Deuce scarcely remembered them. He’d met The Judge way back when, but it had been during a time in his life when his main concern had been trying to survive having Reaper as a father. That unlucky lot in life had included incessant name calling, and dodging punches or taking them so his little brother didn’t have to.
Joe flicked his cigarette away, earning him a nasty look from a passer-by—a young man wearing skinny jeans with thin red suspenders and a matching red bow tie.
Jesus Christ. Deuce really, really hated New York City.
“Did anyone ever tell you how it went down?” Joe asked.
“Heard some shit through the grapevine, nothin’ solid.”
“It was some real sick shit.” Joe tapped another cigarette out of his pack and lit it up. “They were mutilated. Sliced and diced. Blood everywhere. My old man… a few of his fingers had been cut off. And my mom… she… she…”
Joe’s mouth snapped shut and his lips pressed together, and Deuce turned away and got busy enjoying his cigarette.
Growing up, Deuce didn’t have the sort of close-knit family Joe had, but he’d improvised well enough. Once upon a time he’d had a little brother he’d loved fiercely, and other men he’d looked up to and depended upon. He knew what it felt like to give a fuck about someone and then to lose them one day unexpectedly.
Loss didn’t care how much time had passed. It didn’t care that you were getting on in years, half staring down the barrel of a gun yourself. Loss like that stuck with you, all the way to the bitter fucking end.
Eventually Joe let out a long, hard sigh and scrubbed a grease-stained hand over his face. “Preacher always thought it was the Italians. That was their thing back then—cuttin’ off the fingers from any poor son of a bitch who took somethin’ that didn’t belong to ‘em.
“But for me… man, that shit didn’t ever add up. Back then the Demons were good business for the syndicate. We did all their grunt work, got our hands dirty so they didn’t have to. Didn’t make sense for them to cut ties. And The Judge? He woulda never bit the hand that fed him. He didn’t work that way.”
A sad smile twisting his lips, Joe nodded to himself. “My old man was loyal to a fuckin’ fault.”
Letting out another hard sigh, Joe looked at Deuce. “Truth of the matter was, none of us knew who the fuck did it… or why.”
“But you found out, didn’t you?”
“Preacher did.”
“And?”
Joe smiled cruelly, his one eye gleaming with renewed retribution. “You know my brother.”
Snorting, Deuce shook his head. He sure as shit did. Preacher was a shoot-first, ask-questions-later kind of guy.
And Deuce had two bullet wounds to prove it.
Part Two
“When I do good, I feel good.
When I do bad, I feel bad.”
- Abraham Lincoln
“When I do good, I feel good.
When I do bad, I feel fucking great.”
- Damon “Preacher” Fox
Chapter 15
The sun had already begun its descent only four hours into their travels, and by the time Preacher crested the small hill that signaled their arrival in Four Points, it was little more than a half moon, glowing gold as it disappeared behind the high peaks of the Appalachian Mountains.
Today the normally quaint and quiet lake town was anything but. Cars, trucks, and motorcycles lined both sides of Main Street, a narrow two-lane road brimming with bikers and their families. Four Points didn’t have much to offer, only a small market, a laundromat, a movie theater, and a handful of mom-and-pop shops, but what it lacked in consumerism, it made up for with one hell of a beautiful view.
Traffic thickened, forcing Preacher to a full stop in the middle of the road. Further back someone laid on their horn, and the response from the crowd was instantaneous. From one end of the street to the other, men and women stopped what they were doing and started shouting and jeering.
“Nice ride, man!” A slim man clad head to toe in leather paused in front of Preacher, his eyes gleaming with envy.
He wasn’t the only one who’d stopped to stare. She was a rare beauty, his ’69 chopper, with her deep blue tank, matching raked frame, extended fork tubes, and drag bars on dogbone risers. And glistening in the setting sun like she was, Preacher would fault a man for not looking.
Behind him Debbie released his middle and straightened. Stretching her suntanned limbs, she gave Preacher a primo view of the nicely toned legs that had been hindering him for the past several hours. Initially she’d worn jeans for the ride, but after it had rained briefly, she’d changed into shorts.
She’d chosen a small thicket of trees on the side of the highway to change behind that had done very little to hide her. Preacher had caught fortuitous glimpses of skin every time she’d moved and a flash of one very firm ass cheek. And when she’d switched her top, Preacher had gotten another eyeful—a frustrating peek at her left breast. He’d outright stared, the recollection of her fully naked and offering him sex once again mocking him.
Sixteen, he chanted silently, fumbling for his cigarettes. Sixteen, sixteen, six-fucking-teen. Where the hell were his goddamn cigarettes?
Finding out her age should have been the equivalent of a cold shower. Instead, it’d had the opposite effect on him, and he’d spent nearly every moment since trying not to think about her… like that. Which had caused him to think about her twice as much.
Neither did it help when the person he was actively trying not to think about was pressed up against him, her arms wrapped around his waist, her breasts crushed against his back, her bare legs cradling his hips. All of it making it twice as hard to hear reason and sensibility over the roar of blood rushing straight to his dick.
Still searching for his cigarettes and looking anywhere except at Debbie’s sixteen-year-old legs, Preacher eyed the crowded street and paused on a woman strutting down the sidewalk. She was his type to a tee—blonde, tan, with hourglass curves and legs for days. Noticing Preacher, the blonde shot him a knowing smirk and put a little extra swing in her hips. Appreciating the show, he continued tracking her movements. There’d be more just like her at the rally, and he was planning on taking one to bed as soon as possible.
Because that’s all this bullshit with Debbie was—an urge to fuck. He was finally feeling a little bit like his old self again, and after months without a woman, he needed to blow off some steam.
Traffic began to move again, and Preacher revved his engine, pulling forward. Debbie’s arms slid back in place, her hands coming to rest inside his open vest and settling low on his hips.
He blew out a breath of smoke through gritted teeth, then flicked away what remained of his cigarette. Sixteen, you horny asshole, she’s only six-fucking-teen.
As they continued down Main Street, the smells of the rally preceded the view of the park—a thick blend of exhaust and campfire smoke, along with cooking meat and freshly cut grass.
Preacher turned right at the third light, and then made an immediate left onto Lakeside Drive. He knew these streets like the back of his hand; he’d been coming to Four Points for years—until he’d been locked up. This would be his first summer back after two years away.
The realization that he was about to come face to face with The Judge caused his neck muscles to tighten. He’d been so preoccupied thinking about Debbie all damn day, thoughts of his father had slipped his mind. His old man was going to have quite a lot to say to him, and none of it was going to be good.
As Preacher turned slowly into the state park’s gravel entrance, the ache in his neck flared hot, accompanied by shooting pains above his eyes. Fighting the urge to rub his forehead, he continued on, slowly weaving his way through the overcrowded picnic area.
He felt Debbie twisting in her seat behind him and wondered at the expression on her face. Did the crowd unnerve her? The rally had twice as many people as the Wayne County Fair. Or was she gleefully plotting how many wallets she c
ould grab before dinner had ended? Preacher’s smirked at the thought, and the pain in his head began to ease.
His mother was going to love Debbie. Ginny Fox wasn’t happy unless she was sticking her nose in someone else’s business and rearranging their entire life. She was a one-woman reform mission in their neighborhood. Feeding the homeless, counseling the addicts, volunteering at Father Evan’s home for boys. Preacher had once caught her trying to be a go-between for feuding hookers.
The moment Ginny sensed the street on Debbie, she’d come barreling in like a bat out of hell on a mission to save the girl, and Debbie wouldn’t stand a chance against her.
He drew in a deep, anxious breath… just like he wouldn’t stand a chance against The Judge.
Preacher slowed his bike to a stop at the end of a long line of motorcycles and toed the kickstand down. Pushing his goggles over his head, he looked around. Nothing had changed since the last time he’d been here—with the exception of him. Behind the picnic area sat the campground, filled with a variety of tents and trailers, all shapes and sizes. And beyond the campground, there was a waterfall that emptied into a swimming hole. During the day the area would be bursting with children and families, but after dark, the young adult crowd would congregate there. Preacher had many fond memories of after dark at the waterfall.
Debbie dismounted and turned in a circle, drinking it all in. She appeared nervous yet curious.
“You weren’t kidding,” she said. “There’s a lot of people here.”
Preacher smirked at her, a smartass joke about pickpocketing on the tip of his tongue when a whistled catcall drew their attention.
“You get sick of her, you give her to me!” a burly man shouted, raising a bottle of beer in salutation. “What I wouldn’t do to ride a beaut like that-a-one!”
“The bitch ain’t bad, either!” one of his companions called out, laughing.
“I’ll fuck ‘em both!” a third man stated loudly, crudely grabbing his crotch. At that, the entire group burst into hysterics.
Preacher sent a two-finger salute in their direction, dismissing them. Debbie’s gaze slid to Preacher. “Bitch?” she asked, brows raised.
Laughing, he set to work untying her backpack from his handlebars. “Welcome to my world, Wheels.”
• • •
“Welcome to another world,” Debbie muttered under her breath.
Trailing closely behind Preacher, she’d glimpsed campsites crowded with families—moms and dads playing with their children, older people snoring in lawn chairs while younger generations manned the grills. In others the music was turned up loud, the picnic tables littered with bottles of booze. Young men and women danced in the grass while others were pressed up against one another, engaged in another sort of dance.
Debbie hadn’t bothered to ask Preacher any questions about where they were headed, and therefore she hadn’t known what to expect. But never in a million years would she have guessed something like this.
It wasn’t that the place felt unwelcoming; quite the opposite actually. This place, these people, gave off a similar vibe to the people she sometimes encountered on the road. People like Sunshine. People like Preacher. People who didn’t adhere to the same social standards as everyone else and who didn’t look at you sideways if you didn’t look or act a certain way. Here she didn’t feel like a fish out of water… but instead, just another fish in the sea.
“Shit.” Preacher stopped and glanced around, his gaze bouncing from campsite to campsite. Debbie came to stand beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“Lookin’ for my parents. They usually park right around here.”
His parents? Debbie’s eyes widened. Preacher’s parents were here?
“Preacher? No fuckin’ way! Noooo fuckin’ way!”
All of a sudden, a very large, very round young man barreled into Preacher, sending both men sprawling onto the ground. Startled, Debbie leaped backward and continued backing away as two more men were fast approaching.
“Holy shit! Preacher!” The younger of the approaching pair rushed forward, his brown eyes shining with excitement—eyes that Debbie noticed were very similar to Preacher’s. In fact, the more she studied him, the more similarities she found between them. She suspected they were related, though this man was slimmer than Preacher, clean-shaven and with a much shorter hairstyle. And unlike the others, he wasn’t wearing a leather vest.
Preacher rolled away from his assailant and jumped to his feet, pulling the younger man into a hug.
“Do Mom and Dad know you’re here?” the younger man asked, confirming Debbie’s suspicion.
“Naw,” Preacher drawled, and gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Hightower told me you’d headed up here.” He shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood. Figured I’d swing by and see what you sorry bunch of assholes were doin’.”
“Preacher.” The remaining man stepped forward. A great deal older than the other three, he had short dark hair with thick, graying sideburns. Low on his nose sat a pair of small round bifocals that were in sharp contrast to his worn leather vest and dirty jeans.
“Doc,” Preacher greeted him, clasping his hand, and Debbie’s gaze was drawn to the extensive scarring covering his hands and forearms—a road map of raised white lines. As their hands pulled apart, she counted only three fingers on Doc’s right hand.
“Who’s the broad?” Red-faced and breathing hard, Preacher’s attacker gestured to Debbie. And to her absolute horror, all eyes were suddenly on her.
Preacher looked at her, his eyes glittering with amusement.
“Wheels,” he said. “Meet my littlest brother, Max. And this here’s Doc.” Preacher nodded at the older man. “And this shithead—is Tiny.”
Preacher tossed Tiny a carefree smirk. “Found her poundin’ pavement on 89. She’s headed to the city, so I offered my… services.” He said the word “services” in such a way—drawing out each syllable, and imbued with insinuation.
Everyone but Debbie laughed. Feeling mildly incensed, she crossed her arms over her chest.
“Her name is Wheels?” Tiny asked.
All eyes were still on Debbie—Tiny and Doc’s were filled with questions, while Max unabashedly stared at her in a way that made her wish for her jacket despite the heat.
Laughing, Preacher hooked an arm around Tiny’s neck and tugged him forward. “It’s Hell on Wheels. I call her Wheels for short.”
Chapter 16
Preacher’s family’s campsite consisted of three successive sites. A lone pop-up trailer sat in the center, and behind it, a robin’s-egg blue Chevy van was parked amid a handful of motorcycles. Tents had been erected in every direction, ranging in size from single-person to large enough to house a family of four. A short distance from the trailer several picnic tables had been pushed together, their benches currently brimming with bodies.
Debbie swallowed back her surprise. Even after realizing Preacher’s family was here, she hadn’t anticipated that a bona fide army awaited her.
As their small group neared the picnic tables, Debbie’s anxiety reached its boiling point. She envisioned more eyes on her, studying her, judging her, wondering who she was and what she was doing with Preacher. Her late lunch swirled inside her gut and her palms grew sweaty.
A young man with long blond hair shot up off a bench. “Preacher!” he shouted, and the campsite went silent as everyone swivelled in their seats, turning their shocked and gaping expressions toward Preacher.
The picnic tables exploded. People jumped to their feet, cursing and shouting his name. A woman darted across the grass, her hand over her heart. “Damon!” she cried. “Oh God, Damon!”
She was a tall woman with wavy brown hair that hung thick and heavy to her waist. As she hurried across the campsite, her generous curves swayed and bounced beneath an orange and yellow sundress that billowed and swirled around her bare feet. Large, ornate earrings dangled from her ears, and a stack of silver and gold bangles lined each of her forearms. S
he was naturally beautiful and stunning in a way that reminded Debbie of Sunshine.
Who was this gorgeous creature? And why did Preacher look so happy to see her?
“Mom.” Preacher packed so much emotion into the lone word as he folded the woman into his arms. Debbie blinked, startled. This striking, bohemian woman was Preacher’s mother? She didn’t look like a mom, at least not any mom Debbie had ever known. Certainly not her own.
Debbie watched them embrace—a hug that seemed never-ending—and it caused swirls of envy to stir beneath her skin. The tiny twisters roused a maelstrom of emotions that swept through her like an unforgiving wind and sent her staggering back a step.
Her mother had never greeted her like that, never looked at her like Preacher’s mother was looking at him—with her hands on his cheeks, looking up at her son with such adoration, as if the sun rose and set in his eyes.
Hands clenched into fists, Debbie took another step back and released a shaky breath. It wasn’t that she was unused to seeing families. She saw them often quite often in passing and paid them the same amount of attention they paid her—next to none. Certainly not to the point where she’d allow herself to become overwhelmed with feelings.
Deep breath after deep breath, Debbie slowly but surely steeled her emotions, forcing them back down to the darkness where they couldn’t hurt her.
“So, uh, are you and my brother, you know…”
Debbie’s head swiveled to find Max beside her, grinning slyly. He might share his brother’s good looks, but there was a world of difference between the two. Max’s gaze was too bright and full of youthful mischief, whereas Preacher’s was much darker, heavier, and filled with things Debbie recognized, things she’d glimpsed in her own reflection.
“He’s just giving me a ride,” she mumbled, turning away. She searched out Preacher, finding him surrounded by nearly everyone in camp. Only one man remained by the picnic tables—older, of stocky build, he was heavily muscled with salt-and-pepper hair cut into a high-and-tight. Thick arms folded over his broad chest, he watched the happy reunion through narrowed eyes.