Only he didn’t want it. More, he didn’t deserve it. A man like Smokey was far more qualified, and infinitely more deserving than he would ever be. Unlike Preacher, Smokey was loyal to both the club and The Judge and would never have abandoned either.
As he reached for his neck, Debbie stepped out from under his arm, plucked his helmet from his bike and placed it on her head. Fumbling with the chin strap, she offered him a small, encouraging smile that he found himself returning.
Mounting his motorcycle, Preacher waited for Debbie to climb on behind him before starting the engine. Her hands on his shoulders, she scooted quickly up the seat until her body was flush against his. Wrapping her arms around his middle, she slid her hands over his stomach, her fingertips pressing possessively into his skin.
It was a small, seemingly insignificant thing that Preacher might never have noticed had he not had the misfortune of having had very little human contact for two full years. And what contact he did have had been the glaring opposite of pleasurable.
But this—an unconscious gesture from his pretty-little-pickpocket, laying claim to him, telling him in no uncertain terms that she most definitely wanted him—filled Preacher with something he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. If ever. And almost instantly the pain in his neck began to ease.
Preacher covered her hands with one of his, and Debbie squeezed him tighter. His chest loosened and he blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Five minutes later they were heading down the road, with Preacher riding point.
Chapter 23
“What’s goin’ on?” Preacher asked no one in particular.
An older woman with a head full of curlers scowled around her cigarette. “I look like the fuckin’ news to you? Ain’t nobody tellin’ us nothin!”
The state park was a mob scene. Police cars and fire trucks blocked every entrance, forcing Preacher and the others to leave their bikes on the side of the road and head into the park on foot.
Crowds of rally-goers had amassed inside the picnic area, some spilling out onto the road. Park Rangers appeared to have herded them there and looked to be providing crowd control.
Everyone Preacher spoke to seemed largely confused—no two stories were the same. While one group was convinced a fight had broken out and someone had been injured, another group guessed there’d been a fire. A heavily intoxicated man stumbling about muttered something along the lines of aliens having come to Earth.
“Ain’t that Sylvie?” Knuckles squinted through the darkness, pointing at a picnic table full of people.
“Hey, Sylvie!” Preacher shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth.
A head full of dark hair snapped up. Swiping at her cheeks, Sylvia pushed herself off the picnic bench and shuffled quickly toward them. Preacher jogged ahead, meeting her before the rest of the group.
“Something’s wrong!” she cried, gripping his arms, her long red nails biting his skin. “We tried to get back to camp, but they got it all blocked off! Joey made me wait here, and he hasn’t come back!”
Prying her hands off him, Preacher squeezed them gently. “Breathe, Sylvie. I’m sure everything is fine.” He briefly scanned the crowded area. “Where’s my mom and dad? They here somewhere, too?”
Sylvia shook her head, her eyes wet with tears. “I don’t know! Everyone left me! I don’t know where anyone is!”
“Alright, alright, calm down, okay?” He squeezed her once more before releasing her. Anne took his place beside her and slipped her arm through Sylvia’s.
“I’ll find out what’s goin’ on, Sylvie. You just sit tight.” Preacher glanced around and found that the rest of the group had joined them. “Jim, you stay here with the girls. Knuckles, Smokey, you’re with me.”
He paused when he noticed that Debbie appeared nervous—her eyes were wide, and darting in every direction.
Taking hold of her chin, he lowered his head to hers. “You get asked any questions, give ‘em that fake-ass name of yours and say you’re with me—that you’re my girl.”
When she didn’t respond, he growled softly, “Don’t run off on me, Wheels. “Stay put, alright? I promise I’ll be right back.”
Debbie blew out a breath and nodded, and Preacher kissed her quickly on the mouth. Jogging back to the path with Knuckles and Smokey on his heels, he kept an eye out for a familiar face.
“Heads up,” Knuckles muttered. “Five-O at two o’clock.”
A small group of police officers blocked the path up ahead. They didn’t appear to be doing anything other than standing guard.
“The swimmin’ hole,” Preacher whispered, and headed left. “We’ll circle back around.”
They forged a wide path around the campground. Once they’d reached the creepily empty swimming hole, they entered the campground from behind. As they cut through the quiet campsites filled with tents and trailers but no people, a knot began to form in the pit of Preacher’s stomach.
“Stop it right there!” A flashlight temporarily blinded Preacher and stopped him dead in his tracks. Instinctively he put his hands up. The light lowered and he blinked rapidly. Tall and wiry with sharp pointed features, the fast approaching police officer was young, no older than Preacher.
“Our campsite’s over there, officer.” Smokey jerked his thumb left.
The officer shined his flashlight over Smokey and narrowed his eyes. “Which one is yours?”
Preacher stepped forward. “We got three sites. Brown pop-up trailer dead center. Bunch of tents lyin’ around and a couple picnic tables pushed together.”
The officer’s eyes widened only a fraction, but it was enough of a reaction that the knot in Preacher’s stomach painfully expanded. He took another step forward. “What happened?” he demanded. “What’s goin’ on?”
“You need to go back.” The officer gestured with his flashlight. “Go back to the park entrance and wait with everyone else. Someone will—”
Preacher took off running. Shouting erupted behind him, and he only increased his speed. The closer he came to his family’s campsite, the noisier everything became. There was a loud clanging off in the distance, and someone was shouting. He recognized the voice. It was his brother—Joe was the person shouting.
Rounding a corner, Preacher skidded to a stop. Police and firemen were everywhere, crawling all over his family’s campsite. Lights from a dozen or more heavy-duty flashlights lit up the roped-off area. Somewhere someone was crying—soft, feminine sobbing could be heard amid the angry shouting.
Preacher’s gaze swept through the campsite, halting when he found Joe. Bent over the rope, Joe was nose to nose with an older man wearing plain clothes. Behind him, both Tiny and Crazy-8 struggled to hold him back.
“I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about your fuckin’ protocol!” Joe shouted, his voice hoarse and strained.
Preacher blinked. Some several feet from the scene Max stood alone, his arms wrapped around his upper body, his gaze fixed on the ground.
“Who the hell are you?” an unfamiliar voice demanded. Preacher blinked again. Another officer with another flashlight in his face.
“You can’t be here!”
Preacher shook his head. “What happened…?” He trailed off as he caught sight of something in the shadows—the shape of a woman on her hands and knees, and another woman beside her, clinging to her. Two officers towered over them.
“Please let me touch him,” the crying woman begged, her sobs tinged with hysteria as she attempted to reach around the officer’s legs. “Please, please… I just need to touch him…”
June—it was June who was crying. And that was Louisa beside her, pleading with her, struggling to hold her back.
His heart pounding, Preacher’s stare shifted to the human-shaped lump lying prone in the distance. Breathing became difficult.
Sudden noise drew his wavering gaze to the trailer where several figures had emerged. A heavyset man in uniform was staggering down the steps, a hand clasp
ed over his mouth. The door hung open behind him and lights could be seen flashing from within.
Flash. Flash. Flash. Preacher blinked with each flash.
His vision tunneled, then widened.
Was that—was that blood on the trailer door? Not blinking, no longer breathing, Preacher stared at the blood smeared across the door until it became difficult to see. The painful knot in his gut was all he could feel.
“You can’t be here,” a voice said, muffled, sounding far away.
“My parents,” Preacher attempted to say, not recognizing the sound of his own voice. His vision was blurring, his hearing fading—a quickly dying light bulb, Preacher was flickering before he blew out entirely.
A commotion broke out. Panicked shouts rang out across the camp as Preacher snapped to attention. He could see clearly, hear clearly, and think clearly once again.
“Don’t you touch my brother! Don’t you fuckin’ touch him, you fuckin’ pigs, don’t you fuckin’ touch him!” Behind the rope, Joe progressed from shouting to raging incoherently.
Guns were drawn, and all of them were pointed at Joe. “Back up!” an officer screamed. “Back up the fuck up, asshole! Back up right now!”
It was Max, Preacher realized belatedly as his gaze pinged between his brothers. Max had ducked beneath the rope and was running across the campsite toward the trailer.
Frozen in place, Preacher watched as six officers converged on his youngest brother and tackled him to the ground.
“Mom!” The gut-wrenching wail came from beneath the pile of bodies. “Mom!”
Feeling the pain in his little brother’s words so acutely, Preacher lurched forward. He’d only managed a few steps when his arm was grabbed, and he was wrenched backward.
“You can’t go in there!” a police officer shouted.
“Like hell,” Preacher growled and swung. There was an audible crack as his fist collided with the officer’s nose. The man staggered backwards, and Preacher took off running.
Chapter 24
Debbie took one last look around the quiet motel room as she shouldered her backpack. Sylvia lay in bed, holding her swollen stomach, and Anne curled up beside her. Neither woman had spoken in hours. Expressionless, Sylvia simply stared at the wall, while Anne cried softly.
The grief in the room was evident, and Debbie didn’t know these women well enough to know what to do or say to help them. She figured leaving them to one another was the best thing she could do for them.
Quietly pushing open the door, she slipped outside. It was early morning, though the sun was nowhere to be found, and a heavy fog had settled over the surrounding area.
She couldn’t recall which town they were in, only that the motel they’d been directed to stay at was only three miles from the county sheriff’s department—where all the men currently were. The women had been dropped at the motel, with the exception of June, who’d been taken to a hospital in a fire truck, and Louisa, who’d requested to stay with her.
Debbie sucked in another heavy breath. She still couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Doc was dead. Ginny and Gerald were dead. And yet she’d seen them just yesterday. Gerald had been manning the grill, cooking up the hot dogs and hamburgers that Ginny was dishing out. All three had been alive and well when their group had left the park, only to return to find them… gone.
No, not gone. Murdered.
God, it all felt so surreal. Like a dream, or rather, a nightmare. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how the others were feeling. More specifically, how Preacher was feeling.
Debbie sank down onto the curb, feeling utterly bewildered and helpless. The last time she’d seen Preacher he’d been frighteningly out of control, thrashing violently against the four police officers who’d been dragging him through the park. It had taken the officers nearly fifteen minutes and sheer brute strength to force him inside the back of a police car. Joe, who’d been equally enraged, had received similar treatment. And everyone else had been quickly gathered and given instructions to follow the police back to the station.
“Debbie,” she had informed the questioning officer, her voice shaking. “Deborah Reynolds. I’m—I’m Preacher’s, um, I’m Damon’s girl.”
Other than her name, the police had asked her where she’d been that day and who she’d been with, and then she’d been dismissed. Eventually Jim had been instructed to bring the women here.
Her arms wrapped around her shins, Debbie rested her head on her knees and stared off into the fog. She was well past exhausted and yet unable to sleep. Her worry for Preacher’s wellbeing was too pressing, and dominating all her other thoughts.
All except for one.
Her eyes squeezed closed and her arms tightened around her legs. Was it selfish to hope Preacher wouldn’t send her away? That he would still want her around? She swallowed thickly. Of course it was selfish. Self-absorbed and utterly contemptible.
Still, she continued to hope.
The sound of an engine eventually roused her, and Debbie blinked back the gathering sleep in her eyes as a familiar blue van pulled into the parking lot. A state police car followed closely behind the van, two officers inside. While the van pulled up to the building, the police remained across the lot.
One by one the Silver Demons climbed out of the van, each man looking some variation of strung out and bleak. Nobody paid her much attention as they trudged past her and entered the room. She paid them little mind as well, her sole focus on the van. The last to exit, Preacher’s long legs preceded him. His boots hit the ground hard, and when he turned, lifting his head, Debbie both flinched and cursed.
Dark bags ringed his bloodshot eyes. His left cheek was swollen and mottled with blue and purple bruises. His bottom lip had been split down the center.
Shoulders drooping, sagging with exhaustion, Preacher dropped down beside Debbie with a pained groan. Panic rose inside her as she wondered what she should say. Nothing she came up with sounded right, or nearly enough.
“Just the one room?” he asked. His voice was rough as if he’d spent the last several hours shouting.
“Two. And mine.” Debbie dug a key out of her jeans pocket and showed it to him. Jim had paid for two motel rooms before leaving with the van, after which she’d taken the initiative to purchase a third room with her own money.
“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” she finished softly.
Preacher slumped forward on his knees, and his eyes found hers. Seeing the suffering look on his face, her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Instinctively she wanted to reach out and touch him, and instead closed her hand tightly around the key, squeezing to the point of pain.
“Preacher.” His name was a hoarse whisper on her lips. “I… I…” She trailed off, and her eyes filled with tears. Quickly glancing away, she silently cursed herself.
Debbie jerked when Preacher unexpectedly placed his hand over hers and gently pried open her fingers. Taking the key, he glanced over his shoulder. “Lemme tell them where we’ll be.”
Minutes later, inside Debbie’s room, Preacher fell back against the door and stared across the room as if he were drugged, looking like he might topple over at any moment.
Debbie set her backpack on the floor and took a hesitant seat on a bed. She stared at Preacher, tears still burning in her eyes, and at a loss for how to help him.
“Doc was alive.” Preacher’s eyes blinked furiously, and his voice was brittle and weak. “A woman found him crawlin’ across the campsite, bleedin’, tryin’ to talk. She ran for help, but—”
He shook his head, let out a hoarse sigh, and slid down the door all the way to the floor “He was gone by the time the park rangers got to him.”
Debbie continued to watch him, desperately wanting to touch him, hold him, comfort him in any way she could. Second-guessing herself every other second, and unsure of what he needed, she remained where she was, with her fists clenched tightly in her lap.
“Nobody saw anything,” he continued. “Nobody saw a
nything, and no one knows jack shit.” Preacher’s head lolled back and rolled across the door. Their gazes collided. “How’s that work? A whole fuckin’ park full of people and no one saw a goddamn thing?”
“I’m sorry,” Debbie whispered, and instantly wished her words back. Cringing, she closed her eyes. What was she thinking? I’m sorry wasn’t good enough. I’m sorry was useless and trivial. People apologized when they spilled a drink or cut in line—not when someone’s parents were murdered. Feeling wetness on her cheek, Debbie swiped her hand quickly across her face, wiping away the tears she had no right to cry.
When she opened her eyes again, Preacher was still staring at her. Just staring and breathing—harsh, ragged breaths that sounded as if his lungs were crumbling.
“I can’t get it to stick,” he croaked. “Every time I try to think it, it doesn’t make sense. It won’t stick.”
He looked away, his haunted gaze finding a blank wall. “They’re gone. But how the fuck can they be gone? I just saw ‘em—how can they be gone?”
Filled with grief for Preacher, Debbie had to fight to keep from sobbing.
“How’s that work exactly?” he shouted, and shot to his feet. “They were there, right fuckin’ there when we left, and now they’re just gone?”
Ashen-faced, his hands running violently through his hair, Preacher glanced aimlessly around the room. “How’s that fuckin’ work?” he demanded.
He turned and faced Debbie, desperation and agony further distorting his bruised and swollen features. And her heart wrenched at the sight of him.
Debbie stood and stepped slowly toward him. She didn’t have any idea what she was going to say or do once she reached him; she only knew that she needed to reach him.
Preacher watched her approach, glancing from her face to the hand she was offering him when suddenly an anguished groan flew past his lips and he spun away, sending his fist barreling into the wall closest to him.