“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.