CHAPTER SEVEN

“There was a stillness inside him as he watched the loud talk around the church table. Brothers. And yet ... not." - Reaper.

 

 

 

I’m going to fuck you.

He must have replayed that a million times in the last twenty-four hours.

Goddamn, the little tease.

He was still boiling hot about it. Making his morning shower more entertaining than usual, stroking one out before eight AM was a good start to the day, especially since when he came all over the shower wall and his own stomach his teeth were clamped together as he hissed her name making the climax burn out in hard spurts.

“Earth to Preacher. Don’t let us interrupt you,” he heard. Blinking hard he looked up to see all the men around the church table gawking at him.

“Say what?”

“Oh, nothing.” Glared Rider at the head of the table. Fingers tapping, meaning he was pissed off at something and since he was fixing a stare only at Preacher he could hazard a running guess it was him. “Just talked shit for ten minutes, asked your opinion and got the space cadet reply. The fuck, Preach, I don’t talk to hear myself you know.”

“Sorry, Prez. You got my attention now. What did you say?”

“Good thing it wasn’t to do anal, or Preacher would be in for a helluva surprise right about now,” guffawed Snake stuffing his mouth with a pizza pocket he was addicted to. Preacher side-eyed him but otherwise said nothing.

“I asked if you wanted any of the boys to go with you back to Lincoln.“ The way Rider worded it, all careful like, and the way the table became quiet, eyes on him like he was a damn dancing queen showing off her titties. He shook his head. The prez was asking if he needed a chaperone. Rider had heard of the aggravation he’d gone through with Red Light. Fucking H was a gossip.

“Nah. I’m good, Prez. It’ll be an in and out job I'm hoping, just a fast talk with Genty, I called him but you know paranoid Polly insists on face-to-faces for business.”

"That’s what your momma said the night you were made,” smirked Snake. Preacher popped up to his feet, his face turning nasty with a hard glare and a long accusing pointed finger. “The fuck you just say?”

“Damn. I think we done found Preach’s kryptonite.” Snickered Pretty-boy, well out of range for a smack around the face, but Preacher would take the walk around the table, no problem whatsoever. He sat his ass down. Glared some more at Snake.

“I was joking, fucker. I like your mom!”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he warned quietly.

“Well now, before I drown in testosterone poisoning, how about we get back to the meeting. I have ledgers to balance,” offered Texas as a mediator. “Over to you, Prez.”

“As I was saying. Preach is in Lincoln again next week, so one of you ladies will have to pick up his slack in the shop.”

“I can.” Offered Snake immediately. Little shit with his apology. Preacher reached across the table and the two brothers slapped hands.

“Aww, they made up. Now I’m all warm and tickly inside again.” Laughed Grinder, dark slate gray eyes twinkling. Quit as a flea Snake fired back “Nah, man, that’s just your venereal disease festering. Hey, Butcher, whatcha got for dick rot in your black bag?”

Their medical man snickered, silver rings on each finger, he had his hands crossed on the table, head to toe leather, wouldn’t think to look at him, Preacher pondered, the death this man had seen in his path. It took all sorts. Now he patched the brothers up and stayed on the fringes of the MC. A good man. Quiet man. Secretive man.

But then they all had those.

He was currently thinking of a woman. Like nine deep in sexual fantasies. He’d already gone down on her, tongued her until she passed out. Now he was stroking her with his fingers, swirling her sweet cream from clit to ass.

Knuckles rapped on the table brought his head up on a hard inhale.

“Now you’re back with us. Do the rounds today at the shops. See if they need anything.“ Informed Rider as he doled out the day’s jobs to the brothers around the table. Preacher nodded. That meant to collect the profits from the gambling, and loans, and later Texas would skilfully clean all that lovely RS money.

They made a lot. He wasn’t complaining about the share of his cut. It was so much more than he earned legally in the army. Kill an enemy, get paid a pittance, fuel underground loans and rake in the profits. No wonder there was so many professional criminals nowadays.

And there was no better than an outlaw.  

“Sure. I’ll take that cocky little shit prospect with me, show the kid the ropes, see how quick he barfs when he catches a load of Marcel’s crooked teeth.”

Everyone laughed.

Marcel ran the gambling side of things for a small cut of the takings. It kept it away from the RS stamp, no one knew they were involved, but damn did the man need a toothbrush or his own personal dentist on call.

“Halitosis city. Make sure you send the prospect real close. He’ll die on the spot. “

“It’s like being hit in the face with a stink bomb.”

“It’ll put hairs on the prospects chest. If he lives.”

“Reaper. I want you to pay a visit to Brex. He’s due to collect his package.” Rider spoke over the chatter.

Preacher kicked his gaze down the long table, on the far right at the end sat Reaper in his usual spot. He never deviated from that chair, if a brother was sat there when Reaper sauntered in he'd just look until the guy moved. It was Reaper's seat, the motherfucker had some OCD shit going on with where he parked his ass.

Sometimes Preacher even forgot the man existed, he rarely talked even when spoken to. For six months Preacher had thought he was mute until one day Reaper had asked Preacher for the time. Scared the bejesus out of him, and only then did he realize the man had a New Zealand accent.  Now though, he knew the guy only talked when he had something to say. If Preacher judged his brothers for all their defects, for a better word, they wouldn’t get along as they did. None of the club members were perfect, but they were dependable, which counted in his book.

So, what if one was a self-imposed mute, Snake talked enough for all of em. As he knew, like clockwork Reaper nodded, but didn’t acknowledge his directive with any noise. He gulped on his coffee and brushed the hair out of his amber eyes.  The wedding band on his left hand no one knew why he wore glinted under the luminous bulb up above.

Brex was the current mayor, going strong with his third term. Crooked as a paperclip. He regularly took advantage of the bunkers to store sensitive documents he wouldn’t want his office to lay eyes on. Hey, for a price, Preacher would let that bent politician keep his granny down there. When you joined ranks with outlaws you knew everything had its price.

Everything.

Why was it everyone from the Russians to the Mexicans and neighboring rival MC’s wanted a piece of Armado Springs? That was easy. It was prime real estate for the likes of the criminals they all were. It sat in the heart of the mountains, away from CCTV and prying city eyes, with only a skeleton crew of law enforcers who were more prone to deal with a missing dog than anything else. Plus, it had the back roads leading to and from the mountains, those roads and those mountains that Rider and their MC ran were what everyone and their fucking mother wanted a piece of. It was like guarding Willy Wonka's chocolate kingdom at times.

Now that Hades had gone right to hell, the deals he had going with the Russians were null and void, making those bratva dickheads a little-pissed off. It was why they were trying to put the pressure on Rider to accept a new deal with them. The underground bunkers, all hush-hush as fuck, surrounded by forest were a high commodity, it had been there since the first president had the good business mind to dig that bunker himself and rent it out to the highest bidder.

The MC knew some shady people. And profited from that association. Cha-ching, you crooked shitheads. 

The door to the church burst open, it was automatic for each of them to pop to their feet and reach for their guns. Curses blistered the air, adrenaline flooded through like a tidal wave. Realistically the MC was hard to penetrate, and the boys would have had some notice had it been a raid, but habits were hard pressed to think about logically when danger came through the door like a damn tornado.

Or not.

Arson, that dickhead, raised his hands in the air striding in one legged gait in front of the other, his swagger on form, grinning like a fool who was almost swiss cheese.

“Goddamn, Arson. You’re late. Again. You either rock up to church on time or you better walk in here dead. Last fuckin’ warnin’.“ Growled Rider.

Butts hit chairs again.  Weapons were slid away.

“Sorry, Prez. What happened was---”

“You were under some mujercita.” Guessed Capone.

Arson grinned and took his seat next to Lawless. If Hawk were at his chair next to Rider their fucked-up family would all be here in attendance. If there was ever a poster boy for one percenter outlaws, then Arson had the face. Pretty fucker with the ink, face scruff, flannel and denim, and manly jewelry, he was under more women than Preacher was, and that was a hard record to beat, but Preacher never let his dick run his life, or get in the way of the club. Fucking bonehead was running on fumes with Rider’s patience.

It was Snake's turn to butt in when he added “We can smell the pussy on your face. Use soap for god sake, Arson,” everyone laughed and the tension was gone.

“Now, gentleman. Let’s talk money.” Texas cleared his throat.

And so, church went on for another hour.

I’m going to fuck you. Wasn’t far from his mind. Soon. He hoped soon. He had a hunger and only Ruby could fill it.

 

 

Preacher got word later that afternoon that the sheriff was back again at the gates. Since he was the most senior member around able to deal with him, he tossed a wash rag on the workbench and strode outside, nodding to the prospect to open the gate and let the law-man in. A smile pasted on Preacher’s face he met him halfway, didn’t offer to shake his hand.

“Hey there. Got a minute, Preacher? I called, but someone said Rider was busy.”

“I suppose I got a minute if you continue insisting. What keeps you sniffing around us, sheriff? Keep in mind I’m not as fair going as Rider is and rarely swallow bullshit lies,” he said like a joke, a tight smile on his weathered face.

“That sounds like a threat.” Charlie’s jaw tightened. He could glare all he wanted, Preacher wasn’t afraid of the law. Most were bent bastards, this guy, however, according to Rider, he was alright, but it was a pain in the neck having the enforcers coming around all the time, having to play nice and genial to keep them from smelling the real secrets Renegade Souls MC had under their hat.

Charlie thrust a sheet of paper out expecting Preacher to take it. He didn’t. Only stared at the face of their last enemy, may he rot in hell. “I know what the ugly fucker Hades looks like. So, what? Good riddance to him, you should be glad he’s skipped town, sheriff, one less loser off your books, isn’t that right?”

“Have you seen this man?” Preacher blew out a sigh at the question he’d been asked four times in total, knowing his brothers had endured so much more questioning these past months.

“Nope, not since the last time you shoved this under my nose. And if I did I’ll be sure to tell you law keepers.”

“Do you have any information regarding this man?”

“Again, nope. We’re not friends. Nor do I like the bastard. He has shifty eyes. Look at them, too close together, that inbred shit-stick has secrets if you ask me, probably that his momma is really his sister-auntie.”

“Should I be asking you, Preacher?” The hero-cop chose his question well. Preacher grinned and coasted a hand down his beard, let go of an expletive or two.

“You’re howling up the wrong tree, sheriff. But I’ll bite. Ask me anything, you’re only wasting your own time. This town is better off without Kyle fucking Williams, you know it, let him stay gone instead of wasting tax payers hard earned cash trying to hunt him down.”

“Hassling my men again, Charlie?” Rider asked approaching from the left. A warning on his angry face. Preacher bit back a grin and stepped up to his president’s shoulder. Brothers in arms. A force to be reckoned with, even against a blonde-haired cake baking fucking nosy as shit cop. God almighty, when was this going to die. “It’s becomin’ a habit I ain't likin’” Rider could act the offended motherfucker like no one else and do it with a stern face masking what he was truly feeling.

Charlie sighed that sad hero-cop sound and folded the sheet of paper he must be handing out to every townsperson in hopes one of them knew the whereabouts of Hades.

Preacher got it, the cop wanted to bag himself the big fish, earn himself a commendation from the mayor, to wear a bright shiny medal on his chest, this was the biggest case Armado Springs had seen in many a year, but as Rider said, the hassling was getting on his last nerve.

     He’d only been back in town a week and already his punk deputy had pulled him over twice, doing routine checks, he’d insisted. Fucking liar.  Hedging their bets more like hoping to catch one of the MC’s out for the crime. RS were the go-to for every crime in the city.  They were only responsible for seventy percent… and absolutely they were responsible for Hades' disappearance, but no one was admitting to that, not unless they wanted to do twenty-five to life.

“Routine inquiries, you know that. I won’t take up any more of you boy’s time, but if you remember anything.”

“We know where you’re at, sheriff,” added Preacher. When pigs fly, and eat donuts.

“I’m regretting coming home.” He laughed once the cop had driven off through the gates. Both men watched him leave, making sure he took the winding road away from the compound. Rider turned to head back into the shop.

“We weather it, Preach. It’s what we do.” Preacher often wondered for the things Rider carried on his presidential shoulders, all the weathering he did silently.

It’s what RS always did. It didn’t mean he didn’t want to smack the cop around a little. Oh, no permanent damage, nothing like that, he was a good cop, after all, few bruises, a little concussion, small amount of memory loss.  

Back in his military days as part of a counter-terrorism expert marksmen squad, he thought nothing of following orders and taking out a target, he had been damn good at his job, so much so he’d moved up the ranks fast. He was known to get his mark every single time. Some days he could still feel the metal of his L129A1 Sharpshooter sniper rifle in his fingers. When he woke up in cold sweats, it was always with his arms raised in the position as if still holding his gun.

Unpredictable targets had been his specialty.

They’d hailed him a goddamn hero for killing.

Preacher was no hero. In a lot of ways being a part of MC reminded him of his old squad.

The Renegade Souls did a bunch of weathering that first year he patched in. Sorting out the chaff from the wheat, he never once thought about walking away.  He had grown a lot of respect for his president for facing that head on with snapping wolves at his heels. It couldn’t have been easy, as an outsider as he was at that time, still, the new face in town even with Grinder sponsoring him, Preacher saw a lot of which brought about his loyalty for the new president and his MC.  This small irritation of Hades' murder/manhunt was testing them all. One wrong word, one crazy drunken word said to the wrong person and it could be curtains for them. They whole club would fry for it.

Just as well he was heading back to Lincoln for a few days more.

Not that he was looking forward to that shit.

Red Light and his anger issues. It was like Oscar the grouch on steroids.

And he hadn’t fucked Ruby yet.

Talk about a bad week.