The bells hanging from the door jingled loudly as she pushed inside the dimly lit building. Two young waitresses shuttled back and forth behind a counter lined with exhausted-looking men, some of whom turned on their stools to glimpse the new arrival. Finding a girl with long, ratty hair and dirty, worn clothing, most instantly dismissed her.
But there was always at least one whose gaze would linger just a bit too long. The owner of the eyes currently fixated on her sat alone at the counter. A scraggly beard mostly masked his features, with the exception of his dark, beady eyes. His calculating and hungry gaze was one she knew all too well. Patting the pocket containing her blade reassuringly, she continued on.
The beady-eyed trucker wasn’t the only one watching her. Two waitresses stood behind the counter, wearing matching tight-lipped expressions as they watched her cross the diner. With an irritated huff, one of the waitresses shoved away from the counter and headed her way.
The woman paused at the end of her table, jutting her hip to one side, peering down her pert nose at her. An unnatural blonde with long red fingernails and a plastic nametag that read “Susan,” she held a pen and pad in her hands, but she made no move to lift them.
“Coffee, please,” she said tightly, feeling the weight of Susan’s scrutiny, “and…” Her gaze scanned over the pie plates lining the countertop. “A slice of pie.”
Susan’s heavily made-up eyes flicked to hers. “This ain’t no soup kitchen, girl,” she said, “This here is a paid establishment.”
Her jaw locked. She may hate the pity she sometimes received, but she hated the outright condemnation even more. Susan knew what she was—homeless and hitchhiking—and assumed she had no money.
Teeth still clenched, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the wad of bills Dave had given her. Susan’s gaze snapped to the money, and her lips pursed. “Apple or pumpkin?”
“Apple, please.”
With Susan’s departure, she let out a breath, relieved that she wouldn’t be asked to leave. A good thing, too, as the rain was fast picking up outside, and she vehemently hated spending the night in the rain. It wasn’t the cold that bothered her, but she almost always got sick afterward.
Susan reappeared with a mug of steaming black coffee and two exceptionally large slices of apple pie. Surprised, she glanced up, but Susan had already turned away. She looked back at her pie, breathing in the warm, spicy scent… and almost smiled.
It wasn’t often, but sometimes people surprised her.
Chapter 3
If he could have, Preacher would have strangled Mother Nature. He would rip that dirty bitch straight from her throne in the sky, shake her until her brains scrambled, and squeeze her until her bones ground together. This rain—if you could call this…this monsoon…rain—hadn’t just forced him and his motorcycle off the road, it was unending.
At first, he’d attempted to wait it out beneath a small cement overpass until hours had passed with no sign of it letting up any time soon. Pissed off and chilled straight through to his bones, he’d recalled passing a truck stop a few miles back. Figuring a short walk in the rain was better than being stuck outside all night, he’d set out on foot.
Only five minutes into his trek he’d lost the tie he’d been using to keep his hair off his face. Now his hair was sopping wet and whipping in every direction, lashing uncomfortably across his face. Every step was a hard-fought battle against the wind and rain, and after riding all day, all he wanted to do was take a hot shower and fall face-first into a mattress.
Readjusting the duffel bag slung over his back, Preacher felt an unwelcome wave of cold wash over his feet. Glancing down and realizing he’d just stepped into a fairly deep puddle, he shouted curses into the night.
He’d thought putting some miles between him and the city would do him some good. Just him, his bike, and the road, and he’d be back to his old self in no time. He snorted. If anything, his bad mood had worsened.
When he’d first been released from prison, he’d figured there’d be a small adjustment period as he settled back into the real world, but as the days had turned to weeks and the weeks to months, he’d found himself drunk more often than not, wanting to do little more than sleep most days.
When awake, he was constantly agitated or outright angry. Nothing seemed to help—not booze, not drugs, not women. And beneath the anger, he felt… empty, for lack of a better word. Like a gaping hole had taken up residence inside his fucking chest, and everything he did to try to fill it, to fix himself, only seemed to make him feel that much worse.
Another blast of whipping wind and cold rain circled around Preacher, causing him to falter, lose his footing, and nearly trip. Growling, he pulled the collar of his leather jacket up over the lower half of his face and pressed on.
By the time the flickering lights of the truck stop came into view, Preacher was drenched from head to toe. His soaked hair clung heavily to the sides of his face. Water sloshed inside his boots, and his jeans felt heavy, the denim sticking uncomfortably to his legs. Beneath his leather, his skin felt cold and clammy.
Three steps into the parking lot and the rain suddenly stopped. Preacher halted. Nostrils flaring, he lifted his middle finger to the sky and waved it around, hoping like hell God had a bird’s eye view of him.
The truck stop was a sad-looking little place. A slash of concrete semi-filled with trucks bordered a small, squat building. Flickering lampposts surrounded the entire space, sending shadows bouncing across the otherwise dark area. A fueling station sat unattended to his left, and to his right stood a set of pay phones.
Reaching into his pocket, he jingled the change inside. He should call home. He’d left without saying goodbye and had been gone a while now without sending word. And his mother was a worrier. His father, however, was half the reason he’d left.
Gerald “The Judge” Fox was a grumpy old asshole on his best day. And a goddamn hurricane on his worst.
Preacher and he had never seen eye to eye. While Preacher had once preferred late-night partying and a different woman every night, The Judge was his polar opposite. He’d never strayed from his wife. He didn’t drink to excess, and he certainly didn’t use drugs. Every night he went to bed late, woke up far too early, had the work ethic of a honeybee and the personality of a pack mule. Stodgy. Determined. Unwavering.
Since Preacher’s release from prison, their tenuous relationship had only grown more strained. Preacher couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed most days, something The Judge couldn’t relate to.
I’ve been to war, he’d lectured Preacher. I’ve seen horrible things happen to good people, I’ve done things I can’t take back, and I’ve never felt like shirking my responsibilities and sleeping my life away.
Preacher recalled telling his father exactly where he could shove his so-called responsibilities. And the black eye he’d gotten because of it.
His father wasn’t the sort of man you could have a heart to heart with. You did what you were told, end of story, or you got a fist to the face. The Judge only understood three things—the club, loyalty, and family, and in that particular order. The club was his whole world, built from the ground up after he’d served in World War II. In the beginning, it had consisted of only Gerald and a few of his war buddies, drinking beer and fixing up bikes, but after dipping their feet into the sleazier side of life, they had since become a fairly profitable business.
The Judge didn’t look at what the club did as criminal. In his mind, their illegal dealings were a way of keeping money in the pockets of war veterans—men who’d put their lives on the line for an ungrateful country and gotten nothing in return.
A criminal with a steady moral compass. That was The Judge.
Whatever Preacher was, it wasn’t that.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, Preacher approached the pay phones. He dialed his parents’ line first, and when no one answered, he called the club phone. A familiar voice picked up on the fourth ring. “Yelllowwww.”
<
br /> “Hightower,” Preacher muttered. “What’s doin’?”
There was a moment of silence and then, “Preacher?”
Hearing the combined joy and relief in Hightower’s voice caused guilt to well in the pit of Preacher’s stomach. “Yeah man… it’s me.”
“Brother, shit, we’ve been wonderin’ about you! We thought—fuck, we didn’t know what to think! Where are you? You comin’ home?”
Unsure of what to say, Preacher said nothing at all.
“Preacher, you still there?”
Swallowing, Preacher eyed the night sky. “Yeah man, I’m still here… hey, I know it’s late, but is my mom around?”
“Naw, brother, everyone left this mornin’. You forget the date? They’re all headed to Four Points.”
Preacher’s brow shot up. Four Points? Jesus, he had completely lost track of time out here.
Held in upstate New York, the Four Points Motorcycle Rally was a two-week-long excuse for bikers from all over to get together and show off their rides, and The Judge never missed an excuse to tout his choppers or his high standing in the motorcycle community. Back before he’d been locked up, neither had Preacher.
“What about Tiny?” Preacher asked, knowing how much his friend hated camping. “Frank?”
“Yeah man, Tiny went with ‘em. He’s been on a tear lately ‘bout how he don’t ever get laid in the city, so he might as well try the country. Frank, no. Frank went… to Philly…”
Hightower trailed off, his implication clear. If Frank was in Philadelphia, that meant The Judge had sent him there on club business.
“Tiny can’t get laid anywhere,” Preacher said with a hint of a smile. Tiny was as big as a house and usually sweating profusely, even on a cool day. Finding a woman to take an interest in him had never been an easy task. It usually required a hell of a lot of alcohol and a lot of cash up front.
Feeling a sliver of homesickness, the first he’d felt since he’d been on the road, Preacher asked, “How’s everyone doin’? Things good?”
“Things are good, brother, real good…” There was a pause. “… and we’re all wondering when the hell you’re comin’ home. You’re comin’ home, right?”
Unsure of what to say, Preacher remained silent.
“Preach—”
A robotic feminine voice took over the line, asking for another twenty cents. Reaching into his pocket, Preacher fingered the change inside. The voice asked a second time and Preacher pulled his hand from his pocket. Taking the phone from his ear, he looked down at the receiver and… hung up.
Blowing out a heavy breath, his gaze fell on the diner, and Preacher absentmindedly scanned the mix of bodies inside. While the food at truck stops left a lot to be desired, lately he much preferred the company of truckers over everyone else.
Two years up the river doesn’t seem like a whole heck of a lot of time until you find yourself back on the streets among people who aren’t half mad. Suddenly surrounded by normalcy, and feeling out of place in a world in which he’d once thrived, had been a brutal shock to Preacher’s system. It was easier for him in places like this, around those who lived on the fringes, who barely gave you a first glance, let alone a second.
The diner door opened, the bells on the door jingling, and a dark figure stepped outside. The man’s lowered head lifted and his gaze connected with Preacher’s. Recognition was instantaneous.
“Dickie,” Preacher greeted him as they briefly clasped hands. “How the fuck have you been?”
“I’m cookin’, cat, I’m cookin’.” Dickie snapped his fingers together and pointed at Preacher. “I heard you were doin’ time. You break out? Am I dealin’ with an honest to God fugitive right now?”
Richard “Dickie” Darvis was a longtime friend of Preacher’s father and the club. Tall and wiry, his jeans cuffed at the ankles, his dark hair slicked into a jelly roll, the self-proclaimed lone rider still looked every bit the 1950s greaser he’d been in his youth.
Preacher attempted a laugh. “I maxed out a few months back. Been out on the road.” He shrugged. “Needed to clear my head.”
The joy in Dickie’s expression vanished. “Don’t gotta tell me, cat. Been behind bars more times than I care to remember. You get enough miles behind you, and soon you’ll be poppin’ that clutch, gettin’ back to it.”
An ache in Preacher’s neck flared to life, and he reached up to rub it. “Yeah well, it is what it is, right? Anyway, whatcha doin’ on the east coast? Last I heard you were headed out west to play cowboys and Indians.”
Dickie barked out a rough, grating laugh, a painful-sounding testament to the two packs a day he smoked. “Was as bored as a blind man at a peep show out there. Just got back this way, was actually thinkin’ about heading to the city and dropping in on Gerry.”
Preacher shook his head. “He ain’t there. He’s at Four Points. You know he wouldn’t miss the chance to show off his favorite girls.”
Dickie’s eyes lit up. “Yeah? Don’t blame him, cat. Don’t blame him one bit. Those are some rare beauties he’s put together. Speakin’ of… what are you riding these days?” Dickie’s eyes scanned around the lot.
Preacher closed his eyes briefly. “She’s not here.” And when Dickie cocked an eyebrow in question, Preacher shook his head. “Don’t ask. It’s been the day from hell.”
The wrinkles around Dickie’s eyes deepened, his dark eyes shining with amusement. “First rule of the road, cat, you never try and outrun the rain.”
Preacher sighed noisily. He’d been so lost in his own miserable thoughts, he hadn’t even realized there’d been rain clouds looming. Lost. Amazing how one four-letter word could sum up his entire life.
“You joinin’ Gerry upstate?” Dickie asked.
The pain in Preacher’s neck doubled. He shrugged. “Maybe… haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there.” Dickie waggled his thick, salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “… after I check in on a couple of my dollies up in Buffalo.”
Preacher snorted. “A couple of ‘em, huh? Still breakin’ hearts across the country, Darvis?”
Winking, Dickie reached out and gave Preacher another hearty clap on the arm. “Is there any other way to live?”
Another grin, another slap on the arm, and Dickie was striding across the parking lot. Several minutes later, still standing in the same spot, Preacher watched as his friend’s glowing taillight disappeared into the darkness.
That’s when he felt it: an unnatural shift in the air around him; the presence of someone else. One of the many things prison had taught him was the necessity of awareness—awareness of the space around you—so that no one could catch you off guard.
Preacher spun and grabbed, snatching hold of a slender arm. Slim fingers, nails bitten to the quick—they held his wallet captive.
The girl let out a small, surprised squeak and tried to wrench her hand from his grip, but Preacher easily held her in place. In her other hand, a small blade flicked free from its sheath, glinting as it caught the light from the diner. Preacher took a moment to eye the weapon: a flimsy, rusted little thing he’d bet his bike wasn’t sharp enough to do more than clean his nails.
“What’s that you got there? A toothpick?” He smirked at her.
Long, limp hair framed a face smudged with dirt. A pair of tired brown eyes, flashing fear and resentment, met his. Her juicy-looking lips twisted bitterly.
A sense of familiarity slithered through Preacher—he knew a street rat when he saw one. Life on the road curses everyone, young and old, male and female, with the same expression—one part weary, one part bitter, two parts desperate.
But for a road-weary thief, she sure was cute.
He slid his gaze down her figure, taking in her flannel shirt and dirty jeans, worn straight through at the knees. The baggy clothes mostly hid her, but not so much that he couldn’t see the outline of feminine curves beneath. An army-issued sack, bulging with her belongings, was slung smartly across her back. r />
“That’s mine,” he said. Plucking his wallet from her grasp, he released her wrist.
She jumped backward and stepped to the side, keeping her gaze locked with his. He remained where he stood, making a show of tucking his wallet inside his jacket’s inner breast pocket. Still smirking, he gave his pocket a firm pat.
The fear in her gaze was nearly gone now. Through narrowed eyes she assessed him, her expression conveying that she didn’t quite know what to make of the situation. Thoroughly amused now, Preacher was contemplating giving her a few dollars when a gruff shout interrupted his thoughts.
“Found her! Over here, boys, over here!” A broad-shouldered, heavyset man was storming toward them. His red face bulging with fury, he was making a big show of waving around a baseball bat.
Unimpressed, Preacher eyed him beneath furrowed brows. “Friend of yours?” he asked the girl.
“I saw you, you little bitch!” the man growled, pointing his bat at the girl. “Hand over the bag!” He angled the bat in Preacher’s direction. “You too!”
“Hey now,” Preacher started to say, “I didn’t…”
“Gimme the bags, you thieving shits!” the man bellowed.
There was no way in hell Preacher was going to hand his bag over, and judging by the look on the girl’s face, she wasn’t going to be giving hers up either. Not without a fight.
Preacher rolled his shoulders. Fine. A fight was just fine with him. Growing up with brothers had left him well acquainted with solving problems with his fists. And if things got really out of hand, he had a blade in his boot big enough to send Red here crying back to whatever rig he’d crawled out of.
Jaw locked, fists clenched, Preacher was ready to step forward when he heard the clatter of footsteps approaching. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him two more men had joined their group, one brandishing a tire iron.
Cursing under his breath, Preacher glanced briefly up at the sky. First the rain and now this shit? Someone up there must really have it out for him.