Chapter 11

Preacher followed Debbie down the platform, observing the rigid line of her shoulders, the restless way she was glancing around as if she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. Since telling him about Sunshine, she seemed suddenly agitated and twice as uncomfortable.

He didn’t much like the way he was feeling, either.

Here he was, angry at the hand life had dealt him, pissing and moaning over his strained relationship with his father, wandering aimlessly without a clue—all because he could. He had more than enough money and more where that came from. And whenever he got sick and tired of wandering aimlessly? He had a home waiting for him. A family. Friends. The whole nine yards.

And here was this girl. With nothing. Day after day, fighting for her next meal, braving the weather, robbing truckers, and risking everything just to reach a city that, more likely than not, was going to eat her alive.

Yeah, he felt like a first-class asshole.

Debbie spun around suddenly, forcing Preacher to a lurching stop. He nearly reached out to grab her to avoid falling straight into her.

“I’m really sorry for taking your stuff,” she rushed to say. She peered up at him through thick lashes. Her expression twisted. “I was just, um… I was…”

Having steadied himself, Preacher lifted his hand, signaling her to stop. “I get it. I ain’t even mad.”

He wasn’t mad—not anymore. And he did get it. Her story had struck a chord in him. If anything, he wanted to do more for her. An old denim jacket and the paltry sum she’d taken from his wallet didn’t seem like nearly enough.

“So, uh, I’m gonna go… thank you…um, for everything.” Debbie tucked her thumbs beneath the straps of her backpack and offered him a tiny smile. He watched, somewhat transfixed, as a dimple appeared high on her left cheek.

She really was a good-looking girl, and sweet, too… when she wasn’t stealing his shit.

Hesitantly she turned away.

Jamming his hands in his pockets, Preacher watched her go, her steps heavy and slow. Something continued to niggle at him; he really wished he could have done more. Offered her a hot meal or a ride. Something. Anything.

Pulling his hands from his pockets, Preacher stepped forward. He was lifting his arm, about to call out to Debbie, when a figure stepped in front of him.

“Demon.” The tone was gruff, commanding. Downright cold.

Stiffening, Preacher dropped his arm to his side and met the gaze of the man blocking his path.

Dark hair, dark eyes, a thick mustache, he wore a denim vest covered in patches, the most noteworthy of which were the PRESIDENT patch above his left breast and the 1% patch above that signified him as a one-percenter—an outlaw.

99% of motorcycle clubs consisted of men who enjoyed riding, or whose hobbies included chopping bikes. Riding was more of a pastime for them, not a way of life. Then there were the criminal clubs; a small percentage of men who embraced a very different sort of life and set of rules.

Men like Preacher. And whoever the hell this guy was.

A Caucasian male of average height and average weight, he was older than Preacher by at least ten years. He wore no name patch, and there was nothing particularly remarkable about him, no distinct features that identified him. And although Preacher was younger, taller, and fitter, he didn’t doubt the man was dangerous—not for a single second. You didn’t become the leader of a group of outlaws without good reason.

Most outlaw clubs were a volatile bunch on a good day, and with Preacher being who he was—the vice president of one of the more well-known and infinitely more lucrative criminal clubs—his elevated position in the Silver Demons earned him respect from other clubs. But there were always those few that preferred the mayhem of the life over the business side of it, and it was those clubs that Preacher knew to watch out for. They would take him on for pure sport.

A glance over his shoulder and a quick look around showed Preacher what he feared—several men rapidly approaching, all wearing identical denim vests.

Preacher’s hands flexed into fists. They were boxing him in.

“You don’t remember me, do ya?”

Preacher met the president’s smug expression with a bored look.

“Should I?” His tone lazy and uninterested, Preacher lifted a single, speculative brow. If he remembered anything The Judge had attempted pounding into him, it was that you never showed weakness to your enemy. Preacher might not have the upper hand here, but you wouldn’t think it to look at him.

A sly smile split the president’s lips. “Trick,” he called out, gesturing with his hand. A denim-clad man jogged forward, pulling something dark from inside his vest. Recognizing his leather cut, Preacher’s nostrils flared wide. What was with today and everyone stealing his shit? It should be in the Bible, an eleventh commandment: thou shalt not take another man’s leather.

“You always leave this just lyin’ around?” The President flashed him a smile twice as shrewd as his last.

Preacher regarded him coolly. He hadn’t left anything just lyin’ around. His club cut had been inside his duffel bag, and his duffel bag had been tied to his handlebars with a sequence of complicated stopper knots.

But instead of tearing his vest away from the asshole who’d dared touch his shit, Preacher took a breath. He wasn’t getting out of this with his fists or the lone blade in his boot. This, whatever this was, was going to require his wits.

The president continued to study him. “Name’s Rocky. Was at your clubhouse in the city ’bout four, maybe five years back. Knocked a few back with you and your boys. Wouldn’t expect you to remember, though. You’d just gotten VP, barely outta diapers back then. Didn’t have that pathetic excuse for a beard you got now.”

Rocky paused and laughed, though he didn’t appear any more or less amused than he’d been moments ago. It was all an act. Every smile, every frown, every move this man made was a well thought-out, calculated plan. Nothing he did was without purpose.

Preacher stayed silent, waiting for Rocky to get all his bullshit mocking and posturing out of the way and get to the point. He didn’t bother trying to recall when exactly the man had been to his clubhouse. The Silver Demons had entertained a lot of people over the years. Preacher could hardly be expected to keep track of them all.

“Preacher?”

Everyone turned toward the interruption. Preacher’s eyes widened when he found Debbie approaching, and growing wider still when one of Rocky’s men moved into position behind her. Heavily muscled, eyes vacant, he looked to be all brawn and very little brain.

She was aware of the man flanking her, but she kept her eyes on Preacher—big eyes full of questions and, oh hell, full of concern too. He silently cursed her, taking back every nice thing he’d thought about her. She was a stupid girl, walking straight into quicksand thinking it was the beach.

Another man moved to stand in front of Debbie, and like vultures surrounding their prey, both men began to circle her. The shift in positions allowed Preacher a glimpse at the backs of their vests. The top rocker identified them as Road Warriors, and below it was a center patch—a crude and childish rendition of a Viking warrior holding a spiked club. A bottom rocker proclaiming their location was noticeably absent.

Preacher knew them—or rather, he knew of them. The original Road Warriors had been based out of Virginia, but in recent years, they’d become more of a roving band of gypsies. They had no real business dealings unless you considered creating chaos a business. They were usually found working security at bars and concerts, but they were best known for their parties. There was a running joke about their club: no man left a Road Warrior party without getting knocked out, and no woman left without getting knocked up.

“You my dinner, sweetheart?” One of the men circling Debbie paused in front of her, laughing.

Debbie quickly sidestepped him only to be blocked by the second man. “She ain’t big enough to be dinner,” he mocked. Grabbing his crotch, he sneered at her. “This here’s what you fuck before you fuck.”

Debbie looked pleadingly to Preacher, and Preacher whirled on Rocky, all pretense gone. “Call your dogs off, Rocky,” he growled. “Right the fuck now.”

Rocky glanced between Preacher and Debbie, the calculating gleam in his eyes glowing brighter. He shrugged. “They gotta blow off steam somehow. If not…” Another shrug. “They end up turnin’ on one another.”

Struggling for calm, Preacher took a step toward Rocky, enough of a movement to command the attention of every Road Warrior present. Everyone stilled; all eyes shot to Preacher.

“Give. Her. To. Me.” Preacher’s quietly spoken words were punctuated with rage.

Rocky studied Preacher. If he was bothered by Preacher’s proximity, he didn’t show it. “Or what?”

“Or whatever the fuck you want, you won’t be gettin’ it.”

“You think you’re in any position to make demands?”

Preacher bared his teeth and nearly snarled. “Yeah, I do. We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want somethin’ from me. And whatever that is, I ain’t gonna give it ‘til you give her to me.”

Though it was slight, hardly noticeable, Preacher glimpsed a flash of anger in Rocky’s eyes, a subtle hardening of the man’s expression—the first glimpse of the man behind the carefully executed façade.

Composed once again, Rocky turned a cunning smile on his men and gestured. Grumbling, they moved reluctantly, just barely clearing a pathway from Debbie to Preacher. She wasted no time in hurrying forward. When she was standing beside him, her big brown eyes full of apologies, Preacher turned his focus back to Rocky.

“Now what?” he asked flatly.

“We’ve got a camp nearby. Some of my boys work the stunt circuit. Gotta make a livin’ somehow. Why don’t you and your friend here join us for a beer?” Rocky paused, his eyes on Debbie. Stroking his jaw, he ran his gaze up and down her body, a slow, deliberate grin spreading across his face.

Preacher recognized the threat for what it was. Either he cooperated, or Debbie became collateral damage.

His protective instincts flaring, Preacher wrapped his arm around Debbie’s shoulders, hauling her up against him. He looked to Rocky then, daring the man to try something.

Rocky only continued to smile.

Teeth clenched, Preacher tightened his grip on Debbie. “Lead the way.”

• • •

Tucked neatly against Preacher’s side, Debbie studied her surroundings. She was memorizing the exact route they were taking as the Road Warriors herded them through the fairgrounds.

She shouldn’t have looked back. And she definitely shouldn’t have interfered. She’d only wanted to see if Preacher had been watching her walk away.

At first glance, she’d thought Preacher had known them but had quickly gathered that the meeting wasn’t a friendly one. There were too many of them, she’d realized as they’d circled around him, fists clenched, their eager eyes and twisted smirks promising violence. And only one of him.

She wasn’t so foolish as to think she could take on a single one, let alone an entire gang, but she’d felt she had to do something. After all, Preacher had done the same for her.

Their group entered a roped-off area between two tents marked EMPLOYEES ONLY and were greeted with a bustle of activity. Men in stained aprons hurried to and fro. A woman wearing a pink cowboy hat and matching boots strode by, leading a pair of horses. A group of clowns in full costume sat smoking atop a stack of wooden crates.

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 threw 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.