Chapter 12

Rocky unfolded his arms, opening them wide. “You see? I’m not unreasonable. All I’m askin’ for is a piece of the damn pie. What your old man refused to give me.”

The tension had dissipated. The rigid posture and threatening expressions from earlier had been replaced with relaxed shoulders and a surprisingly expectant expression.

The Road Warriors were sick of being gypsies. They wanted to stop wandering endlessly and put down some roots. Only roots required money, and money required work. And if nothing else, the Silver Demons excelled at work.

Nevertheless, Rocky approaching Preacher was pointless. The Judge didn’t employ or work alongside men like Rocky. He already knew what his father would say. That you couldn’t trust the Road Warriors—that they were nothing more than homeless thugs. That there had to be honor among thieves, or your house of cards was going to come crashing down around you.

It didn’t matter that The Judge’s way of thinking was hypocritical and self-serving; he would never change. He wasn’t just set in his ways, he was half blinded by his own superiority complex and firmly entrenched in his unwavering, half-mad convictions. In layman’s terms, a working relationship with the Road Warriors was never gonna happen.

Even as vice president, Preacher held very little sway over the wheelings and dealings of the Silver Demons’ business machinations. It was The Judge, and only The Judge, who opened and closed those doors. Everyone else only offered suggestions or followed orders.

But Rocky didn’t need to know any of that, and what Rocky didn’t know, Preacher had used to his benefit. He’d promised to put in a good word with The Judge, assuring Rocky he’d detail the benefits of a working relationship between the Silver Demons and the Road Warriors.

The latter hadn’t been a ruse. Rocky had an impressive network of men, nomads who were scattered all over, ready to ride or work at a moment’s notice. Only an idiot wouldn’t realize the benefits of having eyes and ears across the nation.

Of course, if it were up to Preacher, the Road Warriors would have to agree to strip their colors and patch in as Silver Demons.

Preacher practically salivated at the thought of a Silver Demons clubhouse in all fifty states and the ability to control distribution not only along the east coast but nationwide. If done right, bringing the Road Warriors into the fold could create a highly profitable business relationship.

Hell, Preacher envisioned The Judge’s business becoming a veritable empire.

Rocky motioned to Trick—the man holding Preacher’s cut and Preacher stepped forward and snatched it from him. Shrugging it on over his jacket, the leather molded comfortably to his body like a second skin.

Rocky gestured to the bonfire. “Knock a few back with me?”

Preacher reluctantly agreed. No matter how badly he wanted to leave, refusing a drink with Rocky would be bad form—the equivalent of spitting in the man’s face.

As they made their way toward the bonfire, Preacher’s eyes were on Debbie. She was slumped forward, her hair hiding her face, fiddling with something on the ground in front of her. Frowning, he picked up his pace.

“Hey.” He bent down and tapped her knee. “You okay?”

Her head lifted slowly, her long hair parting to reveal a pair of bloodshot, unfocused eyes.

Her mouth stretched into a wide smile.

“Hi,” she whispered, then giggled.

He grinned at her. “Debbie Reynolds, you are baked.”

“Yes,” she whispered, shrugging. “You said to follow your lead.”

“You wanna smoke? It’s my own blend.” The proud declaration came from a raven-haired girl shaking a silver cigarette case at Preacher. Flicking the case open, she revealed several neatly rolled joints.

Holding up a hand, Preacher shook his head. Things might seem amicable at the moment, but the Road Warriors had still coerced him into a meeting. A head full of drugs was the last thing he needed while among men he didn’t trust.

The girl glanced at Debbie. “Wheels seemed to like it.”

Brows up, Preacher looked to Debbie, who quickly turned away. Her cheeks had gone pink and her bottom lip had disappeared beneath her teeth.

Chuckling, he sat down beside her and nudged her shoulder with his. “Wheels, huh?” he whispered, and Debbie ducked her head, burying her face in her hands.

 “We’ve got whiskey and moonshine.” Rocky stepped forward, a bottle in each hand. He shook one of them. “Right outta the backwoods of West Virginia.”

Knowing better than to put himself in a moonshine coma, Preacher gestured for the whiskey.

“Turn some music on!” someone demanded. Someone else complied, and a country song filled the space between idle chatter.

Some of the Road Warriors headed back to the fair while others found seats around the fire. One Road Warrior cozied up beside a woman with her face buried in a magazine. Another, gripping a large hunting knife, was sharpening the blade on a nearby rock. Several yards away Rocky had tugged the black-haired girl onto his lap, and his hands were all over her.

Preacher took a swig of whiskey, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“So you’re the vice president of a motorcycle club?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Preacher noticed Debbie studying his leather cut. He grimaced through another swallow of whiskey before answering. “That’s what they tell me.”

“What does the vice president of a motorcycle club do?”

“Whatever the president tells him to do.”

“What does the president tell you to do?”

“You should have left,” he said, veering her away from questions he couldn’t answer.

Debbie blinked. Confusion flickered across her features as she glanced around the campsite. “But… I thought I was supposed to wait here for you?”

“I’m talkin’ about earlier. You shouldn’t have gotten involved.”

“I thought they were going to hurt you,” she whispered. “I only wanted to help.”

As ridiculous as it was—this slip of a girl thinking she could somehow protect him from the Road Warriors—Preacher also found it admirable.

“I took on all those guys at the truck stop. You don’t gotta worry about me.”

She shook her head. “This was different.” Her eyes slid to the Road Warrior sharpening his blade. “They’re different.”

Preacher paused, unable to dispute her reasoning. The men from the truck stop weren’t good men by any stretch of the imagination, but he doubted they were killers. Preacher didn’t doubt for a single second that a man like Rocky had a body count.

“I’m blamin’ it all on you, you know,” he said eventually. Facing the fire, he lifted the whiskey to his mouth. “You’re a whole lot of bad luck. Got me slapped with a baseball bat, stole my wallet and my goddamn jacket—”

Before he was able to drink, Debbie grabbed hold of the whiskey bottle, threw her head back, and took a stunningly long swallow. Amused, Preacher watched as she began to sputter and cough.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, thrusting the bottle back into his hand. “That was horrible!”

A drop of whiskey slipped down Debbie’s chin, and before Preacher could think twice about it, he wiped it away. Her eyes shot to his, and his thoughts took a tire-squealing turn back to earlier—back to their kiss. A claiming kiss he’d given her only to ensure the Road Warriors would keep their hands to themselves.

He hadn’t expected her to kiss him back like she had. If anything, he’d expected her to be mostly unreceptive. And she had been… at first. A little shaky, too. But then, out of nowhere, she’d been on fire, kissing him with a wild eagerness he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager. Back when Preacher had been about girls, girls, and more girls. Any girl he could get his hands on, he most definitely put his hands on. He’d been all too eager and therefore messy, lacking in the skill and finesse that would come later, with time and experience.

He’d forgotten what that felt like. To be so enthusiastic about something or someone that you temporarily lost yourself and just… lived in the moment. Just thinking about kissing Debbie again, experiencing her energy and enthusiasm again, had his dick twitching.

It certainly didn’t help that he’d already seen the beautiful body beneath her clothing. Visions of her back at the motel—dropping her towel and offering him sex—suddenly consumed his thoughts.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” Debbie whispered, gazing up at him unabashedly. Eyes shining expectantly, cheeks flushed innocently.

He stared down at her, marveling at the way she could hide nothing, not one single thing she was thinking or feeling, while also feeling a bit dumbfounded by his reaction to her.

“How old are you?” he asked quietly.

“Seventeen,” she said quickly, averting her eyes.

He snorted softly. “Lie.”

Her eyes found his again, dark brown and full of frustration.

“It isn’t,” she insisted. “I’ll be seventeen soon. My birthday’s in a few weeks… I think.” She glanced down at her hands, her fingers ticking a silent countdown.

He stared at her.

Sixteen. Six-fucking-teen. He supposed it could be worse. But still… sixteen.

Preacher hadn’t been with a woman since he’d left New York City and hadn’t given them all that much thought. Yet here he was, suddenly giving all sorts of thoughts to a thieving teenager. How fitting, he thought, rolling his eyes. It was just his fucking luck, that the woman to drag him out of his dry spell… wasn’t even a woman yet.

And it wasn’t just her age that bothered him. He had only to look at her to know that the last thing this girl needed was his hands on her. She needed a warm bed to sleep in, three square meals a day. Someone to look after her.

Preacher gave his head a small shake and started pouring whiskey down his throat.

Yep. It was definitely going to be a long night.

• • •

It was the headache that woke her.

Head pounding, mouth uncomfortably dry, Debbie cracked one eye open. A pile of embers glowed a brilliant orange several feet away, still hot enough that she could feel the heat warming her arms and legs. There were noises—crackling embers, muffled sounds of movement, the low hum of a radio, someone snoring.

Opening both eyes, she peered into the semidarkness, scanning the bodies lying around the fire pit. There was a weight on her back—comforting confirmation that her backpack was still exactly where it was supposed to be. Beneath her cheek was something firm. She blinked several times, finally registering the outstretched leg in front of her, and then stiffened as she realized she was sleeping on someone. Alarmed, she shot upright, wincing as a spot above her left eye began to throb. Grimacing, she clutched her head.

It all came back to her in a confused and cluttered rush. The fair. The Ferris wheel. Preacher. The Road Warriors. The Kiss. Angel. But when had she’d fallen asleep? She couldn’t remember anything else.

“Here. This’ll help.”

Scrambling to her knees, Debbie whirled around. Finding Preacher, she blew out a relieved breath and sank down on her heels.

Eyebrows arched, Preacher shook the whiskey bottle in his hand, and the remaining liquid sloshed back and forth. “For the headache. Hair of the dog.”

As she took the bottle, Debbie was startled to realize that Preacher hadn’t left her alone with the Road Warriors. He’d remained by her side, watching over her while she’d slept.

“Th-thanks,” she whispered and sipped. The liquor burned a hot path down her dry throat, waking her further. She took a second swallow, and a third, and eventually the sharp pain in her forehead was no more than a dull ache.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep…” Catching sight of movement in the distance, Debbie’s words fell away.

A short ways off in the grass, her pale skin glowing white in the moonlight, Angel was straddling Rocky, who was mostly hidden by grass and shadows. Debbie could make out his hands, his tanned skin stark against Angel’s light, repeatedly brushing up and down the length of her.

Angel suddenly threw her head back, her long mane of hair like a sheet of black silk swaying across her back. Mouth open, lips parted in a soundless moan, her hips began a frantic, furious pace.

Breathy pants filled Debbie’s ears. The soft slap of skin on skin. A low groan. A high-pitched whimper that speared through the quiet night.

And Debbie couldn’t seem to look away. She’d never seen anything quite like it. So uninhibited. So beautiful and free. It was nothing like the truck stop hookers and their johns—cold, sometimes callous acts between unfeeling strangers.

It was certainly nothing like she’d ever experienced.

Captivated, barely breathing, she bit down hard on her bottom lip. She wanted to grab her notebook and draw them, capturing forever the intensity, the fervor between them.

“Wheels.”

Debbie’s gaze flicked to Preacher, breath shuddering from her lungs as their eyes met. Spellbound, she recalled their kiss. A hard, hungry kiss. Hungry like the way Angel was fucking Rocky. Hungry like the way Preacher was looking at her now.

Debbie felt her entire body come alive and take notice of this man. The smooth arches of his cheeks. The curve of his mouth. The hard edge of his jaw. The loose strands of hair that had slipped free from his ponytail. The urge to reach out and touch him, run her fingers over his lips, tuck his hair behind his ears, was a commanding presence.

Unused to these feelings, Debbie sucked in a sharp breath, and Preacher’s gaze zeroed in on her mouth. Reflexively she licked her lips and watched as his eyes flared. In response, everything inside her grew warmer, softer, and she could suddenly feel her heartbeat in places she didn’t realize you could feel a heartbeat.

Preacher suddenly snatched the bottle from her hand and took two consecutive slugs, emptying it. Tossing it aside, he jumped to his feet. The spell holding Debbie captive broke and the warm, butter-soft sensation that had settled low in her belly evaporated instantly.

“You wanna get the hell outta here?” Preacher’s tone was low and biting, matching his expression. All traces of hunger had vanished from his expression, and Debbie wondered if she’d imagined it.

 “What?”

“Never did like sleepin’ in the grass. Gonna find a motel.” He shot her a look as hard as his tone. “You promise not to hijack my shit again, you got yourself a bed.”

Then he turned on his heel and started walking—a fast-paced, long-legged stride, leaving Debbie scrambling to her feet and hurrying after him.