He was Preacher’s father, she decided. He had the same distinctive jawline, the same proud nose and broad shoulders as his son. As both his sons, she silently amended, glancing sideways at Max. The resemblance was uncanny, despite Preacher and Max’s taller, leaner frames.
“And you are?” A touch to her arm startled Debbie. A spicy, sweet scent filled her nostrils.
Swallowing her surprise, she blinked up at Preacher’s mother. “I, uh… Debbie. My name is Debbie. But, um, Preacher calls me Wheels.”
The woman’s dark brows shot up, and Debbie was entranced by her eyes. Surrounded by fine lines, ringed in thick, dark lashes, they were a deep shade of gray reminiscent of the sky just before it rains.
“Wheels? Any particular reason he chose Wheels?”
Debbie lifted her shoulder. “He says it’s short for Hell on Wheels.”
Chuckling, the woman shook her head and placed a heavily bejewelled hand on her chest. Stacks of gold and silver rings encircled her fingers. “Oh my dear, on behalf of my son, I’m so sorry. Wheels… good grief, these boys and their nicknames.”
She continued on, still shaking her head. “I’m Evangeline. But you can call me Ginny—everyone else does. Or little Ginny, if you can believe that.” She laughed loudly, and Debbie decided that even her laugh—a deep, throaty feminine rumble—was nearly as beautiful as the woman herself.
“Preacher met her on 89,” Max interjected. “She’s headed for the city and hitched a ride with him.”
Ginny’s eyes widened, brightening with curiosity. “You’ll have to tell me more about yourself, Debbie. And you’ll have to forgive me for not calling you Wheels.” She winked at Max. “She’s much too pretty for a name like Wheels, isn’t she Maxwell?”
Grinning impishly, Max’s eyes slanted in Debbie’s direction. “Yeah, Ma. Way too pretty.”
Five minutes in Max’s presence and Debbie was already tired of him. She attempted a smile, managing only a slight baring of teeth—a reminder of just how rusty and untried she was when it came to interacting with other people.
But neither Max nor Ginny seemed to notice. Max continued to grin obnoxiously, leaving Debbie to wonder if it was the teenager’s only expression.
“Come, Debbie darling,” Ginny said, offering Debbie her arm. “And meet everyone.”
• • •
The introductions felt endless, and Debbie’s mind was soon spinning with names and faces. Aside from the three men she’d already met—Max, Tiny, and Doc—Ginny introduced her to Preacher’s other brother, Joe, and his pregnant wife, Sylvia. Joe, who was shorter and stockier like his father, wore a black eyepatch over his left eye and had been aptly nicknamed One-Eyed Joe. Debbie had hardly had time to wonder how he’d lost his eye when she was turned around to meet the others.
Palms clammy, heart pounding an uneven beat inside her chest, Debbie reluctantly allowed Ginny to parade her around the campsite, introducing her to person after person.
She met Doc’s wife June—a slim woman with indistinct features who seemed as quiet and reserved as her husband. And Whiskey Jim, an older man with a head full of white hair, and his much younger wife, Anne. Blonde and beautiful, Anne looked as if she’d stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.
Best friends with Anne was Louisa. And the two women couldn’t have been more different. Whereas Anne was tall and slim, polished and well-dressed, Louisa was much shorter, curvier, and covered in tattoos. Wearing a ratty band tee and jeans, she was cuddled up to a biker named Crazy-8. Also heavily tattooed, Crazy-8 had a rough and tough appearance, contrasted by an easygoing smile.
She met Smokey and Knuckles next. Smokey, a middle-aged widower who had a look to him that gave Debbie the impression that he’d seen and done it all. And Knuckles, twenty-two years old with an unruly mass of blond curls framing his flirtatious smile, he wore a T-shirt that read in big, bold lettering: FUCK HAIRCUTS.
Faking smiles and shaking hands, Debbie began feeling strange and desperate. Everyone was mostly kind, if not overly so, but made no effort to hide their questions. They stared at her with blatant curiosity, their thoughts clear. Who was she? And what was she doing with Preacher?
Each new face added to her growing anxiety, worse because Preacher seemed to have abandoned her to Ginny.
Eventually Ginny led Debbie to the picnic tables, where Preacher’s father still stood at the head, stone-faced and unmoving. He was an intimidating-looking man, his stiff, unfriendly demeanor making him seem all the more threatening, even more so up close.
And he practically exuded authority, so much so that Debbie didn’t need to read the PRESIDENT patch on his leather vest to know that, among these people, this man was king.
“Gerald, honey.” Ginny placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “This is Debbie. She arrived with Damon.”
Gerald looked her up and down with a critical eye, as a buyer might look over a car they were considering purchasing. Finished, he glanced over at his wife, his mouth pressed into a thin, grim line, leaving Debbie feeling not quite sure she’d passed his inspection.
“This is what he’s been doing all this time?” Gerald bit out. “Messin’ with girls? He couldn’t have done this shit at home?”
“Gerry,” Ginny admonished quietly. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” Gerald shot back. “He can’t just waltz back in here like nothin’ happened!”
Unsure of what to do, Debbie glanced down at her hands, suddenly very interested in her nails. She was contemplating slinking away when a familiar arm came down around her shoulders.
“You doin’ okay, Wheels?” Preacher gave her a crooked smile. “You look a little green.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered through clenched teeth. She glanced longingly at her pack on his back, feeling naked without it. “Can I have my backpack?”
“Lie,” he retorted softly, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “And no. Can’t have you runnin’ off with my stuff.”
She met his gaze, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his stuff if he didn’t give her the bag back, only to find his attention was elsewhere. His eyes were locked with Gerald’s, and both father and son were wearing identical scathing expressions.
“The prodigal son returns,” Gerald said flatly.
“The prodigal son is just visiting,” Preacher amended tersely.
Gerald’s nostrils flared, his fists clenched, and if Preacher’s arm hadn’t been wrapped around her shoulders, Debbie would have backed away.
Clearing her throat, Ginny glanced nervously between her husband and son. “You must be hungry, Damon,” she said. “We have—”
“Yeah,” Gerald loudly interrupted, “you must be hungry. And while you’re eatin’ my food, why don’t you tell us what your plans are? Will you be comin’ home with us, or headin’ back to God only knows where to do God only knows what with God only knows who?” At that, Gerald gave Debbie a pointed, disapproving look.
Beside Debbie, Preacher had gone stiff. His arm resting on her shoulders grew rigid. All around them, the campsite fell quiet, and Debbie didn’t need to look to know that all eyes were now on them.
“Gerry,” Ginny snapped quietly, “please. He just got here.”
Gerald’s hard stare remained fixed on Preacher. “Still doesn’t change the fact that he just up and took off on us, been gone for months now with no word.”
Debbie looked to Preacher, a dozen questions brewing. If Preacher noticed her eyes on him, he’d didn’t show it. His attention remained on his father.
“Well?” Gerald growled. “What have you got to say for yourself, boy?”
Preacher’s arm fell away from Debbie’s shoulders, his angry expression turning downright murderous.
“This ain’t the army.” Preacher’s voice quivered with rage. “And I ain’t your fuckin’ soldier.”
Gerald’s thick salt-and-pepper brows drew together, deep grooves appearing between them. His nostrils continued to flare, faster and faster like
tiny hummingbird wings. His suntanned skin appeared to darken, reddening with anger. And just when Debbie thought Gerald was going to quite literally explode, he spun away and stalked off across the campsite. There were several slams as he disappeared inside the trailer, followed by a worrisome crash and several shouted curses.
Also cursing, Preacher marched away in the opposite direction. Biting down on her bottom lip, Debbie stared blankly after him. What was she supposed to do?
“Damon!” Ginny called. She gestured wildly with her hands. “Dammit, someone follow him!”
“I got this!” Tiny declared, waving at Ginny as he hurried out of camp.
Debbie eyed the rest of the group. Knowing glances were being exchanged. Others shook their heads and rolled their eyes. It seemed this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence where Preacher and Gerald were concerned.
“Lord help me with fathers and sons,” Ginny muttered. Pulling a leather pouch from her dress pocket, she flicked it open, revealing the dark brown cigarettes inside. Long and slim, they smelled both spicy and sweet once lit.
Sighing, Ginny gave Debbie a small, strained smile. “You must be hungry.” She gestured to the picnic tables. “Let me make you a plate.”
Chapter 17
“Wait up, will you?” Tiny called out breathlessly.
Preacher picked up his pace, weaving in and around campsites without looking where he was going and barreled straight into a young couple holding hands, forcing them apart. Muttering apologies, he made a quick right and ended up clipping a leather-clad man on the arm. He plowed through another few campsites before finally finding the dirt path that would lead him to the swimming hole.
“Five fuckin’ minutes,” he hissed under his breath. Five minutes was all it had taken for The Judge to start in on him. He hadn’t seen the man in months—he could have at least said hello before laying into him. But no. The Judge was all business, all the fucking time. Nothing else ever seemed to matter.
Jesus Christ. Why had he come here? Had he really missed any of this? Shaking his head, he let out a derisive snort. The Judge would never be capable of seeing anything other than his own obscured judgment.
“Preacher, man! I said, wait the fuck up!”
Fists clenched, jaw locked, Preacher forced himself to stop. Seconds later Tiny reached him, sweat dripping down his forehead and both his cheeks. Leaning forward, hands on his knees, Tiny wheezed through his next several breaths.
Preacher glared down at him. “You need to mind your own business.”
Still bent over, Tiny nodded jerkily. “Yeah…brother,” he rasped. “I know…it. Just couldn’t…let you...run off…again.”
Preacher instantly felt bad. He hadn’t been thinking clearly when he’d taken off, hadn’t given much thought to how his sudden disappearance would affect the others. Looking at his friend now, he realized how incredibly selfish he’d been.
But then again… if memory served him correctly, everyone had seemed to think his release from prison had been just another goddamn Tuesday, and business as usual. Tiny included.
Straightening, Tiny placed his hand on Preacher’s shoulder. “You know The Judge won’t ever admit to it, but he’s been worried sick about you. He’s been makin’ calls, checkin’ in with everyone, tryin’ to find you.”
Rolling his eyes, Preacher turned away and stared off across the park. He didn’t doubt The Judge had been looking for him, but he doubted his reasons. If The Judge had been worried, it was only worry for his club and Preacher’s role in it.
Moving off the pathway, Preacher dropped down beside a cluster of trees. The jagged backdrop of the Appalachians loomed in the distance. The sun was barely visible now, a quickly fading haze of oranges and reds.
Tiny sat down beside him, breathing hard and smelling strongly of body odor.
“You fuckin’ stink.”
“Yeah? You look like a caveman with that beard.”
“Man, you’re as wet as they are.” Preacher gestured to Tiny’s T-shirt, soaked through at the collar with sweat, before jerking his chin toward a group of bikini-clad young women heading down the path. Hair wet, wrapped in towels, they’d clearly been swimming.
“Not as wet as they’re gonna be once I get my hands on ‘em.”
Preacher started to laugh, and so did Tiny. And shit, even with Tiny stinking to high heaven, Preacher realized how much he really had missed his friend.
“Get a couple a’ drinks in ‘em and we’ll be in like Flynn,” Tiny suggested, waggling his eyebrows.
Preacher spared the group of women another quick, dismissive glance. Shrugging, he turned back to the sunset and lit a cigarette. Minutes passed in silence.
“He really was worried,” Tiny said eventually.
Preacher didn’t answer him.
“You stupid or something?” Tiny asked irritably. “He blamed himself the entire time you were locked up! And then you come home and you ain’t actin’ right! Next, you up and take off in the middle of the night and nobody knows where the fuck you are! And now you’ve showed up here outta nowhere? Man, you can’t blame him for wonderin’ what the fuck you’re gonna do next. Hell, brother, I’m wonderin’ the same damn thing and I can guarantee you so is everyone else.”
Sighing, Preacher flicked his cigarette away. He didn’t want to talk about this shit, not with Tiny, not with anyone. He didn’t like the way it made him feel—guilty and pissed off, and angry with everyone, himself most of all.
His frustration mounting, feeling suddenly uncomfortably warm, he shrugged out of the pack on his back and started removing layers. Once he felt cooler and less like punching someone in the face, he glanced down at the bag in front of him and froze.
Shit.
He’d been so pissed off, he’d left Debbie alone with his family. She was probably cursing him to hell and back.
“You gonna tell me where you been all this time?”
Preacher glanced at Tiny and shrugged. “Nowhere. Just… on the road.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Nothin’.”
“Okay, fine. Who’s the broad?”
“Just some chick.”
“She ain’t exactly your type.”
“I don’t have a fuckin’ type,” Preacher muttered, despite knowing full well that he most definitely had a type. And Debbie was so far removed from the loud, flashy women Preacher had always preferred. But even as he pictured them—the well-built blondes he’d once thought he’d never get enough of—his thoughts immediately veered back to Debbie.
Tiny snickered. “Brother, you’ve got a type, and she is the exact opposite of it!”
“It ain’t like that,” Preacher snapped. “I’m just helping her out, is all.”
“Is that what you’re callin’ it now?”
“Dumbass, I’m not fuckin’ her.” Preacher punctuated each word with every ounce of irritation he was feeling regarding Debbie. Irritation because all he could seem to think about was how he wasn’t fucking her.
“You’re not fuckin’ her?” Tiny sounded confused.
Preacher glared up at the sky. “I’m not fuckin’ her,” he growled.
“You’re really not fuckin’ her?”
“I’m really not.”
“Are you sure you’re not—”
“I’m not fuckin’ her!” Preacher exploded, grabbing the attention of a passing group of campers. Shooting Preacher a disapproving look, an older woman covered a young girl’s ears and hurried off down the path.
Beside him, Tiny was chuckling. “Man, maybe you should be…”
“She’s sixteen,” Preacher muttered. Almost seventeen, he silent added.
Tiny didn’t appear concerned. “Ain’t sixteen legal… somewhere? Didn’t Fore-Face get hitched at sixteen?”
Fore-Face was the nickname given to a neighborhood girl whose forehead had been abnormally large. They’d all gone to school together, where she’d been picked on mercilessly. It was no wonder she’d spread her legs for the first pi
ece of shit to come calling—a man twice her age.
“Fore-Face got knocked up and her parents made her marry the chump. And just ‘cause the only chicks you can talk into bed are too young to know better don’t make it right.”
“Didn’t realize you’d become such a fuckin’ pillar of righteousness, brother.”
Preacher opened his mouth to snap back, then quickly closed it. Just because he didn’t currently recognize himself or know what the fuck he was doing didn’t mean he should take any of it out on Tiny.
Fiddling with the straps on Debbie’s backpack, Preacher stared off across the park, thinking about… mother-fucking-Debbie. Why was that exactly?
Although very pretty, she was no great beauty.
Not that being beautiful had ever been a requirement Preacher had sought in a woman. He had his preferences in the looks department, but he’d never discriminated. A fuck was a fuck, usually made better if the girl knew what she was doing. If Preacher had enjoyed the fuck, that’s what brought him back for more, not her looks.
Yet Debbie? He hadn’t even fucked her and he was giving her lots of thought—all his goddamn thoughts, even.
Who the fuck are you? he wondered, flicking open the flap on her backpack and peering inside. Digging beneath his own belongings, he found hers. She didn’t have much—some clothing, toiletries, and a composition notebook. Pulling out the notebook, he flipped it open.
Well, shit. She wasn’t half bad. In fact, the sketch he was looking at was really very good. Preacher tilted his head, studying a drawing of a little girl seated on a man’s lap. Staring into the little girl’s doe eyes, he was reminded of Debbie.
Flipping to the next page, Preacher’s brow shot to the top of his forehead. She’d drawn Angel straddling Rocky in the grass, Angel’s back arched, her mouth open… and hot damn, the drawing did more for him than any Playboy spread ever had.
Itching to see what else she’d drawn, Preacher turned the page and… holy fucking shit.