Reaper's Fall
Page 70
She was right.
“Thanks, Jess.”
“No worries,” she replied, tucking in close to me. “You know, I always pictured this conversation going the other way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d always assumed I’d be the one who accidentally got knocked up,” she said with a laugh. “Although I’m glad it’s you. I’m not ready to go through pregnancy and birth and all that shit.”
“How do you always manage to say exactly the right thing and exactly the wrong thing, all at the same time?”
“Just a gift, I guess. Everyone has their talents.”
• • •
No matter how many times I went to see Painter at the county jail, I never got used to being searched—made me feel dirty. Like there was something wrong with me, because I was visiting someone inside that place where decent people shouldn’t go.
In the weeks since he’d been locked up, I knew the club was working to figure out what the hell had happened with his parole officer. If they had the full story, nobody was telling. Officially he was still on administrative leave, although I’d heard rumors that they might be pressing charges against him.
I just hoped Painter wouldn’t get caught up in it.
On the bright side, today was my last visit out here—they’d be releasing him tomorrow. According to Reese, none of this was normal and I shouldn’t worry about Painter.
Of course, he wasn’t the pregnant one.
By the time they finally brought him in to see me, I was so nervous that I’d started trembling.
“Hey, babe,” he said, his voice warm as he came to sit across from me at a table and stools painted bright orange. They were all bolted into the floor, presumably so none of them could be used as weapons.
Lovely.
“Hey,” I whispered, smiling at him. We weren’t supposed to touch, but sometimes he stretched his foot out toward mine under the table. “How’s it going?”
“I’m ready to get out of here,” he said, flashing me a smile. “I miss you. Miss riding my bike, too. Hell, I even miss that cockwad Puck. Fucker’s been down to see me twice a week. How’s that for rubbing it in?”
That got a laugh out of me, because I knew how much those visits meant to him.
“So I wanted to talk to you about something,” I started.
“What’s up?”
“About club life.” Hmm . . . how to say it? “Everyone says this isn’t the way things normally work—that this parole officer’s out to get the club or something. But I also know you have brothers who’ve served time. What about their families? I know most of them have old ladies and kids and stuff. What do guys like that do if they have to go to jail?”
“Whatever it takes,” he said, cocking his head. “Why do you ask?”
“I was out at Dancer’s house the other day,” I told him. “And I was looking at the pictures of their kids. They’ve got a really nice family. How does Bam Bam manage to pull off the fatherhood thing and still do what needs to be done for the club? Seems like it would be such a hard balance.”
Painter narrowed his eyes at me.
“Why don’t you ask me the real question,” he said, his voice serious. I took a deep breath.
“Do you want to have a family someday?”
Painter leaned back in his seat, eyes studying my face. Then he slowly shook his head.
“No fuckin’ way.”
Something twisted inside. I’d like to say it was my heart breaking, but odds were high it was heartburn. I’d been having that more and more lately.
“Never?” I asked, my voice small.
“Mel, I grew up in the foster care system. I was one of the lucky ones, because I got beat up, but I never got raped. Watched kids get raped, though. Watched kids pimped out. Ran away when I was eleven with a couple other boys and lived on the streets after that, right up to the point that they threw me in juvie. Wanna guess what I did to get locked up?”
I swallowed. “What did you do?”
A bitter smile twisted his face. “Not a goddamned thing. They throw you in detention if they don’t have anywhere else to put you. I had a bad reputation—troublemaker. None of the foster families would take me. Spent six months inside before they found me a new place, but by that point I’d already figured something out.”
He leaned closer, eyes intense.
“If you’re gonna do the time anyway, might as well do the crime.”
Then he sat back, crossing his arms in front of him.
“No fuckin’ way I’d bring a kid into this world. Wouldn’t risk doing that to him, and I already know I’d be a shit dad. I don’t even like kids. They smell weird, they do crazy things, and they’re always jumping out of nowhere. You want a baby daddy, you better look somewhere else.”
I swallowed again, staring at him.
“Okay, then. Good to know.”
He smiled at me, and this one reached his eyes. “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow, babe. Hold you. It’s gonna be great.”
“Sure,” I said faintly. “Great. We’ll have a spiffy good time. If you could excuse me, I need to hit the bathroom.”
Painter frowned. “You okay?”
“Fabulous,” I said, smilingly tightly. “But I really need to pee. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
Then I got the hell out of there.
“Thanks, Jess.”
“No worries,” she replied, tucking in close to me. “You know, I always pictured this conversation going the other way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d always assumed I’d be the one who accidentally got knocked up,” she said with a laugh. “Although I’m glad it’s you. I’m not ready to go through pregnancy and birth and all that shit.”
“How do you always manage to say exactly the right thing and exactly the wrong thing, all at the same time?”
“Just a gift, I guess. Everyone has their talents.”
• • •
No matter how many times I went to see Painter at the county jail, I never got used to being searched—made me feel dirty. Like there was something wrong with me, because I was visiting someone inside that place where decent people shouldn’t go.
In the weeks since he’d been locked up, I knew the club was working to figure out what the hell had happened with his parole officer. If they had the full story, nobody was telling. Officially he was still on administrative leave, although I’d heard rumors that they might be pressing charges against him.
I just hoped Painter wouldn’t get caught up in it.
On the bright side, today was my last visit out here—they’d be releasing him tomorrow. According to Reese, none of this was normal and I shouldn’t worry about Painter.
Of course, he wasn’t the pregnant one.
By the time they finally brought him in to see me, I was so nervous that I’d started trembling.
“Hey, babe,” he said, his voice warm as he came to sit across from me at a table and stools painted bright orange. They were all bolted into the floor, presumably so none of them could be used as weapons.
Lovely.
“Hey,” I whispered, smiling at him. We weren’t supposed to touch, but sometimes he stretched his foot out toward mine under the table. “How’s it going?”
“I’m ready to get out of here,” he said, flashing me a smile. “I miss you. Miss riding my bike, too. Hell, I even miss that cockwad Puck. Fucker’s been down to see me twice a week. How’s that for rubbing it in?”
That got a laugh out of me, because I knew how much those visits meant to him.
“So I wanted to talk to you about something,” I started.
“What’s up?”
“About club life.” Hmm . . . how to say it? “Everyone says this isn’t the way things normally work—that this parole officer’s out to get the club or something. But I also know you have brothers who’ve served time. What about their families? I know most of them have old ladies and kids and stuff. What do guys like that do if they have to go to jail?”
“Whatever it takes,” he said, cocking his head. “Why do you ask?”
“I was out at Dancer’s house the other day,” I told him. “And I was looking at the pictures of their kids. They’ve got a really nice family. How does Bam Bam manage to pull off the fatherhood thing and still do what needs to be done for the club? Seems like it would be such a hard balance.”
Painter narrowed his eyes at me.
“Why don’t you ask me the real question,” he said, his voice serious. I took a deep breath.
“Do you want to have a family someday?”
Painter leaned back in his seat, eyes studying my face. Then he slowly shook his head.
“No fuckin’ way.”
Something twisted inside. I’d like to say it was my heart breaking, but odds were high it was heartburn. I’d been having that more and more lately.
“Never?” I asked, my voice small.
“Mel, I grew up in the foster care system. I was one of the lucky ones, because I got beat up, but I never got raped. Watched kids get raped, though. Watched kids pimped out. Ran away when I was eleven with a couple other boys and lived on the streets after that, right up to the point that they threw me in juvie. Wanna guess what I did to get locked up?”
I swallowed. “What did you do?”
A bitter smile twisted his face. “Not a goddamned thing. They throw you in detention if they don’t have anywhere else to put you. I had a bad reputation—troublemaker. None of the foster families would take me. Spent six months inside before they found me a new place, but by that point I’d already figured something out.”
He leaned closer, eyes intense.
“If you’re gonna do the time anyway, might as well do the crime.”
Then he sat back, crossing his arms in front of him.
“No fuckin’ way I’d bring a kid into this world. Wouldn’t risk doing that to him, and I already know I’d be a shit dad. I don’t even like kids. They smell weird, they do crazy things, and they’re always jumping out of nowhere. You want a baby daddy, you better look somewhere else.”
I swallowed again, staring at him.
“Okay, then. Good to know.”
He smiled at me, and this one reached his eyes. “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow, babe. Hold you. It’s gonna be great.”
“Sure,” I said faintly. “Great. We’ll have a spiffy good time. If you could excuse me, I need to hit the bathroom.”
Painter frowned. “You okay?”
“Fabulous,” I said, smilingly tightly. “But I really need to pee. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
Then I got the hell out of there.
