“You should go home and go to bed,” she said.
Fully awake now, Preacher took a moment to look her over. She was cute, but nothing special. There was nothing remotely interesting about her face or body, nothing that stood out and made him take notice. Still…she’d do.
“Yeah?” He raised his brows. “You gonna join me?”
Her answering blush was contrived—an attempt to look innocent when her body language told him she was anything but. Head tilted to one side, neck exposed, her slim fingers tapped along the side of her white dress uniform, purposely drawing his attention to her tilted hip.
Not in the mood for games, Preacher regarded her plainly. “What time do you get off?”
A breezy shrug. “Two.”
“My place or yours?”
Her smile turned coy. “We’ll see,” she said, and then slipped into the hallway.
Smirking, Preacher turned back to Frank. “It’s the leather, brother. Gets ‘em every time.”
Staring down at his disfigured friend, his humor quickly faded. Preacher hated hospitals. The dead and dying aside, he hated the smell of them—a god-awful mixture of urine and cleaning solution. He hated the feel of them, too—so suffocating, and restricting. It wasn’t all that long ago that he’d finished up his second stint in prison, and tiny rooms such as this one never failed to make him feel like he was right back inside.
But he wouldn’t leave, at least not until Tiny returned. He’d promised Frankie Jr. as much—the poor kid had already lost his mother to cancer a few years back. And if something should happen to Frank during the night, Preacher didn’t want Frank to be alone. He’d made that crystal clear when the hospital staff had demanded he leave and return during visiting hours. Fuck their rules. He had a duty to his road chief, as his president and as his friend, to stand by his side.
Sighing, Preacher shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and began meandering around the room, stopping every few minutes to glance out the window at the illuminated city below. Always awake, that was New York. Wide awake and ever changing.
The city reminded him of Eva—astoundingly adaptable, and with a solid foundation regardless of the fast-moving, always-changing world around her. Despite her young age, his baby girl had handled his time in prison like a champ and his homecoming just as well. She was well suited to this life, he thought proudly, even as the very same thought caused a sinking sensation in his gut.
Shaking his head to clear it, Preacher turned away from the window and his gaze snagged on a large plastic bag—a patient belongings bag shoved into a corner.
Picking up the bag, he pulled it open, grimacing as the acrid scent of blood and body odor filled his nostrils. What remained of the clothes Frank had been wearing during the accident had been stuffed inside—two mangled boots and what was left of his leather cut.
Preacher set the destroyed leather aside. He would have someone salvage the patches and sew them onto a new vest.
Pulling the boots from the bag, he found Frank’s wallet tucked inside one, while something shiny glinted from inside the other. Preacher’s hand disappeared inside the boot, closing around something hard.
“What the fuck,” he muttered, pulling free a heavy metal key ring.
Squinting in the dimly lit room, he held up the throng of, not just keys, but jewelry. Mostly rings, but also charms and the occasional earring or bracelet. He turned the key ring in his hand, his eyes roaming the odd mix when he suddenly stopped.
The boot in his other hand fell to the floor with a hard ‘thwap’.
He moved quickly across the room and flipped on the light—the overhead fluorescents flickered on, brightening the room.
His heart pounding in his chest, Preacher stared down at the ring squeezed between his thumb and forefinger—a World War II United States Marine Corps ring, its ruby center glinting brilliantly. Slowly he rolled the ring between his fingers, exposing the inscription inside: THE JUDGE.
Preacher’s heart hammered wildly inside his chest. He’d forgotten about this ring until this very moment, forgotten that his father had almost never taken it off. It had been a permanent fixture on his right ring finger.
How had Frank—
Why did Frank—
Releasing the ring, Preacher began searching frantically through the rest of the jewelry, pausing briefly to study each piece. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, only that he was thinking of his mother.
Piece by piece, he stared down at the unfamiliar scraps of metal. For all he knew, any number of them could have belonged to Ginny.
It had to be a fluke. There had to be an explanation. For whatever reason, Frank had The Judge’s ring, and Frank would have a reason. A damn good reason for having this—this key ring full of things that so clearly didn’t belong to him. And Frank’s reason would make perfect sense, and Preacher’s world would stop spinning and—
Preacher froze.
He stopped moving, stopped breathing.
Everything stopped.
His heart, his breath, the whole fucking world went skidding off the road, headed straight for the unforgiving wall of what was to become his new reality and shattering everything he thought he’d known.
“No…” he whispered hoarsely. “No, no, no, no, no.”
Staggering backward, his back found the wall.
He shook his head, refusing to believe his own eyes. Maybe it wasn’t hers. Maybe it was just a coincidence.
With a shaking finger, he touched the tiny silver butterfly—spotted and tarnished.
A strangled noise slipped past his lips. “Wheels,” he rasped.
Preacher hopped out of bed and dropped down on one knee. Then he gestured for Debbie’s hand. Looking adorably bewildered, she gave it. Twisting her butterfly ring off her index finger, he pushed it onto her ring finger.
“I promise I’ll get you somethin’ better,” he told her. “A big, fat rock or somethin’. Whatever the fuck you want.”
She only continued to stare down at him, wide-eyed and gaping. Several seconds passed, long enough that Preacher was starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake by springing this on her. Hell, he hadn’t even known he was going to ask her. It had been a spur of the moment decision brought about solely by the way she made him feel—like she was it for him. Like there couldn’t possibly be another her out there, and so he needed to get his fucking shit together and do right by her.
His brow rose. “Wheels, you gonna say somethin’ or you gonna leave me hangin’ ‘round down here like a goddamn fool?”
Debbie slid quickly off the bed, dropping onto his lap. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him. “Yes,” she whispered against his mouth.
“What’s that?” he asked. He pulled back to look at her—into the eyes that never failed to bring him peace. And at those sexy-as-hell lips that he couldn’t get enough of.
Laughing happily, she shoved at his chest. “Yes, I’ll marry you! Yes, yes, yes!”
Feeling wetness on his cheek, Preacher blinked. Then he blinked again, and more tears fell.
Unsteady and trembling, he turned to look at Frank. The sight of his friend—disfigured and lying broken in a bed—didn’t have quite the same effect on him as it had before.
He looked at Frank as if he’d never seen him before.
Why? The one-word question pounded through him, as unrelenting and demanding as Preacher’s thrashing heartbeat.
Why—
How—
He didn’t—
He couldn’t—
Breath purged from Preacher’s lungs. His eyes squeezed shut and tears rained down his cheeks. He didn’t know where to begin. How to process. What to think. How to feel. He knew nothing—absolutely fucking nothing.
He wanted to rationalize this, wanted to slap some sort of reasonable explanation onto this discovery, but the truth wouldn’t relent. It pushed against each barrier Preacher tried to erect, battering wildly, shouting loudly, refusing to be i
gnored.
The key ring felt suddenly too heavy in his hand, this key ring full of… fucking trophies. Heavy and pulsating, pulsing like a beating heart. The beat echoed in his ears, in his veins.
Those rings weren’t just rings. They were people. Dozens of people.
The smear of blood on the trailer door flashed in his mind over and over and over again, until he felt drunk and dizzy.
Preacher choked on his thoughts. Choked on the memory of a sweet, young face. Full lips split into a wide smile. A pair of big, beautiful brown eyes.
He’d thought she’d left him. All these years he’d thought she’d run from him.
Rage—pure, unadulterated rage flowed through him. Every muscle in his body tensed until his skin felt ten times too tight, and his breath was coming in short, angry bursts.
Preacher didn’t recall crossing the room. One second he was flush against the wall and the next he was bent over the hospital bed, tearing the oxygen mask away, and gripping the swollen face of a man he’d considered his brother.
His fingers squeezed Frank’s nose while his palm covered his mouth. Frank’s body hiccupped even as Preacher felt slithers of air escape the confines of his hand. He clamped down harder. His rage swirled higher. His tears fell faster.
Another machine began to beep, faster and louder. Then an alarm went off, ringing loudly through the room.
Preacher blinked and snapped to attention. He slapped the mask back over Frank’s face and was quickly backing away from the bed when two nurses burst inside the room.
• • •
Mouth agape, barely breathing, I could do no more than stare at my father.
Much like Preacher had, I was having an equally hard time processing the truth. I didn’t even know where to begin. My grandparents, my mother, fucking Frank…
“I just lost my fuckin’ mind,” Preacher croaked. “She’d already been gone so long, and I’d already guessed somethin’ wasn’t right. And then I saw those rings, and I knew what he’d done, and I just… lost my fuckin’ mind.”
He turned to me, his red-rimmed eyes wet with tears. “It was all my fault, Eva. I didn’t see it… I didn’t see it… I didn’t know… and it was too late. Lookin’ back now, I can see it all. Things were wrong. Frank was… wrong. I see it clearly now. Don’t know why I could never see it back then.”
Preacher squeezed his eyes closed, and tears ran freely down his wrinkled cheeks. “And Jesus, Eva,” he whispered, “You gotta know that I only took Frankie in because I felt so goddamn guilty. I was only thinkin’ about what Frank musta put him through… especially after Maria had passed.”
Recalling Frankie’s nightmares and his inability to sleep without me, I clasped my hand over my mouth, stifling a sob. He’d been beyond help—beyond anything I could have done for him, at least. Still, my heart broke for him all over again—for the broken little boy I’d loved as a brother.
There was a touch to my back, and I glanced up to find Deuce staring down at me, his features pinched, his eyes darker than normal, violence shimmering in their depths. Fighting for calm, I attempted to school my features. But it was too late, and Deuce knew me too well.
When it came to my relationship with Frankie, there was only so far Deuce could be pushed before he started pushing back. He couldn’t understand it—why I loved Frankie despite all he’d put me through. And that was okay, because most of the time neither could I. Love was irrational like that—irrational, uncontainable and unexplainable.
“I’m gonna go get some air,” he growled softly.
Feeling guilty, I watched him walk stiffly away.
With a sigh, I turned back to my father.
He was fumbling with the collar of his hospital gown, his unsteady fingers tugging his gold neck chain free. With some effort, he slipped it over his head and offered it to me.
I could only stare at the tiny ring dangling from the chain. No longer silver, it was heavily tarnished, but there was no mistaking the butterfly setting.
“I knew she was gone,” he said, “I knew I wasn’t ever gonna see her again, but I never stopped thinkin’ that maybe she’d show back up one day. All my life, that feelin’ never left me. I kept thinkin’ maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe she was still out there somewhere.”
Trembling, he began shaking his head. “Maybe if I coulda known exactly what happened, I coulda moved on. Maybe if I coulda buried her…”
“Oh Daddy.” Fumbling with the bedrail, I found the mechanism that allowed me to lower it. Scooting my chair forward, I grabbed Preacher’s hand and brought it to my cheek. The necklace and ring dangled between us.
“You forgive me, baby girl?” Eyes full of pain and bright with tears implored me, and my heart shattered for the hundredth time that day. Vehemently I shook my head. “There’s nothing to forgive, Daddy. Frank—he did it. He did all of it.”
Preacher looked at me with such tenderness, with such love, and with more sorrow than I’d ever imagined him capable of.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t deserve her, either. I should never have touched her. I did this, Eva. I brought her into my world, and it killed her.” His voice cracked and his eyes filled again. “I killed her.”
“No Daddy.” I attempted to sound firm, despite my grief. “Frank killed her. Frank did this.”
Preacher either didn’t hear me, or he was unwilling to believe what I was telling him. He only continued to whisper, “I didn’t deserve her.”
Wrapping an arm over his chest, I buried my face against his side and just held him as tightly as I could.
Chapter 34
At the clubhouse, shut inside Preacher’s office, I absentmindedly traced the dark ink stain on his desk. Much like everything else inside this room, the stain had been there all my life.
It was late yet the clubhouse was full, friends and family were filling nearly every room. I knew I should be out there visiting, but there were other things weighing heavily on my mind.
Leaning back in Preacher’s chair, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. It smelled like my father in here—leather, his favorite brand of cigarettes, and hints of the cologne he sometimes wore. And I wondered how long it would be before it no longer did.
The door opened, hinges squeaking. Opening my eyes, I sat up and squinted through the dimly-lit room. A head full of dyed black hair, fashionably streaked with gray and white and curled to perfection, peeked inside. A wrinkled hand tipped with long red nails waved hello.
“Hi, baby girl.” Sylvia’s rough-hewn, nasally voice filled the room. “Can I come in?”
I gestured her forward, and the door opened, revealing a large metal box clutched between her arms. Elbowing the door closed behind her, she hurried across the room and placed the box on the desk in front of me.
Wringing her hands together, she took a step back. “I’ve always wanted to tell you the truth about her, Eva. So many times. Your mother, she was my friend, you know?” Taking a breath, Sylvia shook her head. “She was such a sweet girl and I loved her very much.”
Sylvia nodded at the box. “Your father—he threw so much away. He was hurting. He wanted to forget, I think. But I kept as much as I could get my hands on.”
With my heart in my throat, I stared at the box, already imagining what might be inside.
“I’ll leave you alone.” Sylvia moved toward the door.
I jumped up. “Aunt Sylvie, wait!”
She paused and turned, and I noticed the tears in her eyes.
“I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you,” I said.
Confused, Sylvia shook her head. “For what?”
“For helping him take care of me. For helping him raise me. You and I both know he couldn’t have done it without you.”
Sylvia’s hand went to her throat. “Oh God, Eva, it was my absolute pleasure.” Again she nodded at the box. “You come find me when you’re done, okay?”
As the door closed softly behind her, I looked down at the box b
efore me. With shaking hands, I lifted the heavy lid and peered down at the contents inside—a short stack of notebooks, a few articles of neatly folded clothing, a small brown purse, and a couple of books and trinkets.
I bypassed all of it for the notebooks.
Laying the first one on the desk, I opened to the first page. The drawing had yellowed and faded some, but not so much that I couldn’t make it out. One hand flew to my mouth while the other hovered just above the page, quivering. It was just as Preacher had described—a smiling man with a little girl on his lap.
Carefully I flipped through the pages, finding hand-drawn illustrations of the story my father had told me. I saw Preacher, young and handsome, stretched out on a bed, sound asleep. And Sylvia, heavily pregnant with Trey. I saw Joe and Max, and my grandparents—Ginny with a cigarette in her hand, smiling, and The Judge with his arms crossed over his chest, his squared jaw and proud nose reminding me so much of Preacher.
I pulled another notebook from the pile, finding page after page of what I assumed were my mother’s first impressions of New York City—sketches of the clubhouse, the neighborhood, the Statue of Liberty, and the Empire State Building.
I touched the next drawing tentatively. Beneath a shock of dark hair, wide eyes set above plump cheeks stared back at me. “Frankie,” I whispered, my eyes filling.
There were more sketches of Frankie, of Tiny, of my uncles, and other club members—some of whom I knew, and others I only recognized from photographs I’d seen.
I paused on a drawing of Preacher, standing inside a room I didn’t recognize. Standing beside a window, his gaze was fixed on something the artist couldn’t see. He was shirtless, his arms folded across his chest. His long hair was unbound, hanging loose around his face.
The detail was incredible.
She’d drawn him so carefully. So exquisitely.
She’d drawn him as if she’d loved him.
I flipped to the next page and instead of a drawing, I found a discolored Polaroid photograph tucked into the binding. As I pulled it free, my hand began to shake.