Taz caught my hand, leading me back along the big cement-block wall surrounding the courtyard toward a gate in the back. It was open, but a guy wearing a prospect’s cut stood guard, watching everyone who came and went. I didn’t recognize him, but when he saw me, his eyes widened. Then he whipped out his phone and started texting.

“This is really pretty,” I said, looking over the wide meadow we found on the other side of the wall. Beyond it the ground rose in a steep slope covered with trees, but back here it was just like a park. Gorgeous. There were quite a few tents and even another bonfire.

“We’re camped over there,” Taz said, nodding toward the far end of the meadow. “Let me show you.”

I frowned as his words penetrated my brain fog. My sense of self-preservation kicked in, pointing out quietly but insistently that going off with a strange guy in the dark at a biker party might not be the brightest of moves.

Shit. I really was turning into Jessica.

“Mel, get over here.”

I knew that voice. Turning slowly, I saw Painter standing behind us, arms crossed in front of him.

He didn’t look happy.

• • •

In retrospect, my mistake had been letting Kit into the house that afternoon. Truly, from that moment forward the whole day had been fucked, a runaway train careening down the track into a dark void of . . . well, mostly one very angry biker.

Why Painter was pissed, I had no clue.

Wasn’t like he’d spoken to me even once during the damned party. I’d been there for hours, yet the only times I’d seen him he’d been talking up slutty girls wearing painted-on jeans and stamp-sized bikini tops.

Not that I cared. Not at all. He could screw around with whoever he wanted, because . . . Double shit. His gaze met mine, burning through me, and I swear—the world started spinning. I forgot all about Taz as I fell into Painter’s eyes, mesmerized. Then I realized what I was doing and forced myself to look down, which wasn’t much better. I swear, the man was made entirely of muscles—delicious muscles that I could see all too clearly because he only wore a short-sleeved T-shirt under his leather Reapers cut. Faded blue jeans covered his legs, clinging to his thighs in a way that made my own clench. Worn black boots covered his feet. Together it was too much. Throughout the party, I’d tried to convince myself that he wasn’t as strong—or sexy—as the man I fantasized about every night. Nobody could be.

Except he totally was.

Painter’s gaze flicked between me and Taz, calculating and cool as he swaggered our direction, because apparently it wasn’t enough to look so sexy that my heart nearly exploded. Nope. He had to walk sexy, too. Breathe sexy.

I remembered every second I’d spent with him last year, every touch, every time I’d wrapped myself around his big, strong body while his Harley throbbed beneath us. He’d given me three rides. Less than thirty minutes total . . . And that one kiss—enough to mark me forever.

I wanted more in a big way.

“Painter,” Taz said, startling me. I’d forgotten he was there.

“Taz. Should probably let that one go. She’s protected.”

“She yours?” Taz asked, sounding surprised. “Guess she didn’t get the message. Not like I dragged her out here.”

“She’s a kid. Drop it.”

“Hey, I’m not a kid,” I protested, indignant. “I’ll be twenty-one in four months.”

Taz gave a low laugh. “You heard her. Fuck off, Brooks.”

Painter stepped toward me, his expression colder than I’d ever seen it. “Mel, get your ass back to the party.”

I stilled, unsure what I should do. I really did want to go back to the party . . . but I didn’t want Painter to win, either.

Shit.

Now I found myself trapped between him and Taz, and because I’m a freaking idiot I wanted to forget Taz and jump on Painter, right there in the middle of the yard. Just wrap my legs around his waist and grind on him like a whore. One very, very happy whore.

Where is your self-respect?

CHAPTER THREE

PAINTER

Mel was staring at me like a spooked rabbit.

She didn’t belong here and she knew it, the little sneak. She had to know—she’d been avoiding the Armory the whole time I was in jail. She’d written me all about it, among a thousand other things. You’d think a guy like me would get bored hearing about her life. There’d been a few club-whore types who’d written me, too—letters full of sex and promises and pictures that should’ve crowded Mel right out of my mind. Never stopped thinking about her, though. Not once. She’d become my anchor. Then she’d stopped writing after I told her to go find herself a boyfriend. Once I got home, I made a conscious decision to be a dick about the car, too. I had to be.

It was the right thing to do.

I’d made it a whole week back in Coeur d’Alene without hunting her down, holding out against temptation. Then Pic had mentioned the girls needed help moving last Saturday and it was all over. I’d kept my hands off her that day—didn’t do more than say hello—but it’d been torture. She was more beautiful than I remembered. Had filled out, going from pretty to gorgeous, all smooth, rich, tanned skin, dark hair, and long legs designed specifically by God to wrap around my waist.

When she leaned over in front of me to grab a cardboard box I’d nearly popped out of the front of my pants.

My fuckwad of a president had been laughing his ass off at me, while London went into full mother hen mode. I’d promised her once that I’d leave Mel alone—a promise that no longer stood in my opinion, given how she’d lied to the club and tricked us. One thing was for sure, though. No fucking way I’d gone through a full year of blue balls so Taz could swoop in and steal the prize.