“A girl like me?” she bit out.
He shrugged. “You aren’t a typical street rat. For starters, you got good teeth. And you’re smart, too.” He tapped two fingers against his temple. “Pretty easy to tell the difference between someone who’s been to school and someone who hasn’t. So I’m curious how a girl like you ended up so slick. I’m guessin’ someone showed you the ropes?”
She wanted to hate him for figuring her out so perfectly. For knowing so much about her without knowing her at all. For being an all-knowing arrogant ass whose overly confident smirk was grating on her nerves. For laughing at her apology.
But for all her irritation, there was an odd sort of warmth blossoming inside of her. Preacher had seen straight through her. Through the grease and the dirt, through her torn, dingy clothing. Through the lies she’d told him.
No one, not one single soul, had ever done that before.
Debbie took a breath. “Sunshine. Her name was Sunshine.”
Early on in her travels, Debbie had found herself stuck in Nashville, Tennessee. Out of money and without a plan, she’d spent most nights sleeping along the Cumberland River under a bridge, and most days rummaging through city garbage cans for something to eat. Out of options, she’d been trying her hand at panhandling on the Boulevard, typically with very little luck, when she’d happened upon Sunshine.
Tall and slim, her hair the color of ripe wheat, her skin glowing a tawny gold, a young woman had expertly strummed her guitar, crooning to a crowd of people. Debbie had stopped to listen, partially transfixed by the haunting quality of her voice, but mostly jealous of the ever-growing pile of money being tossed into her guitar case.
Hours passed, the crowd dispersed, and still Debbie remained—she’d had nowhere else to go. She’d watched the woman pack up her guitar and get ready to leave. But instead, she’d turned to Debbie and smiled.
“Ride’s over.”
Startled, Debbie blinked at the pimply-faced teenager standing outside their cart. Mouth downturned, eyes glassy, he stared blankly back at her.
“Ride’s over,” he repeated, deadpan. “You two have to get out.”
“Here, kid,” Preacher said, handing the teen a folded bill. “Buy yourself a personality. We’re stayin’ on.”
Turning back to Debbie, Preacher folded his arms over his chest and quirked a brow. “You were sayin’?”
Debbie looked at her lap, where she was still clutching Preacher’s denim jacket. The butterfly ring on her index finger—a gift from Sunshine—glinted in the moonlight. As she often did, she began to twist the silver band around her finger. “She taught me everything I know.”
Sunshine had been born on a commune, the unclaimed result of her mother’s many bed partners. She’d run away at thirteen for reasons she’d never disclosed to Debbie. By her twenties Sunshine had learned more than a few tricks for surviving on the road, pickpocketing being one of them. Surprisingly enough, Debbie had excelled at it.
Still twisting her ring, Debbie took a breath and met Preacher’s gaze. “And then one day she was gone.”
“She ditch you?”
Debbie nodded. Those few weeks had been the happiest of her life. She’d thought she’d found a companion, someone to share the burden of her lifestyle with. She’d thought her bad luck had finally taken a turn for the better.
She’d thought she’d found a true friend.
Finding her suddenly gone one morning, Debbie had broken down in tears. And she hadn’t cried since.
“It wasn’t anything you did.” Shaking his head, Preacher’s gaze wandered away.
“Known chicks just like Sunshine. Guys, too. They got the bug. Gotta keep movin’, you know? Can’t sit still, can’t stay in one place too long. Bet my ass she stayed longer than she would have if she hadn’t met you. And I’m guessing she left while you were sleepin’ ‘cause she didn’t want to have to say goodbye.”
“It’s easier for ‘em that way. Somethin’ is broken up there, in there.” He tapped a finger to his temple and then over his heart. “They can’t face staying, and they can’t face leaving either.”
Debbie took a moment to consider his words. It made sense, more sense than anything else. And for the first time since Sunshine had left her, she felt maybe not quite so miserable about it.
“Was your mom—is your mom like that? Like Sunshine?”
“Nah. She was just makin’ do. Just getting by until she found somethin’ better, somethin’ permanent… like you.” His eyes settled on Debbie, those dark depths quickly sharpening.
As uncomfortable as she was in the face of his scrutiny, Debbie held his gaze, even as her stomach twisted anxiously. This was the most she’d spoken to another person in quite some time, and by far the most truth she’d divulged in twice as long. She also assumed Preacher had already guessed as much, given how obnoxiously perceptive he was.
And then he smiled. Not a smirk. Not a laugh. A generous curve to his mouth that lifted his cheeks, reaching all the way to his eyes. In that instant, he appeared younger than he looked. Sweet, even. And achingly handsome.
Debbie’s lips twitched. The unease in her stomach began to ebb. Instead of clammy, she felt warm—a sort of comforting warmth, a sensation that was completely foreign to her.
“Anyway,” she mumbled. She glanced out across the fair. They had nearly reached the top again, and the view was no less beautiful than before.
“Stealing is easy when you’re practically invisible. Hardly anyone even notices me.” Unlike Sunshine, whose beauty and style had all but commanded attention, Debbie was plain in comparison.
Even before she’d set out on her own, she’d gone virtually unnoticed by her peers. She’d been the girl in the background, finding comfort in the shadows. And to her mother, she’d been only an accessory—a pair of polished pearl earrings worn only to complement the much larger, much more extravagant necklace.
Unfortunately the only person who had noticed her had been a monster.
“I noticed you.”
Debbie’s eyes darted back inside the cart, colliding with Preacher’s.
I noticed you.
Those three words took flight, finding and nudging awake long hidden places inside of her.
Throat bobbing, she turned away. Why would someone who had spent her entire life hiding suddenly find being noticed so incredibly appealing? She didn’t like being noticed. She worked hard to ensure she went unnoticed.
So what had changed so suddenly?
Unable to stop herself, Debbie’s gaze shifted back to Preacher.
It was Preacher. She liked being noticed by Preacher.
Chapter 11
Preacher followed Debbie down the platform, observing the rigid line of her shoulders, the restless way she was glancing around as if she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. Since telling him about Sunshine, she seemed suddenly agitated and twice as uncomfortable.
He didn’t much like the way he was feeling, either.
Here he was, angry at the hand life had dealt him, pissing and moaning over his strained relationship with his father, wandering aimlessly without a clue—all because he could. He had more than enough money and more where that came from. And whenever he got sick and tired of wandering aimlessly? He had a home waiting for him. A family. Friends. The whole nine yards.
And here was this girl. With nothing. Day after day, fighting for her next meal, braving the weather, robbing truckers, and risking everything just to reach a city that, more likely than not, was going to eat her alive.
Yeah, he felt like a first-class asshole.
Debbie spun around suddenly, forcing Preacher to a lurching stop. He nearly reached out to grab her to avoid falling straight into her.
“I’m really sorry for taking your stuff,” she rushed to say. She peered up at him through thick lashes. Her expression twisted. “I was just, um… I was…”
Having steadied himself, Preacher lifted his hand, signaling her to stop. “I get it. I ai
n’t even mad.”
He wasn’t mad—not anymore. And he did get it. Her story had struck a chord in him. If anything, he wanted to do more for her. An old denim jacket and the paltry sum she’d taken from his wallet didn’t seem like nearly enough.
“So, uh, I’m gonna go… thank you…um, for everything.” Debbie tucked her thumbs beneath the straps of her backpack and offered him a tiny smile. He watched, somewhat transfixed, as a dimple appeared high on her left cheek.
She really was a good-looking girl, and sweet, too… when she wasn’t stealing his shit.
Hesitantly she turned away.
Jamming his hands in his pockets, Preacher watched her go, her steps heavy and slow. Something continued to niggle at him; he really wished he could have done more. Offered her a hot meal or a ride. Something. Anything.
Pulling his hands from his pockets, Preacher stepped forward. He was lifting his arm, about to call out to Debbie, when a figure stepped in front of him.
“Demon.” The tone was gruff, commanding. Downright cold.
Stiffening, Preacher dropped his arm to his side and met the gaze of the man blocking his path.
Dark hair, dark eyes, a thick mustache, he wore a denim vest covered in patches, the most noteworthy of which were the PRESIDENT patch above his left breast and the 1% patch above that signified him as a one-percenter—an outlaw.
99% of motorcycle clubs consisted of men who enjoyed riding, or whose hobbies included chopping bikes. Riding was more of a pastime for them, not a way of life. Then there were the criminal clubs; a small percentage of men who embraced a very different sort of life and set of rules.
Men like Preacher. And whoever the hell this guy was.
A Caucasian male of average height and average weight, he was older than Preacher by at least ten years. He wore no name patch, and there was nothing particularly remarkable about him, no distinct features that identified him. And although Preacher was younger, taller, and fitter, he didn’t doubt the man was dangerous—not for a single second. You didn’t become the leader of a group of outlaws without good reason.
Most outlaw clubs were a volatile bunch on a good day, and with Preacher being who he was—the vice president of one of the more well-known and infinitely more lucrative criminal clubs—his elevated position in the Silver Demons earned him respect from other clubs. But there were always those few that preferred the mayhem of the life over the business side of it, and it was those clubs that Preacher knew to watch out for. They would take him on for pure sport.
A glance over his shoulder and a quick look around showed Preacher what he feared—several men rapidly approaching, all wearing identical denim vests.
Preacher’s hands flexed into fists. They were boxing him in.
“You don’t remember me, do ya?”
Preacher met the president’s smug expression with a bored look.
“Should I?” His tone lazy and uninterested, Preacher lifted a single, speculative brow. If he remembered anything The Judge had attempted pounding into him, it was that you never showed weakness to your enemy. Preacher might not have the upper hand here, but you wouldn’t think it to look at him.
A sly smile split the president’s lips. “Trick,” he called out, gesturing with his hand. A denim-clad man jogged forward, pulling something dark from inside his vest. Recognizing his leather cut, Preacher’s nostrils flared wide. What was with today and everyone stealing his shit? It should be in the Bible, an eleventh commandment: thou shalt not take another man’s leather.
“You always leave this just lyin’ around?” The President flashed him a smile twice as shrewd as his last.
Preacher regarded him coolly. He hadn’t left anything just lyin’ around. His club cut had been inside his duffel bag, and his duffel bag had been tied to his handlebars with a sequence of complicated stopper knots.
But instead of tearing his vest away from the asshole who’d dared touch his shit, Preacher took a breath. He wasn’t getting out of this with his fists or the lone blade in his boot. This, whatever this was, was going to require his wits.
The president continued to study him. “Name’s Rocky. Was at your clubhouse in the city ’bout four, maybe five years back. Knocked a few back with you and your boys. Wouldn’t expect you to remember, though. You’d just gotten VP, barely outta diapers back then. Didn’t have that pathetic excuse for a beard you got now.”
Rocky paused and laughed, though he didn’t appear any more or less amused than he’d been moments ago. It was all an act. Every smile, every frown, every move this man made was a well thought-out, calculated plan. Nothing he did was without purpose.
Preacher stayed silent, waiting for Rocky to get all his bullshit mocking and posturing out of the way and get to the point. He didn’t bother trying to recall when exactly the man had been to his clubhouse. The Silver Demons had entertained a lot of people over the years. Preacher could hardly be expected to keep track of them all.
“Preacher?”
Everyone turned toward the interruption. Preacher’s eyes widened when he found Debbie approaching, and growing wider still when one of Rocky’s men moved into position behind her. Heavily muscled, eyes vacant, he looked to be all brawn and very little brain.
She was aware of the man flanking her, but she kept her eyes on Preacher—big eyes full of questions and, oh hell, full of concern too. He silently cursed her, taking back every nice thing he’d thought about her. She was a stupid girl, walking straight into quicksand thinking it was the beach.
Another man moved to stand in front of Debbie, and like vultures surrounding their prey, both men began to circle her. The shift in positions allowed Preacher a glimpse at the backs of their vests. The top rocker identified them as Road Warriors, and below it was a center patch—a crude and childish rendition of a Viking warrior holding a spiked club. A bottom rocker proclaiming their location was noticeably absent.
Preacher knew them—or rather, he knew of them. The original Road Warriors had been based out of Virginia, but in recent years, they’d become more of a roving band of gypsies. They had no real business dealings unless you considered creating chaos a business. They were usually found working security at bars and concerts, but they were best known for their parties. There was a running joke about their club: no man left a Road Warrior party without getting knocked out, and no woman left without getting knocked up.
“You my dinner, sweetheart?” One of the men circling Debbie paused in front of her, laughing.
Debbie quickly sidestepped him only to be blocked by the second man. “She ain’t big enough to be dinner,” he mocked. Grabbing his crotch, he sneered at her. “This here’s what you fuck before you fuck.”
Debbie looked pleadingly to Preacher, and Preacher whirled on Rocky, all pretense gone. “Call your dogs off, Rocky,” he growled. “Right the fuck now.”
Rocky glanced between Preacher and Debbie, the calculating gleam in his eyes glowing brighter. He shrugged. “They gotta blow off steam somehow. If not…” Another shrug. “They end up turnin’ on one another.”
Struggling for calm, Preacher took a step toward Rocky, enough of a movement to command the attention of every Road Warrior present. Everyone stilled; all eyes shot to Preacher.
“Give. Her. To. Me.” Preacher’s quietly spoken words were punctuated with rage.
Rocky studied Preacher. If he was bothered by Preacher’s proximity, he didn’t show it. “Or what?”
“Or whatever the fuck you want, you won’t be gettin’ it.”
“You think you’re in any position to make demands?”
Preacher bared his teeth and nearly snarled. “Yeah, I do. We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want somethin’ from me. And whatever that is, I ain’t gonna give it ‘til you give her to me.”
Though it was slight, hardly noticeable, Preacher glimpsed a flash of anger in Rocky’s eyes, a subtle hardening of the man’s expression—the first glimpse of the man behind the carefully executed façade.
&n
bsp; Composed once again, Rocky turned a cunning smile on his men and gestured. Grumbling, they moved reluctantly, just barely clearing a pathway from Debbie to Preacher. She wasted no time in hurrying forward. When she was standing beside him, her big brown eyes full of apologies, Preacher turned his focus back to Rocky.
“Now what?” he asked flatly.
“We’ve got a camp nearby. Some of my boys work the stunt circuit. Gotta make a livin’ somehow. Why don’t you and your friend here join us for a beer?” Rocky paused, his eyes on Debbie. Stroking his jaw, he ran his gaze up and down her body, a slow, deliberate grin spreading across his face.
Preacher recognized the threat for what it was. Either he cooperated, or Debbie became collateral damage.
His protective instincts flaring, Preacher wrapped his arm around Debbie’s shoulders, hauling her up against him. He looked to Rocky then, daring the man to try something.
Rocky only continued to smile.
Teeth clenched, Preacher tightened his grip on Debbie. “Lead the way.”
• • •
Tucked neatly against Preacher’s side, Debbie studied her surroundings. She was memorizing the exact route they were taking as the Road Warriors herded them through the fairgrounds.
She shouldn’t have looked back. And she definitely shouldn’t have interfered. She’d only wanted to see if Preacher had been watching her walk away.
At first glance, she’d thought Preacher had known them but had quickly gathered that the meeting wasn’t a friendly one. There were too many of them, she’d realized as they’d circled around him, fists clenched, their eager eyes and twisted smirks promising violence. And only one of him.
She wasn’t so foolish as to think she could take on a single one, let alone an entire gang, but she’d felt she had to do something. After all, Preacher had done the same for her.
Their group entered a roped-off area between two tents marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and were greeted with a bustle of activity. Men in stained aprons hurried to and fro. A woman wearing a pink cowboy hat and matching boots strode by, leading a pair of horses. A group of clowns in full costume sat smoking atop a stack of wooden crates.