“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.”
Painter blinked rapidly, then stared straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white.
“You’re right.”
The words shocked me. Painter turned back to me, eyes burning with intensity.
“I was scared when you told me about Izzy,” he said. “You were scared, too—you told me you sat and cried on the floor in your bathroom when you found out, for fuck’s sake. You told me and I didn’t know what to say. I’d never wanted a kid, and then you were pissed and you left and I made my choice. I didn’t want to face that reality, so I rode with the club instead. I thought the run would clear my head, that we’d figure everything out when I got back. Instead they locked me up and I’ll have to live with that the rest of my life.”
“Painter . . .”
“I’m still scared sometimes when I look at her,” he continued, shaking his head slowly. “She’s this little tiny thing and there’s so many different ways we can break her, Mel. Even if we don’t, there’s a whole goddamned world out there just waiting to hurt her when she gets bigger. Mean girls and horny boys and school and the flu and that’s just the start. The best we can do is just push forward, one day at a time. I wasn’t with you then, but I’m with you now. I’m busting ass, building my career, earning money to support her—legal money, by the way—but you want me to go back in time and change history. I just can’t fucking do that, Melanie. Not even for you.”
Blinking, I stared at him, trying to process his words.
“You shouldn’t have left us,” I whispered.
Painter shook his head, reaching down to slam the SUV into gear, pulling out onto the street.
“Fuck, but you hold a grudge.”
“I did what I had to do, by myself. You disappeared. I never had that option, not even when things were at their worst.”
Painter slammed on the brake, the SUV skidding to the curb.
“What the hell?” I gasped, clutching the door.
He turned on me.
“You had options,” he said, his voice more intense than I’d ever heard it. “Just like I did. I already admitted it—I chose prison. You chose our child. You could’ve aborted her, but you didn’t. You took the hard road, and you raised a hell of a child along the way. I will never, ever forgive myself for leaving you alone, but I give thanks every fucking day that you were the strong one, Melanie. I can’t imagine life without Izzy. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for that.”
My breath came fast as we stared each other down. He was right. I’d been damned strong, and I’d been rewarded for that strength with an amazing, beautiful child who deserved the very best of everything in life.
“You’re welcome,” I managed to say, swallowing. Painter leaned over, catching the back of my head and pulling me in for a rough kiss. This wasn’t a seduction—not at all. He shoved his tongue in my mouth, and I felt every bit of his anger and frustration. I wanted to punch him and kiss him and fuck him until he admitted that . . . I didn’t know.