“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.