Further back sat a stretch of land peppered with trailers and tents, small bonfires scattered throughout. It was quieter here, the air was cooler, the smells not quite so overwhelming. Somewhere a Tom Jones song was playing.
“Follow my lead,” Preacher growled softly, squeezing her arm.
Debbie took a breath and glanced up, her gaze tracing the lines of worry creasing his forehead and the grim set of his mouth. Preacher didn’t seem like the type to scare easily, and if he was worried… Debbie swallowed back a wave of fear.
Their group stopped at the far end of the clearing, at a campsite that grazed the forest line.
There was no trailer, no tents, no table and chairs. Only several sleeping rolls, a pile of backpacks, and a couple dozen empty beer bottles scattered around a low-lit bonfire. Two women sat shoulder to shoulder near the fire, their heads bent over a magazine, while a third stood nearby, a beer in her hand, a cigarette dangling from between her lips. All around them tall, thick trees loomed, shrouding them in near blackness.
“You can give her to the girls.” Rocky jerked his chin to the fire before giving Debbie another long look, imbued with insinuation. A look that left her feeling naked and exposed.
She stared back at him, a chill sliding up her spine, half expecting to see fangs protruding from his mouth. She knew this sort of look all too well. She’d run from a look just like it. She was still running from it.
“Pretty little thing,” Rocky murmured. Seconds passed, feeling more like minutes the longer he watched her. Expert, unwavering focus shone in his dark gaze. Wave after wave of anxiety rolled through her. This was not a man you wanted focused on you.
“Nobody touches her,” Preacher said quietly, but not without an edge. Though low, his tone was cold, hard steel, mirroring the stiff, unyielding contours of his body.
Debbie glanced up to find Preacher’s face had darkened, his expression thunderous as he stared at Rocky, then he turned slowly, meeting the eyes of each and every Road Warrior. Gone was the kindhearted man who’d saved her last night. Gone was the forgiving man who’d joined her on the Ferris wheel.
Her gaze ricocheted between Preacher and Rocky. There were similarities, not in appearance, but in demeanor. In the way they held themselves, in the authority exuding from both of them.
And despite Preacher not giving her the same uneasy feeling Rocky did, she couldn’t help but think these men were cut from the same cloth.
An oily smile formed beneath Rocky’s thick mustache. “She’s yours then?” he asked, his awful eyes once again on Debbie.
Preacher didn’t hesitate. “She’s mine. Lay a hand on her and we’ve got a problem. You want a problem with the Demons, Rocky?”
Though it hadn’t yet reached his eyes, Rocky’s smile remained. “You’ve got my word then,” he said, and shrugged. “No one touches her.”
Debbie’s eyes were still on Rocky when Preacher suddenly shifted her in his arms, bringing her flush against his front. One of his hands moved to cup the back of her head while the other gripped her lower back. Their eyes collided, the look on his face indecipherable when suddenly his hand on her back dropped, squeezing her butt. Debbie startled, and Preacher’s head bent, his mouth covering hers. His tongue swept past her parted lips like a tidal wave, swiftly drowning her squeak of surprise.
Follow my lead. Preacher’s words echoed in her thoughts and shock turned soon to understanding.
Still… nothing could have prepared her for… this kiss.
While Preacher’s mouth was insistent, he wasn’t at all sloppy. He kissed her with a cool precision that made Debbie think he probably kissed quite often. Then faster, harder, and with less finesse, his tongue plunged roughly into her mouth, the coarse hairs in his short beard scraping softly against her cheeks and chin.
Debbie’s stomach plummeted to her feet as utterly unfamiliar sensations assaulted her. Not terrible, not at all terrible, but definitely foreign. Soft, warm sensations. But also hectic and fraying around the edges—a quickly expanding ball of electricity.
She was kissing him back now, meeting him stroke for stroke. Her thoughts muddied, her other senses sharpened, she became overly aware of every single place their bodies were touching, and all the places they weren’t.
And then just as soon as it had begun, it was over.
Breathing hard, Debbie blinked up at Preacher. He was staring past her, his expression hewn from stone. Realizing she was gripping his arms, she quickly released him.
“Wait for me over there.” His tone hard, Preacher pointed to the campfire. He still hadn’t looked at her. Why wasn’t he looking at her? He was unfazed, not even a little out of breath. It was as if nothing had happened, especially nothing as earth shattering as that kiss had been.
Ignoring the leering Road Warriors, Debbie stepped away and hurried across the campsite.
Approaching the bonfire she slowed, hesitating as one of the women approached her, hostile energy rolling off her slim frame in thick waves. Frizzy blonde curls, bleached one too many times, framed an angular face with sharp, masculine features.
“So you’re what a Demon bitch looks like, huh?” The blonde smirked, long, downturned lines highlighted her too-thin lips. “Can’t say I’m impressed.” Her voice matched her face—both were worn and cracking.
“Sorry, what?”
She made a face, an ugly mix of irritation and disdain. “You slow or somethin’? Your old man is VP of the Silver Demons, ain’t he?”
Eyes narrowed, Debbie’s gaze shot to Preacher. Surrounded by Road Warriors, only a sliver of his profile was visible. She looked to Rocky, specifically to the denim vest he was wearing, and then again at Preacher. She hadn’t been wrong when she’d marked their similarities.
“Yeah, sorry,” Debbie muttered, turning back to the blonde. “It’s been a long day.”
The woman took her time dragging her contemptuous gaze up and down Debbie’s body. “Not sure what he sees in you, honey. Ain’t got much in the looks department, and you bein’ young ain’t gonna sell ya forever.”
Debbie blinked. Young? Bitterness squeezed her insides. She wasn’t young anymore. She certainly didn’t feel young. She’d never get to do the things that other people her age did. She wouldn’t be attending her prom, she wouldn’t be graduating from high school or applying to colleges. Young, old, and in between, none of it applied to her anymore. She wasn’t anything anymore. She was little more than a ghost who slipped into the land of the living only long enough to scrounge for scraps before being shooed away, forced back to the edge of society. Time didn’t matter. Age didn’t matter. There was just right here, right now, your wits, and a bit of luck.
Debbie’s eyes slid to Preacher. And the kindness of strangers, too.
“Lawd, Sissy, give it a rest, will ya?” A pair of dark eyes peeked out from beneath a thick fringe of inky black bangs. A young woman climbed to her feet, gracefully unfolding a tall, slim body.
Her fair skin shone white beneath her fall of sleek black hair, and as she stepped forward and smiled, Debbie guessed she wasn’t much older than herself.
“Ignore Sissy.” She gave a flippant wave of her hand. “She’s just jealous. She’s fucked her way around the country trying to find an in with any club that’ll take her. She finally managed to nail down Duke over there, only ‘cause poor Duke is too dumb to know any better.”
Air whistled through Sissy’s clenched teeth. “Fuck you, bitch!” she seethed.
“I’m Angela,” the girl continued, unbothered by Sissy’s outburst. “But my friends call me Angel.” Smirking, Angel winked at Sissy. “And I’m Rocky’s girl.”
“You’re Rocky’s whore,” Sissy shot back.
Debbie glanced warily between the two. Angel didn’t seem at all upset by Sissy’s jibe; if anything she appeared amused. Sissy, however, glared at Angel, fury sparking in her eyes. Several tense seconds passed before Sissy huffed loudly and whirled away.
Watching her storm off, Angel thr
ew her head back and laughed loudly, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
“You’ve already met Sissy.” Angel turned her attention to the woman still buried behind a magazine. “And this is Fat Becky.”
Fat Becky, an average-sized woman whose only visible feature behind the magazine was a head of messy brown hair, grunted and lifted a hand in greeting.
Debbie began to introduce herself and suddenly stopped short. Preacher, Rocky, Duke, Angel… Fat Becky? Was it some sort of motorcycle club requirement? Preacher’s words—follow my lead—echoed in her thoughts again.
“I’m Wheels,” she said.
“Wheels?” Angel arched one slim, black brow. “You’ve got to tell me the story behind that.”
Debbie shrugged. “Short for Hell on Wheels.”
“Nice,” Angel said, looking suitably impressed. “So, how long have you been riding with him?”
Debbie took precious seconds to wonder what the right answer would be.
“I’m not sure,” she finally said, mimicking Angel’s carefree, rather flippant tone. “Never really kept track of stuff like that, you know?”
Head bobbing in agreement, Angel reclaimed her seat next to Becky. Holding up a gleaming silver cigarette case, she patted the ground beside her. “Come sit. Smoke with me.” She beckoned Debbie with the case.
Debbie spared another glance at Preacher, still surrounded by Road Warriors, before reluctantly taking a seat.
“You’re lucky, you know? Your old man is a real fox.” Angel’s eyes were on Preacher as she placed a joint between her lips and lit it. “Rocky ain’t too easy on the eyes, but he knows how to get down.” She shivered excitedly. “And I’ll take a big Johnson over a pretty face any day.”
Becky glanced up, her freckled face and light blue eyes illuminated by firelight. “Too thin,” she said dryly, and disappeared back behind the magazine.
Debbie took the joint Angel offered her, distractedly puffing on it while her gaze turned back to Preacher. She’d felt the hard slabs of muscle layering his abdomen when seated on the back of his bike, her arms wrapped around his middle. She’d seen the twin bulges of his biceps. Even now, surrounded by several big, burly men, Preacher looked like he could hold his own.
Debbie’s eyes narrowed with indignation. Fat Becky was wrong.
He was long and lean, yes, but Preacher definitely wasn’t thin.
Chapter 12
Rocky unfolded his arms, opening them wide. “You see? I’m not unreasonable. All I’m askin’ for is a piece of the damn pie. What your old man refused to give me.”
The tension had dissipated. The rigid posture and threatening expressions from earlier had been replaced with relaxed shoulders and a surprisingly expectant expression.
The Road Warriors were sick of being gypsies. They wanted to stop wandering endlessly and put down some roots. Only roots required money, and money required work. And if nothing else, the Silver Demons excelled at work.
Nevertheless, Rocky approaching Preacher was pointless. The Judge didn’t employ or work alongside men like Rocky. He already knew what his father would say. That you couldn’t trust the Road Warriors—that they were nothing more than homeless thugs. That there had to be honor among thieves, or your house of cards was going to come crashing down around you.
It didn’t matter that The Judge’s way of thinking was hypocritical and self-serving; he would never change. He wasn’t just set in his ways, he was half blinded by his own superiority complex and firmly entrenched in his unwavering, half-mad convictions. In layman’s terms, a working relationship with the Road Warriors was never gonna happen.
Even as vice president, Preacher held very little sway over the wheelings and dealings of the Silver Demons’ business machinations. It was The Judge, and only The Judge, who opened and closed those doors. Everyone else only offered suggestions or followed orders.
But Rocky didn’t need to know any of that, and what Rocky didn’t know, Preacher had used to his benefit. He’d promised to put in a good word with The Judge, assuring Rocky he’d detail the benefits of a working relationship between the Silver Demons and the Road Warriors.
The latter hadn’t been a ruse. Rocky had an impressive network of men, nomads who were scattered all over, ready to ride or work at a moment’s notice. Only an idiot wouldn’t realize the benefits of having eyes and ears across the nation.
Of course, if it were up to Preacher, the Road Warriors would have to agree to strip their colors and patch in as Silver Demons.
Preacher practically salivated at the thought of a Silver Demons clubhouse in all fifty states and the ability to control distribution not only along the east coast but nationwide. If done right, bringing the Road Warriors into the fold could create a highly profitable business relationship.
Hell, Preacher envisioned The Judge’s business becoming a veritable empire.
Rocky motioned to Trick—the man holding Preacher’s cut and Preacher stepped forward and snatched it from him. Shrugging it on over his jacket, the leather molded comfortably to his body like a second skin.
Rocky gestured to the bonfire. “Knock a few back with me?”
Preacher reluctantly agreed. No matter how badly he wanted to leave, refusing a drink with Rocky would be bad form—the equivalent of spitting in the man’s face.
As they made their way toward the bonfire, Preacher’s eyes were on Debbie. She was slumped forward, her hair hiding her face, fiddling with something on the ground in front of her. Frowning, he picked up his pace.
“Hey.” He bent down and tapped her knee. “You okay?”
Her head lifted slowly, her long hair parting to reveal a pair of bloodshot, unfocused eyes.
Her mouth stretched into a wide smile.
“Hi,” she whispered, then giggled.
He grinned at her. “Debbie Reynolds, you are baked.”
“Yes,” she whispered, shrugging. “You said to follow your lead.”
“You wanna smoke? It’s my own blend.” The proud declaration came from a raven-haired girl shaking a silver cigarette case at Preacher. Flicking the case open, she revealed several neatly rolled joints.
Holding up a hand, Preacher shook his head. Things might seem amicable at the moment, but the Road Warriors had still coerced him into a meeting. A head full of drugs was the last thing he needed while among men he didn’t trust.
The girl glanced at Debbie. “Wheels seemed to like it.”
Brows up, Preacher looked to Debbie, who quickly turned away. Her cheeks had gone pink and her bottom lip had disappeared beneath her teeth.
Chuckling, he sat down beside her and nudged her shoulder with his. “Wheels, huh?” he whispered, and Debbie ducked her head, burying her face in her hands.
“We’ve got whiskey and moonshine.” Rocky stepped forward, a bottle in each hand. He shook one of them. “Right outta the backwoods of West Virginia.”
Knowing better than to put himself in a moonshine coma, Preacher gestured for the whiskey.
“Turn some music on!” someone demanded. Someone else complied, and a country song filled the space between idle chatter.
Some of the Road Warriors headed back to the fair while others found seats around the fire. One Road Warrior cozied up beside a woman with her face buried in a magazine. Another, gripping a large hunting knife, was sharpening the blade on a nearby rock. Several yards away Rocky had tugged the black-haired girl onto his lap, and his hands were all over her.
Preacher took a swig of whiskey, grimacing at the bitter taste.
“So you’re the vice president of a motorcycle club?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Preacher noticed Debbie studying his leather cut. He grimaced through another swallow of whiskey before answering. “That’s what they tell me.”
“What does the vice president of a motorcycle club do?”
“Whatever the president tells him to do.”
“What does the president tell you to do?”
“You sh
ould have left,” he said, veering her away from questions he couldn’t answer.
Debbie blinked. Confusion flickered across her features as she glanced around the campsite. “But… I thought I was supposed to wait here for you?”
“I’m talkin’ about earlier. You shouldn’t have gotten involved.”
“I thought they were going to hurt you,” she whispered. “I only wanted to help.”
As ridiculous as it was—this slip of a girl thinking she could somehow protect him from the Road Warriors—Preacher also found it admirable.
“I took on all those guys at the truck stop. You don’t gotta worry about me.”
She shook her head. “This was different.” Her eyes slid to the Road Warrior sharpening his blade. “They’re different.”
Preacher paused, unable to dispute her reasoning. The men from the truck stop weren’t good men by any stretch of the imagination, but he doubted they were killers. Preacher didn’t doubt for a single second that a man like Rocky had a body count.
“I’m blamin’ it all on you, you know,” he said eventually. Facing the fire, he lifted the whiskey to his mouth. “You’re a whole lot of bad luck. Got me slapped with a baseball bat, stole my wallet and my goddamn jacket—”
Before he was able to drink, Debbie grabbed hold of the whiskey bottle, threw her head back, and took a stunningly long swallow. Amused, Preacher watched as she began to sputter and cough.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, thrusting the bottle back into his hand. “That was horrible!”
A drop of whiskey slipped down Debbie’s chin, and before Preacher could think twice about it, he wiped it away. Her eyes shot to his, and his thoughts took a tire-squealing turn back to earlier—back to their kiss. A claiming kiss he’d given her only to ensure the Road Warriors would keep their hands to themselves.
He hadn’t expected her to kiss him back like she had. If anything, he’d expected her to be mostly unreceptive. And she had been… at first. A little shaky, too. But then, out of nowhere, she’d been on fire, kissing him with a wild eagerness he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager. Back when Preacher had been about girls, girls, and more girls. Any girl he could get his hands on, he most definitely put his hands on. He’d been all too eager and therefore messy, lacking in the skill and finesse that would come later, with time and experience.