Undeserving

  Killing Salvatore—it had felt horrible.

  And yet, also exhilarating. Powerful.

  Preacher ran a hand over his face and blew out a breath. “I’m good,” he lied.

  Frank stared at him, his gaze full of speculation and doubt. Straightening, Preacher folded his arms across his chest. “I’m good,” he growled.

  “Good. ‘Cause they aren’t.” Frank’s gaze shifted.

  Preacher turned, facing the kitchen and the four men spread throughout. Still no one spoke or even looked at one another.

  “Smokey and Jim come back yet?” Preacher quietly asked Frank.

  “Not yet.”

  Preacher nodded and pushed away from the counter. After grabbing two bottles of liquor from a nearby cabinet, he handed one to Hightower. “You okay?”

  Hightower often bragged about his many kills in Vietnam. Still, Preacher couldn’t imagine that killing men in a firefight was anything like the carefully calculated, up close and personal hits they’d exacted tonight.

  His expression unreadable, Hightower nodded slowly. “Right as rain, Prez,” he drawled.

  Preacher clapped him on the arm and turned to Bullet. Unable to hold his gaze, Bullet stared down at his boots.

  “I ain’t sweatin’ it, my brother,” Bullet muttered. “There ain’t nothin’ so bad in this world that a wet, warm pussy can’t fix.”

  Suddenly laughing, Hightower wrapped an arm around Bullet’s neck and squeezed. “You know it!”

  Across the room, Knuckles was seated at the dining table, pale-faced and staring at his hands splayed out in front of him. Joe sat beside him, staring vacantly across the room, an unlit cigarette quivering between his lips.

  Setting the second bottle down on the table, Preacher gripped Knuckles’ shoulder and bent down beside him. “You did good today.”

  Bloodshot eyes lifted and narrowed. “Yeah?” Knuckles’ voice was small and timid.

  Preacher squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah, man. Real fuckin’ good.”

  Knuckles let out a breath, then another, and then he grabbed the bottle. While Knuckles drank, Preacher pulled Joe into the hallway and lit his cigarette for him.

  “Get some girls over here,” he said. “Smoke some shit, snort some shit. And you make sure you fuckin’ call me when Smokey and Jim get back.”

  When Joe didn’t respond, Preacher slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Hey, you hearin’ me?”

  Joe blinked several times. “Yeah, man, yeah. Get some girls over here. Call you when Smokey and Jim get back. Got it.” He continued to smoke—quick, successive drags. Sighing, Preacher turned to leave.

  “You headed home?” Joe called after him, “You gonna make me go home to Sylvie tonight, too?”

  “I’m goin’ home. You do whatever the fuck you gotta do.”

  “Preacher! Shit! Preacher!” Shouting excitedly, Max swung his long body over the first-floor stair railing. “Debbie had the baby!”

  As if he’d been punched in the gut, all air fled Preacher’s lungs.

  Max rushed down the hall. “Debbie, she had the baby! She’s at the hospital! Sylvie’s with her—Tiny, too!”

  “She’s at the hospital,” Preacher repeated dumbly. His heart thudded in his chest. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Is she… okay?”

  Max skidded to a stop and gripped Preacher’s shoulders. “She’s fine. They’re both fine.”

  Preacher stared at his brother. “Both?”

  Max grinned. “Yeah, both. Preacher, you’ve got yourself a daughter.”

  Chapter 30

  Sandwiched between Max and Smokey on the sofa, Preacher swallowed the last of his beer and got to his feet. On a chair nearby, Crazy-8 held Louisa in his lap and was whispering something in her ear. Preacher winked at her as he passed, and she burst into giggles.

  Across the room, Preacher stopped beside the group gathered around the television. A baseball game was on, the New York Yankees vs. the Detroit Tigers, but instead of watching the game they were arguing over which Hendrix album had the better lineup.

  “Electric Ladyland tops ‘em all,” Preacher interjected, smacking Bullet upside his head.

  Knuckles raised his beer. “You know it, Prez!”

  “Fuck you, you crazy white fools!” Bullet shouted. “The Jimi Hendrix Experience, hands down!”

  “It don’t count if he was already dead!”

  “Dumbass kids,” Jim complained. “What about the greats? What about Sinatra?”

  “Here we go again,” Anne muttered. “Sinatra this, Sinatra that.”

  Knuckles made a face. “Man, screw Sinatra. The only Frank I’m listenin’ to is Zappa. And you, Ghost.” Knuckles nudged Frank. “If you ever come up with somethin’ useful to say.”

  “Nice shirt,” Frank said wryly, eyeing the slogan printed across Knuckles’ chest—MY FACE LEAVES AT 10:00. BE ON IT. “That about sums up your thought processes, huh?”

  As more insults were traded, Preacher moved into the hall and turned the corner. He paused briefly as he passed the kitchen, hearing Debbie’s soft laughter over the clanking and clattering of dishes. Preacher started to smile, then frowned as Sylvia’s horse laugh drowned out nearly every other sound.

  Up ahead, amid a cloud of smoke, Tiny and Joe were seated at the breakfast table, sharing a joint. A bag of chips and a small handheld radio sat on the table between them, Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way playing.

  On the floor nearby, little Frankie was pushing his toy trucks around a very frustrated-looking Trey. Not yet able to walk, Trey was relegated to making mad grabs for the trucks each time Frankie brought them near, only to have Frankie snatch them away at the last second.

  Preacher bent down beside the boys and held out his hand. “How’s it hangin’ over here? You two gonna gimme some skin?”

  Grinning, Frankie slapped his little hand down on top of Preacher’s. Trey, his face screwed up in concentration, batted furiously at Preacher’s arm.

  “Preacher, brother, you look like shit,” Tiny called out.

  Feeling like shit, Preacher staggered toward the table and sat down with a thud. Resting his head on the tabletop, he said, “Man, I haven’t slept in days. My kid does nothing but eat, shit, and scream.”

  A little over a week had passed since Preacher had brought Debbie home from the hospital. An entire week of feeling overwhelmed, completely out of his element, and borderline delirious from sleep deprivation—even more so than usual.

  Joe’s eyes slid to where Frankie Jr. was now running circles around Trey. Trey’s face was quickly turning red, while his bottom lip trembled and his eyes filled with frustrated tears.

  Joe snorted. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “And you got another one on the way.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Stop fuckin’ her,” Preacher offered. “No more nookie, no more kids.”

  “I stop fuckin’ her,” Joe shot back, “and she starts screamin’. And then I got screamin’ kids and a screamin’ wife.”

  “Poor Joey,” Tiny taunted, “who’s got a smokin’ hot wife who likes fuckin’ him.” Tiny rolled his eyes. “Cry me a goddamn river. I can’t even pay a bitch to like fuckin’ me.”

  Eye wide and dancing with laughter, Joe looked at Preacher. It was the first hint of a smile Preacher had seen on his brother’s face in… hell, Preacher couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen Joe smile.

  “Smokin’ hot?” Joe asked, then laughed. “Tiny, you got a thing for Sylvie… ‘cause I’ll fuckin’ pay you to take her.”

  A shrill wail rang out through the apartment, causing all three men to cringe. A moment later Debbie appeared in the kitchen entryway. She moved into the hallway utterly oblivious of Preacher’s presence, her sole focus on the bundle in her arms. If he’d been worried about Debbie coming to terms with being a mother, he wasn’t anymore. Every day he had to beg to hold his own daughter.

  Preacher’s eyes roamed her body. Her dark hair hung over
her shoulders in loose, messy waves. Wearing his Led Zeppelin tour T-shirt, a pair of loose-fitting track shorts, and a pair of tube socks pulled up to her knees, she looked damn good for a girl who’d just given birth. She hadn’t gained much weight while pregnant—she’d been all stomach. But what she had gained, Preacher was hoping she’d keep. He’d always appreciated a little extra when it came to a woman’s curves.

  Slapping his hands down on the table, he pushed himself to his feet. “Speakin’ of smokin’ hot girls…”

  Humming Fleetwood Mac, Preacher followed Debbie into the bedroom. Closing the door behind him, he joined her on the bed.

  “Remind me to find us a bigger place,” he muttered. Resting his head against Debbie’s shoulder, he glanced down at his daughter and smiled. She was perfect—ten fingers, ten toes, full, fat cheeks and a tuft of dark hair on her head. Her tiny hands were currently curled into itty-bitty fists, one resting on the swell of Debbie’s breast while she suckled. Her eyes—big, expressive eyes framed in dark lashes—were on him.

  Looking into her eyes, a lump of emotion swelled in his throat. While the shape and size of his daughter’s eyes were similar to Debbie’s, their color—a deep, smoky gray—belonged to Ginny.

  Gently he closed his hand around her bare foot and ran the pad of his thumb over the tops of her toes. “Hi baby girl,” he murmured. “Is it your nap time yet? ‘Cause it damn sure is mine.”

  “If you’ll be quiet she’ll fall asleep.”

  He glanced up at Debbie and snorted. “If I had your tit in my mouth, I wouldn’t be sleepin’.”

  Debbie’s lips twisted adorably. “Shut up.”

  “Make me.”

  “I would… if I didn’t have a baby in my lap.”

  “Excuses, excuses…” Noticing his daughter’s eyes had drifted closed, Preacher chuckled. “Look at this shit. How the hell do you sleep and eat at the same time?”

  “I don’t know… why don’t you ask Tiny?”

  “I’m tellin’ him you said that.”

  Debbie shrugged. “Go ahead. He ate more than I did these last nine months. I can’t believe how much ketchup he eats. Did you know he eats it right out of the bottle? Do you know how many bottles of ketchup we’ve gone through?”

  Shoulders shaking, Preacher buried his face against Debbie’s arm to muffle his laughter.

  “Preacher?”

  He looked up. “Hmm?”

  Peering down at him, Debbie’s eyes were shining with emotion. “I’m glad you’ve been home,” she whispered.

  Guilt swamped him. He knew full well he’d been neglecting her these last few months—that she’d been spending more time with Tiny than with him. But as much as he wanted to apologize, to tell her things were going to be different from here on out, he knew he couldn’t. Especially now, with the added responsibilities of the Road Warriors and the acquisition of the Columbian imports, the club would have to continue to come first.

  “You think of a name yet?” he asked, changing the subject. “We can’t call her baby girl forever.”

  They’d left the hospital with a nameless baby. Debbie had spent her entire pregnancy unwilling to discuss anything baby-related, and Preacher had been so busy with the club that when it had come time to name their daughter, neither of them had known what to say.

  Debbie looked down—sound asleep, their daughter was nuzzled between her breasts, mouth agape and snoring softly. “I still like Ginny,” she said, glancing sideways at Preacher.

  His lungs constricted. Every muscle in his body involuntarily tightened and twitched.

  Debbie hadn’t been the only one to suggest naming the baby after Ginny. Nearly everyone had suggested it, and each time they did, Preacher had the same gut-churning reaction.

  Suddenly awash with uninvited images and feeling restless, Preacher shoved himself upright and scrubbed a hand down his face. The surprise birth of his daughter had been enough of a distraction to keep his darker thoughts at bay, but they were slowly, surely creeping back in.

  He’d killed a man—albeit a man who’d killed countless others, his own parents included. But no matter which way he spun it or justified it, he’d still killed a man.

  And because of it, Preacher couldn’t think of his mother without seeing the blood on the trailer door, a coffin being lowered into the ground, and the gasping, dying face of Salvatore Rossi.

  He didn’t want any of that ugliness associated with his daughter.

  Hell, he didn’t want any of that ugliness associated with him. But he’d made a choice—as if there’d been any other option for him—and now he had to learn to live with that choice. There was no room for men with regrets in his world.

  Debbie slipped her hand beneath the hem of his T-shirt and up his spine. Her palm paused on the space between his shoulder blades—a comforting reminder that he still had something good and pure—and Preacher eventually found his breath.

  “We don’t have to name her Ginny. We could name her Evangeline instead? Or maybe just… Eva?”

  Preacher shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Debbie continued to rub his back. “Sylvie wants to name her Marie.” She laughed softly. “And Anne is convinced that Anne is the perfect name.”

  Preacher wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. What about you? Is there anyone you wanna name her after? A grandma? A great aunt? A friend?”

  His questions were met with silence. Glancing over his shoulder, Preacher found Debbie staring out across the room, her bottom lip tucked beneath her teeth. “Wheels?”

  “No,” she said, looking at him. “I don’t have anyone.”

  Preacher turned around and faced her. “You don’t have anyone? What the fuck are we?” He pointed between him and their daughter. “Chopped liver?”

  Debbie rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I don’t have any family.”

  “Yeah you do. You got me and her. And you’ve got all them assholes, too.” He nodded at the bedroom door. “We’re your family now.”

  Debbie’s chin began to wobble, and her eyes filled with tears. Cursing, Preacher leaned in and kissed her lips. “No cryin’,” he said, and kissed her again. “Can’t have both my girls cryin’ all the damn time.” Another kiss. “Gonna drive me crazy.”

  Debbie laughed through her tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just…”

  “Emotional?” Preacher kissed her three more times. “Sentimental? Over-tired? Half-fuckin’-crazy?”

  Debbie continued laughing. “Yes. All of that.”

  There was a knock on the bedroom door. “Preacher?” The door cracked open and Frank’s voice filled the room. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Hold that thought,” Preacher said, and kissed Debbie twice more before rolling out of bed.

  • • •

  Laying her daughter down beside her, Debbie leaned over and pressed a kiss to each of her rosy cheeks and a third to her forehead.

  “I hope your daddy agrees,” she whispered, “because Eva is a beautiful name. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”

  She continued to nuzzle her cheek. Happily breathing in her clean, sweet scent, Debbie marveled at how much she already loved her. Every day, it seemed, she loved her more.

  Sylvia had been right—giving birth had been horrible, and Debbie had felt as she was splitting in two. But once it was over, and Debbie was holding her daughter in her arms, staring down at her sweet little face, her pain became a distant memory.

  Every single misgiving she’d had about becoming a mother had instantly shifted. Anxiety had turned to awe. Resentment had turned to protectiveness.

  That wasn’t to say that she wasn’t still afraid. She still felt fear. She was terrified of making a mistake or doing something wrong, or accidentally hurting this little life entrusted to her. But this fear was different; this fear had a purpose, a reason, and was ultimately overshadowed by joy.

  Debbie brushed a fingertip o
ver the soft swell of her daughter’s cheek, admiring her. With dollish, delicate features and flawless porcelain skin, she really was a beautiful baby. Her eyes, though, were downright entrancing.

  The sudden urge to draw her had Debbie reaching across the bed and plucking her sketch pad and pencils from the bedside table. Setting the pad in her lap, she flipped it open to a clean page. The tip of her pencil hovered over the page while she looked at her daughter, deciding on what to draw first.

  Slowly, carefully, Debbie drew the soft curves of her closed eyes and then, with quick flicks of her wrist, added her dark lashes. She’d just set to work on her little pink mouth, pursed in the shape of a bow, when the bedroom door opened.

  “… There’s room at the warehouse in Greenpoint.” Still talking to Frank, Preacher backed slowly into the room. “Put another couple of Rocky’s boys on watch.”

  “Consider it done,” Frank replied. His dark eyes shifted, landing on Debbie. Unnerved, Debbie quickly looked away.

  Since learning Maria’s heartbreaking secret, Debbie could hardly stomach even the briefest of glances in Frank’s direction. She felt culpable now—as if keeping Maria’s secret somehow made her every bit the monster Frank was.

  The door clicked closed and Debbie looked up to find Preacher leaning against it.

  “You okay?” She mouthed the question, fearing Frank was still in earshot.

  “Fuck,” he muttered. “There’s just so much shit. Every day there’s more and—fuck.”

  Pushing away from the door, Preacher reclaimed his seat beside her in bed. Holding his arm out, he gestured for her. Scooting over, Debbie tucked herself against his side.

  “Sometimes I think I shoulda never gone to Four Points.” Preacher’s words were calmly spoken, though his heart pounded furiously beneath Debbie’s cheek. “Sometimes I wish I’d just put you on the back of my bike and… and just gone wherever the wind took us.”

  “We could have joined the circus,” Debbie said.

  Preacher snorted. “Yeah? What would I do in the damn circus?”

  “Lion tamer?” she suggested. “Tightrope walker?”