you think those are for you?”
I froze. “I’m sorry—I thought that—”
He started laughing, then caught my face in his big hands. “Of course they’re for you.”
Then he gave me a soft, sweet kiss.
“I’m gonna get changed,” he said. “There’s fixings for tacos in the bag. Think I remembered everything.”
• • •
You know those rare moments in life when everything is perfect? The first half of that evening was one of those beautiful times . . . There’s no real way to describe it, because nothing special happened. We ate dinner together and then he had me come down to the studio so he could sketch me in his T-shirt and nothing else. Naturally that led to other things, and we were just getting to the good part when someone knocked on the door.
“Shit,” Painter muttered, reaching for his pants. He threw me a sheet that he used as a drop cloth and I pulled it over my half-naked body as he walked to the door. “Yeah?”
“This is Kandace Evans,” a woman’s voice rang through. “I’m your new parole officer. Please open the door.”
“I thought your parole officer was a guy,” I whispered.
Painter frowned. “He was. Be ready to call Picnic, okay? I got a bad feeling about this.”
He ran a hand through his hair, then stepped over to peer through the peephole.
“I’m opening the door,” he announced, turning the dead bolt. A tall woman with dark hair pulled back behind her head waited outside. Behind her were two cops. The look on her face wasn’t friendly.
“Levi Brooks?” she asked, looking him up and down. Painter crossed his arms over his bare chest.
“I’m Levi.”
She peered around him to look at me. “And this is?”
“Melanie Tucker. My girlfriend.”
She stepped inside, staring me down.
“What’re you hiding under the sheet?”
I coughed, looking away. “Um . . .”
“She’s naked,” Painter said bluntly. “You caught us in the middle of something. I don’t know you. Where’s Torres?”
The woman turned back to him, expressionless.
“Chris Torres is on administrative leave, pending further investigation.”
“Why?” Painter asked, frowning. This couldn’t be good news for him . . . shit. I needed to get dressed and find my phone. Call Reese. There was something seriously fucked up going on here.