She’d drawn him. Shirtless, stretched across the motel bed, Preacher’s arm was flung over his face, his mouth hanging slightly agape.
Did his arms really look that good? Preacher’s eyes flicked to his bicep and he flexed the muscle. Yep, not bad. Not bad at all.
The detail was incredible. Looking closer, he noticed every fold in the fabric, every scar and freckle on his skin. Where the light had hit him, highlighting him in places, shadowing others.
How long had this taken her? How long had she been staring at him? Most importantly, had she liked what she’d been drawing? Had it turned her on?
“What’s that?” Tiny leaned against him, craning his neck.
Preacher slammed the notebook closed and elbowed Tiny away from him. “None of your goddamn business.”
Shoving the notebook back inside the bag, Preacher quickly packed up his things and shot to his feet.
“I gotta get back,” he muttered and rushed off without waiting for his friend.
• • •
Arriving back at camp, Preacher found the crowd had considerably thinned.
Doc was in the process of building a bonfire, while June and Smokey chatted nearby. Around the picnic table sat Ginny, Joe, and Sylvia on one side, while Debbie and Max sat across from them. Half-eaten plates of food and bottles of beer were scattered across the table.
Someone had brought out the tape deck and Ginny was singing along to Billie Holiday. Eyes half-lidded, her chin resting in her hand, a clove cigarette smoking between her fingers, she swayed gently from side to side.
The Judge, thankfully, was nowhere in sight.
As Preacher drew closer to the picnic table, Ginny was the first to notice him. She smiled, and he felt that smile wrap around him like a warm blanket.
A flicker of light turned his attention to Max. His brother had lit a cigarette for Debbie and had used the opportunity to slide himself closer. Max, with his usual dopey-as-shit smile plastered across his face, leaned into Debbie and whispered something in her ear.
Preacher’s eyes narrowed into slits. That stupid little fucker likes her.
Although Max wasn’t quite so little anymore. It was yet another thing that had changed while he’d been locked up. Joe had married Sylvia, and Max had gone from a gangly fourteen-year-old obsessed with pinball and Planet of the Apes to a taller, thicker version of himself, and with a five o’clock shadow.
Max was nearly a man now, and it wouldn’t be all that much longer before The Judge patched him into the club.
Preacher frowned. Man or not, Max should know better than to encroach on his girl.
He paused, his forehead wrinkling. What the hell? Debbie wasn’t his girl. Debbie wasn’t his anything. But as he resumed his trek toward the picnic tables, watching Max continue to try and coax Debbie into conversation, he found himself growing more and more irritated.
So irritated in fact that, when he reached them, he hooked his arm around Max’s neck and forcefully dragged him, flailing and cursing, down the entire length of the bench and deposited him onto the ground. While Max continued to curse, Joe burst into a fit of laughter, pounding the table with his fist.
Preacher took Max’s seat beside Debbie and placed her backpack between them. “Whatever he was sayin’ about me, it ain’t true.”
She attempted a smile, but her eyes were shuttered as she looked up at him, and her bottom lip was wet and swollen as if she’d been chewing nervously on it the entire time he’d been gone.
Dropping an arm over her shoulders, he bowed his head to hers. “You okay?”
She faced him fully, bringing their faces nearly flush, and his gaze dropped again to her mouth. Man, this girl had some seriously great lips. Kissable lips. Lips that begged to be sucked on. Lips that he knew firsthand tasted both salty and sweet. Lips that he wanted to—
“Damon? Earth to Damon?”
Preacher’s eyes snapped to his mother. “What?”
“I was saying that I had Max set up your tent for Debbie—”
“Found a Playboy in it,” Max interrupted, and Preacher could hear the smirk on his little brother’s face. “December issue,” he continued. “Big ole titties and—”
Preacher reached behind him to where Max now sat, grabbed a fistful of his brother’s shirt, and shoved him off the bench. Max hit the ground with a loud “oomph,” and again Joe roared with laughter.
Stubbing out her cigarette, Ginny shot Preacher a look that made him feel like he was twelve years old again. “As I was saying,” she said pointedly, “I had Max set up your tent for Debbie, and you can share with Joe.”
Joe’s laughter abruptly cut off. Horror-stricken, he faced Ginny. “What? Mom, no!”
Preacher, feeling equally horrified, jerked his thumb at Sylvia. “What about Sylvie? Shouldn’t Joe be sleepin’ with his wife?”
Preacher had been forced to share a room with Joe until he’d moved out on his own and knew better than most that Joe snored at a decibel level very few could reach—a horrible combination of braying mule and table saw. Joe also came with his own unbearable stench, a cross between stale beer and dirty socks.
When it came to sharing sleeping space with another man, Preacher would choose anyone over Joe.
Sylvia shot Preacher an annoyed glance. “In case you haven’t noticed, you idiot, I’m pregnant with your nephew. And I’m too big to be sleepin’ on the ground. You put me on the ground and I won’t ever get up again.”
“She’s been sleeping in the camper with us,” Ginny added.
“Nephew?” Preacher asked, glancing at Joe. “It’s a boy?”
“We don’t know.” Joe rolled his eyes. “Just last week she was sayin’ he was a she.”
Sylvia glared. “Well, I have to call it something, don’t I?”
“She’s carrying low.” Ginny gestured to Sylvia’s swollen belly. “My guess is it’s a boy.”
Sylvia beamed. “See! We can call him a he!”
Joe ran a hand through his short dark hair and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “How ‘bout we call him a life-ruining cock block?”
“Joseph Fox!” Ginny snapped, her eyes wide.
“What did you say?” Sylvia demanded, thrusting a finger at Joe, the nail painted bright red.
“Nothin’,” Joe muttered.
“It wasn’t nothin’!” she shot back. “I heard you!” Sylvia slowly lifted herself off the bench. Standing over Joe, she glared down at him. “You apologize!”
Joe, refusing to look at his wife, only scowled at the tabletop.
“What about Max?” Preacher had to raise his voice to be heard over Sylvia. “Why can’t he double with Joe?”
“Hell no!” Max chimed in, “I’m sharin’ with Knuckles! You couldn’t pay me to sleep in that stink-hole!”
No one paid either Max or Preacher any attention. Sylvia had graduated to shouting while Joe looked like he wished a lightning bolt would strike him dead. Ginny had moved to stand between them and was attempting to calm Sylvia down with hand gestures and softly spoken words.
Preacher sighed. Didn’t his mother know by now that her attempts were futile? A bat to the head wouldn’t shut up a Jersey girl—let alone an Italian. The only chance anyone had at peace was walking into traffic.
Eventually Sylvia burst into loud, exaggerated tears and shuffled away. Joe looked momentarily relieved until Ginny snatched his arm and dragged him along after her.
“Is it always like this?” Looking bewildered, Debbie stared after Ginny and Joe as if she didn’t quite know what to make of his family.
“Yup.” It was Max who’d answered. At some point, he’d taken Sylvia’s seat across from Debbie. Leaning forward on his elbows, a cocksure grin on his face, Max said, “Sometimes it’s worse. You should see them when—”
“Go away,” Preacher interjected. He really, really did not like the way Max was looking at Debbie—like it was his goddamn birthday and she was a present he couldn’t wait to unwrap.
r /> Max faced Preacher, his eyes narrowed into angry slits. “Man, what is your fuckin’ problem?”
“You are. So go away. Right now.”
Eyes flashing, Max shot to his feet and slapped his palms down hard on the table. “You’re just like Dad!” he accused, before storming off.
Preacher watched him go, more perturbed that Max had likened him to their father than anything else.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Debbie remarked.
He snorted. “Nice? Do you have any brothers—or sisters?”
She shook her head. “My dad died when I was really little. I was an only child.”
Preacher was reminded of the drawing in Debbie’s notebook—the man with the little girl on his lap.
“My mom… remarried,” she continued, her words clipped and strained. Then her features tightened. “But they… didn’t have any kids.”
He stayed silent a moment, studying her, waiting to see if she was going to elaborate further. When she didn’t, he replied, “Truth.”
Her eyes shifted, their gazes colliding. Those big, beautiful eyes of hers, boring into his, looked darker than usual. He glanced at her mouth again, her seriously sexy mouth, then down her body, to where the thin material of her T-shirt was pulled tight over her breasts, and then further, all the way down her bare legs and back up again.
Another maddening vision of her dropping her towel and offering him sex crept into his thoughts, only this time, instead of turning her down, he tugged her forward and pulled her onto the bed.
His body hardening, Preacher shoved her backpack off the bench and shifted closer.
“Your mouth is so crazy sexy,” he heard himself saying, reaching for Debbie. He ran his thumb up her finely-carved cheekbone, and when she didn’t jerk away, he continued on, stroking a path down to her chin and across her jaw. He paused beneath her full bottom lip and glanced up.
Her expression was changing—her eyes widening, her lips parting. Her breaths were coming quicker—sharp bursts of air in rapid succession that told Preacher she was either scared or eager. Judging by the way she was looking at him, he’d bet his life on the latter.
Debbie wanted to be kissed again.
And fuck him, he was going to kiss her.
Sixteensixteensixteensixteen.
Preacher covered her mouth with his. His tongue jutted past her lips, roughly tangling with hers. She gripped his arms, and he pulled her closer. One hand went into her hair, the other slid down her back.
She was kissing him like she’d kissed him last night, messy and desperate, and it was spurring him on, firing him up, driving him half mad with wanting.
He wanted more. He wanted her closer—on his lap, her legs wrapped around his middle, grinding herself over his—
“I got special brownies!” There was a loud thump and the picnic table bounced. Startled, Debbie released Preacher and jumped halfway down the bench.
Tiny was sitting across from them, a shit-eating grin stretching his chubby cheeks straight across his face, clutching a brightly-colored tin to his chest.
“Snagged these babies off Marcie.” Tiny gave the tin a loving caress. “You remember Marcie, right? Her old man wrecked a few years back. Get this, Preacher, the woman started her own club! Can you believe it? A club full of fuckin’ chicks!”
Debbie got to her feet. “I, uh, I…” she stammered, refusing to look at Preacher. “I’ll be right back.”
Grabbing her backpack, she shot off across the camp like a bat out of hell. And Preacher watched her go, his erection throbbing in his jeans.
“Something I said?” Tiny asked.
Preacher turned to him, deadpan, and wrenched the tin of brownies from his grasp. “Gimme those,” he growled.
Chapter 18
Debbie woke before the sun, a result of frequently sleeping outside. Shoving Preacher’s jean jacket off, she sat up and unzipped the tent’s nylon door flap. Greeted with the same gray sky and chirping birds that always preceded the sunrise, she leaned forward and pressed her hands into the damp grass, peering around the quiet campsite.
She wondered which tent Preacher was in and if he was awake yet.
After wandering around the park last night, exploring and spying on other campers, Debbie had returned to the camp with little fanfare. Only a small group had remained seated around the bonfire, Preacher among them. As if he’d been waiting for her, Preacher’s fire-lit gaze had found her slinking through the dark. Turning in his lawn chair, he’d tracked her as she’d hurried across camp.
She’d slipped inside the tent Ginny has assigned her, half hoping he would follow her. When he hadn’t, she’d set up a makeshift bed using her bag as a pillow and Preacher’s jacket as a blanket and eventually fell asleep.
Had she screwed everything up by running off? Did Preacher now think her an idiot child?
Debbie’s gaze meandered over to the picnic tables. She pressed her fingertips to her lips. He’d kissed her again. And it had been different than the first time. Better, even. Rougher. Frantic.
Your mouth is so crazy sexy.
She’d replayed that declaration in her head at least a million times since he’d said it. His voice had been deeper than normal, gruffer. As if his words had been torn from a place that he rarely exposed.
The statement alone had been enough to make her melt.
Dragging in a slow, dizzying breath, Debbie rolled onto her back and stared up at the arched ceiling. She didn’t just like kissing Preacher. She liked him.
Last night she hadn’t realized exactly what had made her run off like she had. Why she’d felt so flustered. So overwhelmed.
Now she knew.
She never thought she’d feel this way about a boy—a man. Actually, she’d never realized she could feel this way. Debbie hadn’t fit in with the girls she’d gone to school with. She’d never understood their incessant talk of boys, their obsession with them. The last thing she’d wanted to do was go to second base with Roger Campbell beneath the bleachers.
The last thing she’d wanted was anyone touching her.
She supposed that things were different for those who had a say in who got to touch them.
But here, with Preacher, free from the things that had haunted her back home and while alone on the road, Debbie was free to feel… whatever she wanted to feel.
And what she feeling was a lot. Too much, really. Dozens of feelings all at once, none of which she had a name for, let alone knew what to do with.
It was more than just Preacher. Meeting his family, his club, had made her feel even smaller than she was used to feeling. Ginny and Gerald, Sylvia and Joe, even Tiny, they each had such a strong individual presence. But combined?
Debbie pressed a hand to her belly and blew out a breath. Jealousy was a bitter pill to swallow.
What she wouldn’t give for a family just like this one. A loud and joyful, angry and messy… family. Imperfect, yes. But also perfect in their imperfections.
Feeling inspired, Debbie rolled over and rifled through her bag. Pulling out her notebook, she propped herself up, flipped to a clean page, and began to draw.
First she drew the picnic tables, then she began to sketch the people seated around them. She drew Gerald at the head and Ginny beside him. She drew them all as best as she could recall.
The sky lightened as she drew, illuminating the inside of the tent with a soft, golden glow. Debbie chewed endlessly on her bottom lip, eager to scratch out the image in her mind.
Finally she drew Preacher approaching the gathering. She drew him as if she were a spectator, standing behind him, unable to see his face.
And when she finished, she did something she’d never done before: she titled it. In the bottom corner, in scrolling cursive, she penned: FAMILY.
For some time she simply stared down at her work. It was far from her best. She’d drawn it much too fast. And she’d most certainly screwed up a few features drawing the faces of people she’d only glimpsed briefly.
> But it was also one of her best.
Because there was more to it than serving as a mere visual reminder of the people she’d met that day. From the frown on Gerald’s face as he watched Preacher approach, to the joy on Ginny’s as she shot up in her seat, it was chock-full of everything that made this family what it was.
With a heavy sigh, Debbie put her notebook away and grabbed her things. While exploring last night, she’d discovered showers inside the bathhouses, and she meant to get in as many hot showers as possible before they weren’t possible anymore.
• • •
The bathhouses were two-room brick structures. The first room was filled with toilet cubicles and sinks, and the second housed showers. There wasn’t much privacy in the shower room, no doors or curtains, only partial stalls within a small alcove that did little to hide you. It reminded Debbie of her school locker room, where everyone had been forced to change and shower in front of their classmates. Back then she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her naked.
She didn’t mind so much anymore; she was simply glad for hot water.
Freshly showered, Debbie had just finished dressing and was finger-combing her wet hair when she heard a noise and turned.
“Oh!” Sylvia paused mid-step and blinked at her. “I know you… Debbie, right?” Her large belly preceding her, Sylvia looked exhausted and bedraggled. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her shoulder-length brown hair stuck up in all directions.
“I haven’t been able to sleep a wink since we arrived,” Sylvia complained as she moved toward the shower stalls. Pausing by a bench, she set down a large purse and began pulling out the contents one by one.
Biting down on her bottom lip, Debbie’s gaze touched covetously upon each of the items Sylvia had laid out—a towel, a bar of soap, a bottle of shampoo, and a bag full of makeup—and probably took for granted.
“This baby in here,” Sylvia said, absentmindedly rubbing her belly, “is constantly movin’, always kickin’ me. I have to pee all the time, and everything aches.
“Ginny is right, you know? I’m carrying so low it has to be a boy. And I know Joey wants a boy so badly. And we already have his name picked out. Trey Joseph Fox. Trey after my granddaddy, and Joseph after Joey, of course.