Instead I splashed some cold water on my face and brushed my hair, wishing I could do more to pretty myself up. Unfortunately, the options were limited.
It would have to be good enough.
• • •
He took me to a bar and grill in midtown, and to my surprise they didn’t bother carding me when he ordered a beer for each of us. I guess when your date is a six-foot-plus biker who’s simultaneously badass and beautiful, the average waitress isn’t paying attention to anyone’s age.
The first sip was bitter, nothing like the Bud Light kegs at our high school parties. I sucked it down, though, and by the time our pizza arrived I had a nice buzz going. Obviously it was a lot stronger than Bud Light, too.
“I really need to find a place in town, so I can walk to work,” I told him, trying not to gross him out while I ate. The pizza here was good. Really good. They’d brought it hot from the oven, and there was melted cheese running all over the place. It tasted amazing, but it didn’t lend itself to delicate eating.
“Either that or a car,” he said, nodding his head. “I’ll talk to the prez—maybe he has something you can borrow.”
“Do you have any idea what their plan is?” I asked him. “Loni and Reese, I mean. They’re still not talking to me, but I’m done sitting around like a potted plant. Tomorrow I’m going to work even if I have to walk.”
A strange look crossed Painter’s face, and he sighed. “You can borrow my car.”
I sat back, stunned.
“I wasn’t trying to beg,” I told him, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Look, I’m not using it much anyway,” he replied. “It’s summer—I’d rather ride my bike. I’m heading out of town for a couple days, but I’ll have one of the prospects bring it over, drop it off for you. That way you can start working again, get back on your feet.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I whispered. Painter’s smile grew strained, and something dark flickered through his eyes.
“Don’t thank me too much,” he said. He looked away, waving toward the waitress. She hustled her ass right over, and I couldn’t blame her. I’d be hustling too, if he was sitting at one of my tables. “Can I get the check?”
“Sure,” she cooed at him. I watched as she leaned over, flashing her cleavage. He wasn’t looking at her, though.
He was looking at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Sorry for what?”
The waitress came back, handing over our check. Painter pulled out his wallet and grabbed several bills, stuffing them in the little black folder. Then he was on his feet and it was time to go.
He never told me what he was sorry for.
• • •
I picked an action movie.
There was a romantic comedy that looked good, but after he offered to loan me his car that just seemed cruel. He bought the tickets and we started toward the theater. We were almost inside when he paused to check his phone. Then his face turned grim.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said shortly. That was a lie if I’d ever heard one.
“No, something’s wrong. Do you need to go?”
He hesitated, and I knew he did.
“We should go,” I said firmly. “You can take me home, and then deal with whatever that was.” I nodded toward the phone.
“Yeah, we might want to do that,” he admitted. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to cut things short.”
“It’s fine. I’ve had a great time. I’m just sorry the tickets are wasted.”
“No worries,” he replied. “C’mon.”
The ride back was different. I’d lost the sense of breathless expectation that’d filled me earlier in the evening. Painter’s body was tense. Whatever message he’d gotten, it wasn’t good. We pulled up to Reese’s house to find it dark. I stepped off the bike and looked around, startled to see that Reese’s motorcycle was gone, along with London’s van.
“Where is everyone?”
“Let’s go inside,” Painter said, dodging my question. I followed him in, then turned, looking at him expectantly for an explanation. Something was up, this was obvious. He knew what it was, too.
“Well?” I asked when he didn’t answer my question.
“Reese and Loni are leaving town,” he said. “Most of the club is going with them. We’ve got some business to deal with in Portland. You can just stay here for now, okay? I’ll have the prospects bring my car over for you in the morning.”
He reached down and pulled out his wallet, opening it and counting out a stack of cash. “You can use this to get a place if . . . Well, if things don’t work out here.”
I stared at the money blankly—those were hundred dollar bills.
“I can’t take that.”
He reached for his phone, checked it again. “I don’t have time to argue with you. Take the fucking money.”
With that, he grabbed my hand, wrapping it around the bills. Then he started toward the door, something almost angry about the way he moved.
“Painter,” I called after him, confused. He turned back to me.
“You can do it, Mel.”
“What?”
“You can make it through this. Whatever happens, don’t forget that.”
“Painter, what the hell is going on?” I demanded. There was a seriously bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. He shook his head, taking a step toward me. Suddenly his hands were in my hair, jerking me into his body as his lips touched mine.
It wasn’t a movie kiss.
He didn’t stick his tongue in, and it hurt more than anything. Just a mashing of our lips together like he couldn’t help himself, until he shoved me away.
“Go to bed,” he growled, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand, like I disgusted him. Something painful twisted inside.
“Why?”
“Just go to fucking bed, Melanie. Tomorrow you can take the car and you can start looking for a place.”
Then he turned away and walked out the door.
• • •
The next morning I woke up to find a dark blue Toyota SUV in the driveway and a set of keys on the dining room table. I drove it to work, and after my shift I went to the library so I could use the Internet.
I needed to find an apartment.
That was Tuesday.
On Wednesday I sat alone on the porch, wondering if anyone would ever come back. By Thursday I’d given up on them. Loni was gone, just like my mom, and she’d taken Painter with her. I worked a double shift, and talked to one of my fellow waitresses about a bedroom in the house she rented with friends.
She thought one of them might be moving out in a couple weeks.
Friday morning, I woke to the sound of a big diesel truck in the driveway. Rushing downstairs, I opened the front door to see London climbing down from the vehicle, looking exhausted. Reese was already out, and then another person slid out of the crew cab. My best friend, Jessica—the same girl who’d thrown a tantrum and run off to California not long ago. Her hand was bandaged and strapped to her body in a sling. Bruises covered her face.
There was no sign of Painter.
Reese walked over to me slowly, glancing at the SUV parked in the driveway.
“He said you can borrow it as long as you want,” he said bluntly.
“Why isn’t he with you?” I asked, but I could already see the answer written across his face. Something had happened. Something bad.
“He’s in jail,” Reese said. “And I think he’ll be there for a while longer. He said to tell you he’s sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you should write and ask him.”
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