Devil's Game (Reapers MC, #3)(10)

“It’s never the night,” I said, shrugging. Then I chugged my beer. “Don’t worry, Duck. You’ve always taken good care of me, but I’ve got it covered. I’m an adult.”

“Yeah, I know,” Duck replied. “I guess when I look at you, I still see you with pigtails and a doll.”

I rolled my eyes. Then I tossed my cup in the garbage and headed over to the newest Reaper.

Painter stood next to the bonfire, the two girls still hanging off him. I ignored them completely, because they were just club sluts and I was the president’s daughter. They didn’t rank compared to me and we all knew it. Painter gave me a slow smile as I walked up, and from the glassy look in his eyes I knew he was already well on his way to shitfaced.

“Hey, Em,” he said, reaching out and pulling me into his arms for a hug. Oh, he smelled good. Kind of woodsy and smoky, with an underlying scent of motor oil from the shop. His arms were hard and roped with muscle around me, and his body was hard, too.

Hellfire.

Painter’s dick was hard. I thought it was my imagination at first. Then he pulled me closer and I felt it again—bigger. Yeah, I know. V card. Little Miss Innocent. But just because I’d never done the deed all the way didn’t mean I was ignorant. I knew damned well when a guy’s cock was poking my stomach.

Then he let me go and I stepped back, thankful that the sun had set because I knew my face had to be flushed. Painter looked down at me, and something almost magical hung between us. He stared at me like I was the most beautiful girl on earth, the woman he planned to claim as his own.

My dad walked up and slapped his back.

“Congratulations, son,” he said. “Proud of you.”

Just like that, Painter dropped his arms and turned away, apparently oblivious to our magic. Dad was well and truly cock-blocking me, and it was bullshit.

Wait, did it count as a cock-block if you didn’t have a cock?

“You have fun tonight,” Dad was telling him. “Tomorrow you rest and recover, because after that we’ve got work for you.”

Painter nodded, running a hand through his hair. One of the blondes who’d been hanging off him attached herself to my dad, and the other oozed back up to Painter right in front of me. I wanted him to tell her to f*ck off. Maybe rip out some of that bleached hair. Instead he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in for a hard kiss.

Damn it.

Dad’s eyes flicked toward me, assessing.

I turned and walked away.

Fuck that shit. I had my pride.

Two hours later I was well and truly drunk.

Maggs and I sat in the old tree house that attached to the children’s play structure with a rope bridge. I’d barely made it over the swaying net and wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to get back down without help.

“Life is short,” Maggs said suddenly. Her face was sad.

“You thinking about Bolt?” I asked. She nodded.

“Yup,” she said. “I think about him every day, but particularly at parties like this. I’m tired of watching everyone else have fun with nothing at home for me but my magic bullet.”

I snorted out a little laugh, then forced it down because it wasn’t exactly appropriate. I couldn’t help it, though.

“Buzzzzzzzz …” I hummed with drunken precision. “You go through a lot of batteries? I know I do. Can you make it walk across a table if you turn it on high enough?”

Maggs started giggling, her momentary sadness gone, and then we were both laughing. In fact, we laughed so hard that Maggs rolled off the edge of the platform, falling to the ground with a thud.

“Maggs!” I yelled, jumping up so fast I almost went over myself. “Maggs, are you okay?”

She moaned and turned over, looking up at me with a startled expression on her face. Then she started giggling again. Ruger and Bam Bam had been sitting near the fire, and Ruger jumped up so fast he dumped the chick on his lap off into the dirt.

I couldn’t help it. I burst out cackling so hard my stomach hurt. It wasn’t appropriate, I knew that. Maggs could’ve broken her neck. But the look on her face and the sight of Ruger’s ’ho—my former teacher—on the ground were just too funny.

“Okay,” I heard a deep voice say, and looked down to see my dad. “Looks like someone needs to head home.”

He reached up for me and I jumped down into his arms, just like I had when I was a little girl. Dad caught me easily, still as strong now as he’d been ten years ago. Of course, he was only forty-two, way younger than most of my friends’ parents.

“Emmy Lou, you’re drunk off your ass,” he told me.

“No shit,” I replied brightly. “I’m having fun.”

“Yeah, but it’s about time for you to go home.”

“Are you serious?” I asked. “Dad, I think it’s great that you’re always watching out for me, but I’m not a little kid. There’s nothing wrong with me sticking around.”

His face softened.

“Sweetheart, this is Painter’s night,” he said. “His time to celebrate and be free. You shouldn’t be here.”

“You’re talking about him f*cking whores, right?” I asked. Dad stiffened.

“It’s none of your business, Em,” he replied. “He doesn’t owe you anything.”