Another cruel smile split his lips. “Yeah? He marry you?”
When Debbie didn’t respond, Rocky’s smile grew. “Didn’t think so.”
He pressed a hand on the wall beside her and bent his head to hers. He captured a lock of her hair and tugged hard.
“You know, me and my boys, we got a rule. Don’t matter which one of us she’s fuckin’. If she ain’t married, she’s fair game.” Again the dry, woody stench of whiskey engulfed her.
“You’re a little fatter than I like, but you sure look sweet.” He stepped back a fraction to look at her, and inside his vile gaze, Debbie saw all the sick and twisted things he wanted to do to her.
“Wh-where’s Angel?” She stammered. Wishing for her pocketknife, Debbie cursed herself for no longer carrying it.
“Who?” he asked and laughed again. His hand dropped from her hair to her chest, just above her breasts. His fingers dipped between her cleavage and cold panic lodged in her throat, freezing her in place.
Then Rocky was suddenly gone. Wrenched away from her and shoved up against the opposite wall. Preacher quickly advanced on Rocky and gripped him by his shirt collar.
“Don’t you ever touch her!” he shouted, his voice quaking with rage. “Not fuckin’ ever!”
“Get your fuckin’ hands off me,” Rocky growled.
Dark eyes stared into dark eyes, and both men’s features tightened further. The tension between the two was tangible, rolling off them in menacing waves.
“You don’t touch her,” Preacher repeated coldly. “Ever.”
All around them Road Warriors had paused in their debauchery and were watching the exchange with wary expressions. Crazy-8 and Knuckles had also joined the fray. Fists clenched, bodies taut with aggression, they met the wary gazes of the surrounding Road Warriors with hard, unyielding stares.
It was Rocky who relented first. Smirking, he put his hands in the air. “Whatever you say, Prez…”
Preacher took a halting breath and released Rocky with a shove. Quickly straightening, Rocky turned and stalked off down the hall, but not before winking in Debbie’s direction.
Then Preacher turned his blistering gaze on Debbie. His eyes were on fire. The tendons in his neck and arms were bulging, straining beneath his skin.
She shrunk back against the wall as he advanced on her, but made no move to stop him as he grabbed her arm. Holding tightly to her, Preacher marched her down the hallway. As pregnant as she was, she had to practically run to keep up with his long-legged stride.
He brought her to a sudden stop outside of the room he always kept locked, and after fumbling with his keys, threw open the door. One look at the lethal expression still marring his handsome features and Debbie hurried inside. Preacher slammed the door shut behind them, pitching the room into near darkness.
A light flickered on, brightening the room and highlighting the thick layer of dust coating nearly everything inside it—a desk and chair, numerous family photos, and a long, rectangular table with enough chairs around it to seat every member of the club.
While the rest of the clubhouse smelled lived in, this room smelled stale and unused. Debbie’s stared briefly at the desk in the corner and the framed photograph resting on top—a black and white snapshot of a young Gerald and Ginny, a swaddled baby in Ginny’s arms, and the clubhouse towering behind them.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” Preacher snarled. “And where the fuck is Tiny?”
“Who are all those women?” she countered, her voice trembling—with anger or fear, she didn’t know. She gestured toward the door, residual panic making her movements jerky and uncoordinated.
Preacher’s frown deepened, making the angry lines in his face appear twice as pronounced. And Debbie was once again struck by how different he seemed.
“I told you not to come here. You bein’ here is doin’ the exact opposite of what I told you to do!”
“I thought you had business to take care of!” she shouted. “But you’re throwing a party? Is this what you do on the road?”
“What happens here or on the road isn’t any of your business.”
Shocked, Debbie blinked. Her eyes filled with tears. “Is this what you want, then?” she whispered.
“Is what what I want?”
“Those disgusting women!” She thrust a finger toward the door. “I saw Knuckles and Crazy-8, and I saw you!”
Preacher regarded her coolly. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but those women are hookers, bought and paid for. And I haven’t touched a single one of ‘em.”
“Then why are you here?” Her bottom lip trembled relentlessly as she tried desperately not to cry. “And why can’t I be here with you?”
Preacher’s eyes flashed, and his expression turned deadly once more. “Those men are monsters,” he said quietly through clenched teeth. “Do you get that? They are fuckin’ monsters and I don’t want you anywhere near them.”
“They why are they here?” she demanded. “Why are they in your clubhouse? You say they’re monsters, but they’re here because you let them in! Are you a monster too?”
Silence followed her words—the sort of stillness that steals everything within its reach, strips it naked, and swallows it whole.
Debbie’s thoughts jumbled. And as her emotions overflowed, so did her eyes.
“Is it because I look like this?” Tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands flew to her stomach. “Because you did this! You did this to me!”
“I know what I did.” Preacher’s tone was as unyielding as the look on his face. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I ain’t gonna keep apologizin’ for it, either.” His jaw locked. “I want my fuckin’ kid.”
“That makes one of us!”
Preacher’s nostrils flared wide. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Look at your fuckin’ stomach! You need to own up to what happened and get your damn head on straight! We are havin’ a kid, you’re gonna be a mother—”
“Shut up!” Debbie cried, slapping her hands over her ears. “Just shut up!”
Preacher took a threatening step towards her, his hands clenched into fists. Debbie scrambled backward, taking refuge behind a chair.
Surprise flashed in his eyes. Shaking his head, he threw his hands in the air. “What am I doin’ wrong? You got a place to live, don’t you? Food, clothes, money? When was the last time you had to jack a wallet or scam a meal?”
“Screw you!” Debbie continued to cry. “At least I wasn’t pregnant!”
Preacher stared at her. “Are you tellin’ me that you’d rather be out there on the street, livin’ like a goddamn rat, than here with me, havin’ my kid?”
A bolt of clarity flashed through the roaring storm that was Debbie’s emotions.
No, God no. She wouldn’t trade her life with Preacher for anything that had come before. But she wasn’t about to admit to it—she was far too upset at what she’d seen going on inside the clubhouse tonight.
Preacher closed the remaining distance between them and grabbed hold of the chair Debbie was hiding behind. “What the fuck do you need that I ain’t givin’ you? More clothes? More money?”
“Screw you,” she whispered hoarsely. He could take his clothes and his money and shove them up his ass for all she cared. All she wanted was him.
The chair between them disappeared, and Debbie flinched as it crashed into a wall.
“Answer me!” he demanded. “What else do you need?”
“I need to not be pregnant!” she screamed. “I don’t want a fucking baby! I don’t want to be a mother! I don’t want this, Preacher!”
Her explosion startled them both into silence.
Preacher recovered first, his surprise quickly reverting to anger. “Too late,” he ground out.
His refusal to hear her, to even acknowledge her fears, sent her into another emotional tailspin. “Fuck you!” she cried, “Fuck you!”
Nostrils flaring wildly, rage stamped into every line on his face, Pr
eacher stepped closer, forcing Debbie up against the wall. “Fuck me? Is that what you need? You’re jealous of those whores out there? You wanna get fucked in front of everyone too? Want me to pass you around?”
Debbie’s breath hitched, her heart skipped a beat, and then her hand cracked across Preacher’s face. His head whipped to the right under the force of her slap.
He turned back to her slowly, flexing his jaw.
Debbie brought her throbbing hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” she rushed to say. “Oh God, Preacher, I’m so sorry.”
She flinched when he touched her wrist, and gently tugged her hand away from her mouth. “Wheels, open your eyes and look at me.”
She shook her head, and he sighed loudly.
“I’m protectin’ you, don’t you get that? But I can’t protect you if you don’t listen to me.” Preacher’s voice was a soft, tender rumble.
Eyes still closed, Debbie continued to shake her head. She didn’t understand anything regarding the club. And with tonight’s revelations, she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to.
Preacher bent his head to hers. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose, his warm breath mingled with hers. Debbie breathed in the familiar and comforting scent of him, hating that it was mixed with the noxious smell of cheap perfume.
His hands captured the sides of her head. “The less you know, the safer you are.”
She opened her eyes. “Are you safe?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “How many times do I gotta tell you? You don’t need to worry ‘bout me.”
It was such a small thing—a single extra blink—that Debbie almost didn’t notice it. And probably wouldn’t have if she hadn’t been looking directly into his eyes.
“Lie,” she whispered.
He stared at her for a long time, a mix of emotions passing over his features—guilt, sadness, and pain. The same pain she always glimpsed in his eyes when she found him roaming their apartment at night.
“Oh, Preacher,” she whimpered, and kissed him—a soft brush of her lips. He drew in a deep, ragged breath and then covered her mouth with his.
Then she poured everything she was feeling—all her shock, her anger, and her fears—into their kiss. All her love too.
And when they broke apart, and Preacher’s hands fell away from her face, gone was the pain in his eyes. Instead, they burned hungrily.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “We’re goin’ home.”
No sooner had they’d turned toward the door when Knuckles burst through it. Smoke and music filled the room. “Sylvie’s gonna kill Joe!”
“Sylvie’s here?” Frowning, Preacher looked at Debbie. Biting down on her bottom lip, she nodded.
“Preacher, man, she’s got a gun!” Panic-stricken, Knuckles was hopping from foot to foot, while both nodding and shaking his head back and forth. “She’s really gonna kill him!”
“A gun?” Again, Preacher looked at Debbie.
Mouth hanging open, she only shook her head.
Preacher looked instantly ten years older and markedly more exhausted than she’d ever seen him before. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Jesus. Fucking. Christ.”
“Knuckles, you stay with her.” Preacher pointed at Debbie. “And lock this fuckin’ door behind me. None of the trash out there gets anywhere near my girl, you got that?”
Knuckles nodded. “I got it, boss.”
Locking the door behind Preacher, Knuckles turned to Debbie, a strained smile on his face. “You ain’t got no gun, right Debbie darling?”
He pointed to the words on his T-shirt—PEACE, LOVE, AND PUSSY.
“’Cause, I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
• • •
Preacher found Frank waiting for him at the bottom of the first-floor stairwell. In sharp contrast to the others, Preacher could always count on Frank to be sober and ready for anything that came their way. The man had zero distractions—he didn’t drink, didn’t use drugs, and didn’t mess with women outside of his marriage. Back when they were kids, Preacher used to rag on him for his inability to let loose and run wild. Now though, as a grown man with the responsibility of the entire club resting solely on his shoulders, he was glad for Frank’s steadfastness and reliability—even if it was sometimes to the point of neurosis.
“All clear?” he asked.
Frank gestured to a small cluster of half-dressed people being ushered down the stairs by Whiskey Jim. “That’s the last of ‘em.”
“It’s only the three of them still up there,” Jim called out, shooting Preacher an irritated look. He’d been doing that a lot lately—irritated looks, exasperated sighs, and eye rolls. All blatant signs of disrespect that Jim would never have dared with The Judge.
Preacher was aware that Jim wasn’t happy about the changes being made to the club, mainly the addition of the Road Warriors. But that decision wasn’t up to Jim or anyone else.
Having had enough of Jim’s blatant disregard for his authority, Preacher held Jim’s stare, silently conveying his displeasure until Jim had the good sense to look away. Satisfied, he turned back to Frank.
“Did he say three? Who else is up there?”
“Sylvie won’t let the whore leave.”
Preacher cursed the entire way up three flights of stairs. He expected this shit from Max—eighteen years old and newly patched in, he was a ticking time bomb, ready to blow his load over every pair of tits that so much as jiggled in his direction. But Joe? With a wife and kid at home and another kid on the way, Joe should be spending less time at the club, not more.
To make matters worse, Joe rarely put the bottle down these days. More often than not, Preacher would find him passed out somewhere in the clubhouse, sans clothes and with no memory of what had happened the night before. With the arrival of the Road Warriors, Joe had only gotten worse.
Maybe it was time to start rethinking Joe as his vice president. Maybe he should have told tradition to go fuck itself and given the job to someone better suited. If things continued on this way, if Joe couldn’t get his shit together, eventually Preacher was going to have to give the position to someone else—someone up to the task.
They climbed higher up the stairs, and soon Sylvia’s hysterical ranting filled Preacher’s ears. Frank flicked his gaze down the empty hallway. “They’re in Joe’s room. You want my help, or you want me standin’ guard?”
“Wait here. Make sure no one else comes up.”
Leaving Frank at the end of the hall, Preacher crept cautiously toward Joe’s room. Keeping against the wall, he peeked inside.
Sylvia stood just inside the doorway clutching a small revolver—a .38 special that Preacher recognized as one of several guns he’d given specifically to Joe. Preacher ground his teeth. His brother wasn’t just careless, he was a bona fide moron.
“Where’d you get the gun, Sylvie?” Preacher called out.
She spared a quick glance over her shoulder, long enough for Preacher to see that her face was streaked with makeup and tears. “Mind your own damn business, Preacher!”
“This is my business,” he replied. “That’s my little brother you’re pointin’ a gun at.”
Sylvia let out a strangled sob. “Your little brother is a rotten two-timin’ whore!”
Preacher sighed. If Sylvia didn’t shoot Joe, he just might do it himself. “Yep, Sylvie, he sure is. But that don’t mean you can shoot him.”
“He never comes home!” she cried. “I can’t come to the club anymore, and he never comes home! And then I find him with this—this whore!”
“I didn’t know he was married!” a new voice cried out.
“What did you say?” Sylvia turned toward the voice, and the gun in her hand began to quake.
“Sylvie, no!” Joe shouted. “Point the fuckin’ gun at me!”
Preacher quickly shifted to the opposite side of the doorway, allowing him a better view of the room. A young woman with messy brown hair and red lipstick smeared across her che
ek was sitting up in Joe’s bed, clutching a blanket to her chest.
A few feet away Joe stood naked, cupping his crotch with both hands.
The gun swung back to Joe and Sylvia exploded. “What? You care about this whore? You can’t make time for your own son, but you care about her?”
“Please, Sylvie,” Joe pleaded. “You’ve got to calm down. That ain’t what I meant!”
Preacher’s eyes were on the gun wobbling precariously in Sylvia’s unsteady grip. One wrong twitch on the trigger and Joe was going to end up with a hole in his chest.
Out of time and options, Preacher lunged, grabbing Sylvia from behind. Quickly gripping her wrists, he squeezed until she cried out in pain, and the gun clattered to the floor.
“No!” Sylvia thrashed in his arms, twisting her body and flailing her legs. Wrapping his arms around her middle, Preacher dragged her into the hallway.
“Frank! The gun, the girl!” he roared needlessly. Frank was already there, rushing past him into the room.
“Listen to me, Sylvie!” Preacher had to shout to hear himself over Sylvia’s hysterical screaming. “Joe doesn’t love you! You hear me? He does not fuckin’ love you!”
Sylvia went still and silent.
“He didn’t want to marry you, either.” Preacher lowered his voice and softened his tone. “He did it ‘cause our old man told him he had to.”
Sylvia heaved brokenly. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “No…”
“You know it’s true. You know I’m right, Sylvie.”
“I thought he was gonna change. I thought he could love me… oh God, I’m a fool…” Shoulders shaking, she began to sob. Preacher held her until she quieted and then he turned her in his arms and set her back against the wall.
“Joe ain’t ever gonna be faithful,” he told her. “Not ever. But I can’t have you at the club pullin’ guns on people and makin’ a goddamn scene, can I?”
Sylvia’s bloodshot eyes filled with fresh tears. “No.”
“Good girl. So I’m gonna need you to make a decision, Sylvie. Right here, right now, okay?”
Nodding limply, Sylvia’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Okay,” she whispered.