Instead, he found himself face to face with Cole.
“Walk the fuck away, Preacher,” Cole ground out hoarsely between clenched, bloodied teeth. He lowered his voice. “He’s mine.”
Staring into the teenager’s light blue eye, the one that wasn’t swollen shut—an eye alight with so much anger, anger that needed an outlet—gave Preacher pause.
This wasn’t his fight and it was none of his business.
Behind Cole, Reaper began to laugh, a deep, bloodthirsty rumble that would have sent lesser men running for the hills.
Cole’s nostrils flared wide in response, his fists clenched tighter, and the muscles in his arms twitched, bunching restlessly. He was primed and ready to fight, and Preacher knew it was only a matter of minutes before father and son went at it again.
“Give him hell,” Preacher said, dipping his chin and taking a step back. Finding Debbie where he’d left her—the stupid girl didn’t seem to know when to run—he snatched up her arm and strode quickly toward the dirt pathway that would lead them back to their campsite.
• • •
Holy crap.
Debbie glanced at where her arm was being squeezed uncomfortably inside Preacher’s unforgiving grip, then up at his face, her gaze tracing the hard edge of his jaw all the way up to the tightness around his eyes. He was tense, practically vibrating with unspent energy and aggression.
She didn’t blame him. That had been intense. And those men? She didn’t really know how to describe them. Combined with their encounter with the Road Warriors, intense didn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the type of people Preacher knew.
“Friend of yours?” she asked, hoping some humor would lighten his mood.
He glanced down at her briefly, his dark eyes nearly black. “I’m gonna tell you right now, stay the fuck away from those two and anyone else wearin’ a Hell’s Horsemen cut.”
Debbie’s eyes narrowed. Did he really think she was as stupid as all that? She liked to think she was a somewhat decent judge of character. Maybe she hadn’t been at first, but she’d gotten smarter as time had passed. Just like she’d learned where to look for the things she needed, she’d learned to read people, figuring out who she could and couldn’t scam, who was safe to hitch a ride with and who was not.
“Can’t be pullin’ stupid stunts like you did with the Road Warriors,” he continued to mutter. “Gonna find yourself in a world of shit.”
Debbie gaped at him. “Are you kidding? I was trying to help you!”
Preacher stopped suddenly and turned to face her. He lifted one dark, questioning brow. “Help me? Seems to me like you’ve been in nothin’ but trouble.”
With a huff, she pulled her arm free from his grasp. “You’re the one who knows all these—these crazy people! You’re the one who’s—who’s been in prison!” She hadn’t so quickly forgotten that juicy revelation.
Shadows swirled in Preacher’s gaze. His eyes narrowed, his expression turning cold, hard. “That scare you?” he asked evenly. “You think I’m the next Son of Sam or somethin’?”
Debbie didn’t appreciate his twisted humor. Glaring up at him, she snapped, “I don’t know, are you?”
They both fell silent as an elderly couple passed by, regarding them curiously. All around them the park was waking up. People were puttering around their campsites, while others headed to the bathhouses.
Flashing the passing couple a quick smile, Preacher grabbed hold of Debbie’s arm and pulled her off the path into a small grove of maple trees.
“Don’t seem to me like you’ve got a single fuckin’ clue what you’re doin’ out here.” His hand on her arm flexed and squeezed. “What would have happened if I hadn’t saved your ass at the truck stop?” he demanded.
Debbie dropped both her bag and her sneakers and, with a hard shove to Preacher’s chest, broke free from his grip. “What would have happened?” she spat. “Nothing that I couldn’t handle!
“You don’t know me,” she continued, shaking her head furiously. “I can take care of myself!”
Eyes flashing, Preacher opened his mouth, and then promptly closed it. Unmoving, he breathed deliberately slow, as if he were fighting something back. The violent storm brewing in his eyes began to fade. Sighing, he ran a hand down over his mouth.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Shit, Wheels, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean that. That asshole back there had me all worked up. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
He sighed again. Looking at her, he held up his hands in defeat. “You’re right. You can take care of yourself. I watched you in action. I’m only sayin’… you shouldn’t have to.”
Debbie sucked in a sharp breath. That statement, you shouldn’t have to, had been both a punch in the gut and a soft caress. What did he mean? Was it a well-intentioned observation or… something more?
“Drugs,” Preacher said suddenly.
Debbie blinked. “What?”
“Drugs,” he repeated. “Dope? Junk? That’s why I went to prison. Got caught with some shit, did two years. Got out a few months back.” He gave her a crooked smile. “So you know I’m not some maniac killer.”
Though Debbie’s body was still buzzing with adrenaline, it was quickly waning, and she offered Preacher a small smile. “I didn’t think you were. But that guy back there…” She made a face that drew a chuckle from Preacher.
“Is that what you do, then?” she asked. “Is that what your club does?”
Preacher pressed a finger to Debbie’s lips. “Me,” he said quietly. “I went to prison for drugs. Not the club. Never the club. The club doesn’t do anything. And don’t ever let my dad hear you talkin’ about the club.”
Debbie stared up at him. For such a threatening statement, there was nothing currently threatening about Preacher. No longer tense, his shoulders were loose. Even his eyes were soft as he gazed down at her.
And his finger? The one that was slowly tracing the outline of her mouth? Debbie stared up at Preacher, her body buzzing with an entirely different feeling.
He moved closer, close enough that Debbie could feel the heat from his body whisper across her skin. She felt her nipples harden, and a delicious ache flared to life low in her belly.
The pad of his thumb paused on her bottom lip. He was going to kiss her again. He was definitely going to kiss her again.
Then Preacher’s finger was gone, as was he. Bending down, he scooped up her sneakers and backpack.
“I’m hungry,” he announced. “You hungry?” He didn’t wait for her to answer before striding quickly back to the path. “Fucking starving to death…” he continued to mutter.
Debbie had to take a moment to catch her breath and find her composure, and then she hurried after him.
Chapter 20
A cigarette dangling from his lips, Preacher twirled the sharp tip of his dagger over the picnic table surface, watching the wood splinter beneath it.
He was avoiding everyone, especially his father, which was not a difficult feat since the old bastard was also doing his best to avoid him. The Judge had left the park entirely and gone into town with Doc and Smokey.
Complaining that the heat from the midday sun was getting to them, Ginny and June had retreated inside the trailer to listen to music. Preacher knew his mother well enough to know that “listening to music” was code for smoking weed, and he’d bet his life they were higher than kites right about now. Somewhere, Tiny and Crazy-8 were off engaging in similar activities.
Everyone else—Joe and Sylvia, Jim and Anne, Louisa, Knuckles, and Max—had gone to the swimming hole to stave off the heat. And Debbie? It had taken Preacher nearly to twenty minutes to convince her to tag along with them.
She’d refused at first, and he’d understood that she was uncomfortable, that they were strangers to her, but he needed a breather. Debbie being out of sight didn’t necessarily mean she was out of mind, but at least out of sight meant his hands were off of her.
All morning and all afternoon
had been an exercise in self-control for Preacher.
After breakfast, Debbie had retreated to the fire pit where she’d curled up in a lawn chair with her notebook and pencil. The campsite continued to bustle all around her, and no one paid her any attention. She’d faded away into the background for everyone except him.
Like a blinking beacon in a thick fog, she consistently drew his eyes. He traced the shape of her legs as she swung them back and forth over the arm of the chair. He stared at the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath. He followed the movement of her hair every time the warm breeze lifted it. He watched the way she’d pause in drawing, absentmindedly chewing on the tip of her pencil.
Lifting his blade, Preacher drove the sharp tip down into the wood, causing tiny fissures to splinter in all directions.
Before prison, he’d lived a life of self-indulgence—women, drinking, drugs. He’d never wanted for anything; it had all been at his fingertips.
Everything was different now. He was denying himself. And maybe that’s where this unusual interest and attraction to her began and ended. By telling himself no, he was only worsening the craving.
“What did that table ever do to you?”
Flicking his cigarette away, Preacher watched as Ginny slid onto the bench across from him. Her long dark hair had been pulled up into a thick bun, and just as he’d suspected, her smile was lazy, her eyes bloodshot and glossy.
Smoothing her hands down the front of her wrinkled white tunic, she produced a clove cigarette from her pocket and lit it. “Where is everyone?” she asked around a mouthful of spice-scented smoke.
He shrugged. “Swimming.”
“Debbie too?”
Preacher nodded.
“And why aren’t you swimming?”
Another shrug.
Puffing on her clove, Ginny’s tipped her head to one side and studied him. “Damon, talk to me. What’s the problem? Is it your father or the girl? Are you sleeping with her?”
Preacher internally groaned. Even doped up, his mother missed nothing.
Ginny Fox was most definitely prettier than her husband, nearly a decade younger too, and a hell of a lot nicer. But she had at least one thing in common with The Judge—neither of them beat around the bush. They were both as straightforward as they came.
Brows up, he gave his mother a look—the same look he’d given her every time she’d try to bring up his sex life. It was a look that said there was not a chance in hell he was going to answer her.
Talking sex with his father was one thing. His mother? Preacher would rather be strung up by his toes on a clothesline and gutted with a dull blade.
Knowing he wasn’t going to answer her, Ginny snorted out a small laugh and shook her head. Leaning forward, she placed her hand over his and squeezed. “Don’t make that face at me. I’m your mother. I have a right to know what’s going on in my baby boy’s life.”
“Not a baby,” he muttered.
She laughed again. “Oh yes you are. You are my baby and always will be.” She tapped the ash from her clove cigarette. “Furthermore,” she whispered, her eyes darting around the campsite, “you’re my favorite. Your firstborn is always your favorite.”
A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. Ginny had been telling Preacher he was her favorite for as long as he could remember. He was also fairly certain she fed both Joe and Max the same line of bullshit.
“Yeah? I thought the youngest was always the favorite.”
Ginny’s upper lip curled. “That little pervert has got the whole block in an uproar. He’s chasin’ everything in a skirt these days, even that homely little thing next door. You remember Cecelia? Alfonso’s girl?”
“The butcher’s daughter? What the hell? She’s a little kid!”
Ginny smiled. “No baby. You weren’t home long enough to get the lay of the land. She’s the same age as Max. Terribly ugly, though. Looks just like her daddy.” She paused to tap her clove again. “Anyway, these girls are just falling all over one another fighting for his attention, and I’m afraid he’s getting a big head because of it. Not to mention all the angry fathers poor Gerry is having to deal with. Alfonso showed up at the club with a shotgun!
“Your father is furious with Max over it, too. Lord help us all if he ends up like Joe. But the little devil doesn’t seem to care. Just a few weeks ago Gerry caught him on the roof with a pretty little blonde thing, both of them nearly naked. And well, he dragged Max inside and gave him a good talking-to.”
Shrugging, Ginny took another puff from her clove before stubbing it out on the tabletop and flicking it away. “Didn’t do a lick of good. A week later I caught him in his bedroom with Sean Boyle’s daughter bouncing away on top of him. And she’s a little vixen if I ever saw one. Red curls as far as the eye can see and is she ever freckled! Even her ass has freckles! Tits, too!”
“So whaddya do?” Preacher asked, fighting laughter.
Ginny shrugged. “What could I do? I told her to get her freckled backside off my son and put some clothes on. Then I took her to the kitchen, gave her a slice of Bienenstich, and told her that if she didn’t start keeping her knees together, her five minutes of fun with my Max was going to land her at Sister Agnes’ home for troubled girls.”
His shoulders quaking, Preacher dropped his face into his hands. His poor mother, having to go through this with each of her sons.
“You know I’ve been making Bienenstich every week? And I’m going to keep making it until you come home.”
His laughter dying in his throat, Preacher looked up from his hands and into his mother’s eyes. Bienenstich was his favorite dessert. Hearing that she’d been making it every week, hoping that would be the week he’d come home, felt like a fist to the face.
“Now don’t go and look at me like that, Damon,” Ginny said tenderly, her slate-colored eyes misting over, shining like liquid silver. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I only want you to know you’re missed, and you’re loved. And that’s never going to change.”
Preacher drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, but his mother stopped him with a wagging finger. “No, no,” she said, “enough about that. Tell me about this girl—Debbie. What’s her story? I couldn’t get more than two words out of her.”
Preacher blew out his breath. “Your guess is as good as mine. She won’t talk about herself.”
“And you like her?”
“… She’s okay.”
“And you’re sleeping with her?”
Preacher glared at his mother, who smirked in return.
“Ahhh,” Ginny mused. “So you’re not sleeping with her. That’s your tell, you know? I ask and ask, and if you get embarrassed, that’s a yes. If you get angry, that’s a no.”
“Mo-om,” he groaned, dropping his face back into his hands. “Please, for the love of fuckin’ God, stop! I’m not talkin’ to you about this!”
“But you like her,” Ginny continued, unbothered. “And she’s halfway in love with you. So what’s the problem? Why are you sitting around here moping instead of spending time with her?”
Preacher glanced up. “She’s what?”
“Oh Lord,” Ginny sighed. “Don’t tell me you don’t see the way she looks at you, Damon. That girl is head over heels. Even your father noticed, and you know your father. If it isn’t business, he’d be hard pressed to notice a falling anvil until he was buried beneath it.”
He shook his head slowly. No. Well, yeah… he’d seen the way she looked at him and he’d thought it was lust, same as him. But love? No way. They hardly knew each other.
“It ain’t like that,” he said quickly. “She’s too young for me… and I’m just givin’ her a ride.”
“Then why’d you bring her here?” she asked. Several moments passed in silence while Ginny eyed him shrewdly. “You brought her to me, didn’t you?”
Unwilling to admit to anything, Preacher only stared at his mother.
Ginny laughed softly. “You care abou
t her, Damon. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have brought her here—to me.”
“Mom,” he finally said, “I don’t know, I really don’t. I wasn’t thinkin’, haven’t been thinkin’ clearly for a long time now. My head’s a mess, and I was just out there ridin’, and I meet this chick and… I don’t know. She’s been on her own a while now, makin’ a go of it on the road. But I just had this feeling that if I didn’t help her out, something might happen to her.”
Reaching across the table, Ginny placed her hand over his. “And?” she prompted.
“And what?”
“And you didn’t want anything to happen to her because…?”
Blank-faced, Preacher stared at his mother. “Because… that would suck for her?”
Ginny slapped his head. “Because you like her, you dolt!”
Exasperated, Preacher rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Ma. You got me. I like her. So fuckin’ what?”
A self-satisfied smile on her face, Ginny got to her feet. “Nothing,” she shrugged, turning away. “Just wanted to hear you say it.
“By the way, you remind me of him,” she called over her shoulder.
Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “Who?” he growled.
Ginny’s smile was downright wicked as she strode through camp. “Nobody,” she replied in a sing-song voice.
Shaking his head, Preacher picked up his knife and resumed twisting the tip into the picnic table. He wasn’t anything like his father. The Judge wouldn’t know a good time if it bit him in the ass. He was all business, all the time. The man lived by a strict code of laughable ethics and deprived himself of every fun thing the world had to offer.
Only Preacher couldn’t recall the last time he’d been able to let loose, either. And hadn’t Max accused him of acting just like Dad?
Scowling, Preacher continued mutilating the picnic table, trying to think about something else—anything else. He thought of Bienenstich, and then of Max being chased down the block by a gang of angry fathers wielding shotguns. He started to smile… and then froze.