He was more beautiful than I remembered.
Bigger, too. I guess he’d spent some of that time in jail lifting weights. His hair had grown out some. When I’d first met him, it’d been short and spiky and bleached so blond it hurt. It still wasn’t long, but it wasn’t bleached bright white anymore and it was shaggy. Natural. His cheekbones were sharp, his features chiseled and harder than I remembered, and there was something scary in his pale blue eyes.
He wasn’t looking at me—he was looking through me. Up to that point I’d held out hope that he was just busy or something. How stupid was that?
“All he said was ‘hey,’” I told the girls. “Like I was a stranger, and it was obvious he didn’t want to talk. Just nodded his head when I thanked him and walked away. He helped move our shit, but I swear, he was friendlier to Jessica than he was to me.”
That part particularly hurt, because I knew their secret. Jessica and Painter had slept together. Or fooled around. Whatever. She’d never given me all the details, but I knew her lips had been in contact with his dick at one point, back before she pulled her shit together and settled down.
“Mellie, that didn’t mean anything,” my best friend said softly. “You know he’s not interested in me.”
“In you?” Kit asked, her voice sharp. “I thought the issue was between him and Melanie?”
My mouth snapped shut, because it wasn’t my story to tell.
“I used to be wilder,” Jess said, taking a deep breath. “Last year I got drunk and went out to the Armory for a party. I fucked around with Painter and another guy named Banks. Then London showed up and dragged me out and a lot of other shit happened.”
“Wow,” Em said, eyes wide. “He must not like you very much, Jessica. He never sleeps with the girls he actually likes.”
I gaped as Kit leaned over and smacked her head.
“That’s a shitty thing to say,” she snapped. My chest felt tight—Jess had enough on her plate, she didn’t need to hear stuff like that.
“Hey, it’s not my fault he has a Madonna-whore complex,” Em protested.
“Shut the fuck up!” Kit hissed. “Jesus, Em, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“It’s okay,” Jess said, flapping her hand at them. “I’m so sorry, but just the thought of the whole thing is so ridiculous. Believe me—I could give two shits if Painter likes me or not. It’s just . . . he doesn’t fuck girls he likes? What the hell is wrong with him?”
“How much time do you have?” Em asked seriously. “It could take a while to break it all down.”
I held up a hand.
“Do I get a vote?”
“No,” Kit said. “Em, give her the short and dirty.”
“I spent more than a year chasing after Painter,” Em said. “He was into me—everyone said he was. But the club always came first, and it’s like he expected me to be some kind of perfect, precious angel while he fucked around with his club whores. Finally I got sick of it and ran off with Hunter.”
“Seriously?” I asked. She blushed.
“Okay, it’s a little more complicated than that,” she admitted. “But there was definitely something between us, yet he never got off his ass and did anything about it. The guy has issues.”
“Painter’s problem is he likes the idea of a relationship but he’s too fucking chicken to follow through,” Kit said, giggling.
“No, Painter’s problem is that he’s complicated,” Jess said, her voice more serious. “I’d say he was a total asshole, but he helped save my life last summer. He wound up in jail because of it. It doesn’t change the real truth, though—Painter is a great guy to have around if your life’s in danger and you need someone to rescue you. But other than that? He’s not one of the good ones, Mel. You shouldn’t talk to him, because he’s dangerous. They all are.”
Kit and Em had grown quiet—now the awkward had changed direction.