Chapter 20

A cigarette dangling from his lips, Preacher twirled the sharp tip of his dagger over the picnic table surface, watching the wood splinter beneath it.

He was avoiding everyone, especially his father, which was not a difficult feat since the old bastard was also doing his best to avoid him. The Judge had left the park entirely and gone into town with Doc and Smokey.

Complaining that the heat from the midday sun was getting to them, Ginny and June had retreated inside the trailer to listen to music. Preacher knew his mother well enough to know that “listening to music” was code for smoking weed, and he’d bet his life they were higher than kites right about now. Somewhere, Tiny and Crazy-8 were off engaging in similar activities.

Everyone else—Joe and Sylvia, Jim and Anne, Louisa, Knuckles, and Max—had gone to the swimming hole to stave off the heat. And Debbie? It had taken Preacher nearly to twenty minutes to convince her to tag along with them.

She’d refused at first, and he’d understood that she was uncomfortable, that they were strangers to her, but he needed a breather. Debbie being out of sight didn’t necessarily mean she was out of mind, but at least out of sight meant his hands were off of her.

All morning and all afternoon had been an exercise in self-control for Preacher.

After breakfast, Debbie had retreated to the fire pit where she’d curled up in a lawn chair with her notebook and pencil. The campsite continued to bustle all around her, and no one paid her any attention. She’d faded away into the background for everyone except him.

Like a blinking beacon in a thick fog, she consistently drew his eyes. He traced the shape of her legs as she swung them back and forth over the arm of the chair. He stared at the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath. He followed the movement of her hair every time the warm breeze lifted it. He watched the way she’d pause in drawing, absentmindedly chewing on the tip of her pencil.

Lifting his blade, Preacher drove the sharp tip down into the wood, causing tiny fissures to splinter in all directions.

Before prison, he’d lived a life of self-indulgence—women, drinking, drugs. He’d never wanted for anything; it had all been at his fingertips.

Everything was different now. He was denying himself. And maybe that’s where this unusual interest and attraction to her began and ended. By telling himself no, he was only worsening the craving.

“What did that table ever do to you?”

Flicking his cigarette away, Preacher watched as Ginny slid onto the bench across from him. Her long dark hair had been pulled up into a thick bun, and just as he’d suspected, her smile was lazy, her eyes bloodshot and glossy.

Smoothing her hands down the front of her wrinkled white tunic, she produced a clove cigarette from her pocket and lit it. “Where is everyone?” she asked around a mouthful of spice-scented smoke.

He shrugged. “Swimming.”

“Debbie too?”

Preacher nodded.

 “And why aren’t you swimming?”

Another shrug.

Puffing on her clove, Ginny’s tipped her head to one side and studied him. “Damon, talk to me. What’s the problem? Is it your father or the girl? Are you sleeping with her?”

Preacher internally groaned. Even doped up, his mother missed nothing.

Ginny Fox was most definitely prettier than her husband, nearly a decade younger too, and a hell of a lot nicer. But she had at least one thing in common with The Judge—neither of them beat around the bush. They were both as straightforward as they came.

Brows up, he gave his mother a look—the same look he’d given her every time she’d try to bring up his sex life. It was a look that said there was not a chance in hell he was going to answer her.

Talking sex with his father was one thing. His mother? Preacher would rather be strung up by his toes on a clothesline and gutted with a dull blade.

Knowing he wasn’t going to answer her, Ginny snorted out a small laugh and shook her head. Leaning forward, she placed her hand over his and squeezed. “Don’t make that face at me. I’m your mother. I have a right to know what’s going on in my baby boy’s life.”

“Not a baby,” he muttered.

She laughed again. “Oh yes you are. You are my baby and always will be.” She tapped the ash from her clove cigarette. “Furthermore,” she whispered, her eyes darting around the campsite, “you’re my favorite. Your firstborn is always your favorite.”

A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. Ginny had been telling Preacher he was her favorite for as long as he could remember. He was also fairly certain she fed both Joe and Max the same line of bullshit.

“Yeah? I thought the youngest was always the favorite.”

Ginny’s upper lip curled. “That little pervert has got the whole block in an uproar. He’s chasin’ everything in a skirt these days, even that homely little thing next door. You remember Cecelia? Alfonso’s girl?”

“The butcher’s daughter? What the hell? She’s a little kid!”

Ginny smiled. “No baby. You weren’t home long enough to get the lay of the land. She’s the same age as Max. Terribly ugly, though. Looks just like her daddy.” She paused to tap her clove again. “Anyway, these girls are just falling all over one another fighting for his attention, and I’m afraid he’s getting a big head because of it. Not to mention all the angry fathers poor Gerry is having to deal with. Alfonso showed up at the club with a shotgun!

“Your father is furious with Max over it, too. Lord help us all if he ends up like Joe. But the little devil doesn’t seem to care. Just a few weeks ago Gerry caught him on the roof with a pretty little blonde thing, both of them nearly naked. And well, he dragged Max inside and gave him a good talking-to.”

Shrugging, Ginny took another puff from her clove before stubbing it out on the tabletop and flicking it away. “Didn’t do a lick of good. A week later I caught him in his bedroom with Sean Boyle’s daughter bouncing away on top of him. And she’s a little vixen if I ever saw one. Red curls as far as the eye can see and is she ever freckled! Even her ass has freckles! Tits, too!”

“So whaddya do?” Preacher asked, fighting laughter.

Ginny shrugged. “What could I do? I told her to get her freckled backside off my son and put some clothes on. Then I took her to the kitchen, gave her a slice of Bienenstich, and told her that if she didn’t start keeping her knees together, her five minutes of fun with my Max was going to land her at Sister Agnes’ home for troubled girls.”

His shoulders quaking, Preacher dropped his face into his hands. His poor mother, having to go through this with each of her sons.

“You know I’ve been making Bienenstich every week? And I’m going to keep making it until you come home.”

His laughter dying in his throat, Preacher looked up from his hands and into his mother’s eyes. Bienenstich was his favorite dessert. Hearing that she’d been making it every week, hoping that would be the week he’d come home, felt like a fist to the face.

“Now don’t go and look at me like that, Damon,” Ginny said tenderly, her slate-colored eyes misting over, shining like liquid silver. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I only want you to know you’re missed, and you’re loved. And that’s never going to change.”

Preacher drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, but his mother stopped him with a wagging finger. “No, no,” she said, “enough about that. Tell me about this girl—Debbie. What’s her story? I couldn’t get more than two words out of her.”

Preacher blew out his breath. “Your guess is as good as mine. She won’t talk about herself.”

“And you like her?”

“… She’s okay.”

“And you’re sleeping with her?”

Preacher glared at his mother, who smirked in return.

“Ahhh,” Ginny mused. “So you’re not sleeping with her. That’s your tell, you know? I ask and ask, and if you get embarrassed, that’s a yes. If you get angry, that’s a no.”

“Mo-om,” he groaned, dropping his face back into his hands. “Please, for the love of fuckin’ God, stop! I’m not talkin’ to you about this!”

“But you like her,” Ginny continued, unbothered. “And she’s halfway in love with you. So what’s the problem? Why are you sitting around here moping instead of spending time with her?”

Preacher glanced up. “She’s what?”

“Oh Lord,” Ginny sighed. “Don’t tell me you don’t see the way she looks at you, Damon. That girl is head over heels. Even your father noticed, and you know your father. If it isn’t business, he’d be hard pressed to notice a falling anvil until he was buried beneath it.”

He shook his head slowly. No. Well, yeah… he’d seen the way she looked at him and he’d thought it was lust, same as him. But love? No way. They hardly knew each other.

“It ain’t like that,” he said quickly. “She’s too young for me… and I’m just givin’ her a ride.”

“Then why’d you bring her here?” she asked. Several moments passed in silence while Ginny eyed him shrewdly. “You brought her to me, didn’t you?”

Unwilling to admit to anything, Preacher only stared at his mother.

Ginny laughed softly. “You care about her, Damon. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have brought her here—to me.”

“Mom,” he finally said, “I don’t know, I really don’t. I wasn’t thinkin’, haven’t been thinkin’ clearly for a long time now. My head’s a mess, and I was just out there ridin’, and I meet this chick and… I don’t know. She’s been on her own a while now, makin’ a go of it on the road. But I just had this feeling that if I didn’t help her out, something might happen to her.”

Reaching across the table, Ginny placed her hand over his. “And?” she prompted.

“And what?”

“And you didn’t want anything to happen to her because…?”

Blank-faced, Preacher stared at his mother. “Because… that would suck for her?”

Ginny slapped his head. “Because you like her, you dolt!”

Exasperated, Preacher rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Ma. You got me. I like her. So fuckin’ what?”

A self-satisfied smile on her face, Ginny got to her feet. “Nothing,” she shrugged, turning away. “Just wanted to hear you say it.

“By the way, you remind me of him,” she called over her shoulder.

Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “Who?” he growled.

Ginny’s smile was downright wicked as she strode through camp. “Nobody,” she replied in a sing-song voice.

Shaking his head, Preacher picked up his knife and resumed twisting the tip into the picnic table. He wasn’t anything like his father. The Judge wouldn’t know a good time if it bit him in the ass. He was all business, all the time. The man lived by a strict code of laughable ethics and deprived himself of every fun thing the world had to offer.

Only Preacher couldn’t recall the last time he’d been able to let loose, either. And hadn’t Max accused him of acting just like Dad?

Scowling, Preacher continued mutilating the picnic table, trying to think about something else—anything else. He thought of Bienenstich, and then of Max being chased down the block by a gang of angry fathers wielding shotguns. He started to smile… and then froze.

Max. Max was at the swimming hole.

Debbie was at the swimming hole.

Max, that little fucking gigolo, was with Debbie.

Preacher shot up out of his seat, slipped his blade into his boot, and headed out of camp.

• • •

The heat had brought half the camp to the swimming hole. Overflowing with people, it took Preacher a good ten minutes searching the small space before finding a familiar face.

He spotted Sylvia first, easy to identify by her bulging belly and brightly colored sundress. Wearing a dark blue bikini top and white shorts, Louisa was sunbathing beside Sylvia, her nose in a book. Whiskey Jim and Joe were seated nearby, a pack of beer and Debbie’s backpack wedged between them.

Preacher glanced around. But no Debbie.

Dropping down beside his brother, he snagged a beer for himself. “Where’s everyone else?” he asked, scanning the area again.

Scowling, Joe shrugged. “Not bein’ forced to sit here. Probably havin’ fun.”

Sylvia lifted her sunglasses only long enough to shoot Joe what Preacher assumed was the look Joe had referred to earlier, but thankfully she didn’t say anything. Chuckling, Jim shook his head and pointed toward the swimming hole. “They’re swimmin’,” he said.

Preacher followed his finger across the water to the far end, where the waterfall flowed thick and heavy over the rocky outcropping. He spotted Anne first, wading through waist-high water in a skimpy red bikini top—just a tiny scrap of fabric that barely covered her. He saw Knuckles next, splashing and chasing two young women around. He followed their movements until he spied Max… but still no Debbie.

Just then a body broke through the water surface. Water droplets flying in all directions, Debbie shoved her sopping hair out of her face and smiled at Max.

Smiled.

At Max.

She fucking smiled at Max—his dirty dog of a little brother.

Frowning, Preacher straightened and shielded his eyes with his hand. Max was gesturing to Debbie, talking animatedly about something, and Debbie was… laughing?

Preacher stiffened, irritation prickling along his skin. Getting Debbie to talk was like pulling teeth, but making her smile was ten times more difficult. And yet here she was, smiling at and laughing with Max.

Preacher’s frown continued to deepen as Max drew closer to Debbie. Max pointed at something off in the distance, and when Debbie turned to look, Max casually slid his arm over her shoulders.

Preacher shot to his feet. He was two seconds away from jumping into the water, jeans, boots, and leather vest be damned, and dragging Max out by the scruff of his neck. And he would have if Debbie hadn’t immediately shrugged out from beneath Max’s arm and swam away.

“What’s it gonna be?” Joe asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with Preacher, peering out across the water. “Wedgie? Swirly? Purple nurple?”

“I’m gonna smash his fuckin’ face in.”

“Damn. You’re really diggin’ this chick, huh?”

Preacher shook his head, about to tell Joe that it wasn’t like that when Debbie appeared on the grass, and his words died in his throat.

She’d gone swimming in her T-shirt and shorts, but she might as well have been topless. Preacher could see everything through the thin material—the outline of her full, firm breasts, the shape and size of her rock-hard nipples.

And he wasn’t the only one noticing, either. For a girl who thought no one noticed her, she sure was catching a lot of looks.

“Nice,” Joe muttered under his breath.

Growling, Preacher elbowed Joe in the ribs. “Shut the fuck up, asshole.”

Debbie approached them, wringing out her wet hair, drops of water cascading down her sun-kissed skin, utterly oblivious to the half dozen erections she’d just caused.

“Are you going swimming?” she asked.

Beside him, Joe snorted. “He can’t swim.”

Preacher slowly faced his brother. “This ain’t exactly the ocean. I think I can handle myself.”

Joe smirked at him. “Don’t change the fact that you can’t fuckin’ swim.”

“And you wet the fuckin’ bed until you were twelve, either,” Preacher shot back. “But who’s askin’, right?”

Someone giggled, a high-pitched girly squeak, and Preacher jerked his gaze away from Joe to find Debbie with her hand over her mouth, a tiny dimple indenting her left cheek.

• • •

Taking a swig of warm beer, Debbie glanced over at Preacher. Seated beside her on the sun-warmed grass, he was alternating between scowling at Joe and outright glaring at Max. He’d been agitated all day, it felt like, but now he seemed even more so, leaving her wondering if he’d gotten into another argument with his father.

She nudged him with her elbow, and he turned his scowl on her.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

His expression didn’t change. “What was so funny?” he asked.

Confused, Debbie shook her head. “What was so funny… when?”

Preacher jerked his chin toward the swimming hole. “You were laughin’. With Max.”

“Uh…” Debbie looked to the water, trying to recall what Max had said. “I don’t remember,” she eventually replied. “He made a joke about something, but I can’t remember what.” She turned back to Preacher. “So, you really can’t swim?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Preacher’s brows drew together, his already tense expression tightening further.

“My parents tried to teach me when I was little, but I was scared shitless. Didn’t like the feeling of bein’ underwater.” He rolled his eyes. “Still don’t.”

Debbie couldn’t stop her smile. After watching Preacher take on those men at the truck stop, and stand up to the Road Warriors and that terrifying man from this morning, the notion that he was afraid of something as harmless as water was laughable.

“Somethin’ funny?” he growled.

Biting down on her bottom lip, squelching her smile, Debbie shook her head. “I just didn’t picture you as being afraid of anything.”

That had been the right thing to say. Preacher’s mouth quirked and his strained expression began to ease.

“Not afraid anymore, Wheels,” he said dryly, “Just don’t like it.”

She shrugged. “Well, I love swimming.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “I used to live near the beach, and every day after school I’d stop there.”

She paused to sip her beer. “I went to a private school and we wore these awful uniforms.” Recalling the button-down shirt that had reached clear up to her chin and the heavy plaid skirt, Debbie made a face. “The socks were the worst. So itchy. My favorite part of the day was taking them off and walking in the water.”

It had also been her least favorite part of the day because it had meant she was that much closer to having to head home. And home was hell—complete with Satan himself.

Feeling her stomach tighten, Debbie shuddered through her next breath and wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Even her happy memories always turned dark.

“Private school, huh?” Preacher laughed. “I fuckin’ knew it.” He tapped two fingers to his temple. “Smart.”

Despite her roiling insides, Debbie forced a smile. But the smile didn’t last and she began shifting uncomfortably, suddenly acutely aware of her wet clothes, the way they were sticking to her body, chafing her skin. And the way the prickly weeds beneath her were poking sharply against her. And the way the sun was suddenly too hot, shining too brightly overhead, leaving her feeling as if she was under a spotlight.

Quickly she swallowed the last of her beer and set the bottle aside. The warm brew sloshed uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m going to go change,” she mumbled and shot to her feet. Grabbing her backpack, she whirled away and hurried off through the crowds of people.

Reaching the dirt path, feeling overwhelmed by stomach-turning images, awash in unwanted feelings, Debbie picked up her pace.

Why had she even brought up the beach in the first place? What had she thought was going to happen? Maybe some small part of her had begun to hate the constant lying. Maybe that same part of her had wanted to set free a sliver of her truth and unburden a bit of her soul in the process.

Her eyes burning, she released a bitter snort. Whatever the reason, she should have known better.

Debbie slowed her steps and dug her sunglasses out of her backpack. She didn’t think she was going to cry—she hadn’t cried in forever—but just in case she did, she didn’t want anyone to see.

God, she wouldn’t ever be normal, would she? How could she hope to let someone else in when she couldn’t even let herself in? The burning in her eyes intensified. Beneath the tinted lenses, she blinked furiously. Her chest tightened. She would not cry. She would absolutely not fucking cry.

Noticing a bathhouse just ahead, she felt a small sense of relief. She would lock herself in a toilet stall and fall apart in private.

“Wheels!”

Debbie jumped, nearly tripping over her own feet. Whirling around, she found Preacher striding up a small incline, concern darkening his features. Her stomach flip-flopped. She didn’t want him to see her like this. She didn’t want him to look at her like that—with concern or pity.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded.

Nothing is wrong, she wanted to scream. I’m normal! Please, just look at me like I’m a normal girl!

“I’m fine,” she managed to squeak out.

“Lie,” Preacher snapped and plucked her sunglasses from her face before she could stop him. She attempted snatching them back, but he held them just out of reach.

“You’re fine, huh? Like hell you’re fine. What the fuck happened back there?”

Standing in the center of the path, a large group was forced to part around them, and Debbie could feel their questioning, curious eyes on her as they passed by. Biting her bottom lip, she looked down at her bare feet.

“Wheels…” Preacher’s hand brushed her cheek, and then he was cupping her chin, forcing her head up, forcing her to look at him.

His hand was cool, much cooler than her overheated skin, and she felt herself leaning into his touch. Her chest loosened, breathing becoming easier. Her stomach unknotted. Everything softened and slowed.

Debbie stared into Preacher’s searching eyes. There were no shadows there, no storms brewing. Clear, dark-brown depths stared back at her without judgment, without pity, without… hunger.

Debbie, all of a sudden, desperately wanted the hunger.

She didn’t remember going up on her toes or wrapping her arm around Preacher’s neck. She hardly registered pressing her mouth to his. It all happened so quickly. One moment she was looking into his eyes and the next she was kissing him.

Harder and harder she kissed him, faster and faster. Their noses bumped, their teeth clacked, their breaths were infrequent, erratic bursts of air between the tangling of their tongues.

She hadn’t meant to kiss him like this—so viciously. One moment she’d been filled with ugly memories, haunted by the touch of a monster, and the next she’d been filled with wanting.

Want rolled through her body like molten lava, turning her insides into liquid fire.

She wanted to erase all the ugly. And replace it with this. With Preacher.

Preacher. Preacher. Preacher.

His name was her pulse. Was the thrust of her tongue. Was the throbbing ache building within her.

His hands were on her now, one on the small of her back pressing her closer, the other cupping her head, angling her face. Their kisses slowed as they adjusted to their new position and then sped up again, his beard grating across her cheeks and chin. Her hands were in his hair now, her body bowed to his, her breasts crushed against his lower chest.

And then, just as she’d gone from aflutter to flying, Preacher was gone. His kisses, his touches, just gone. Dazed and breathing hard, Debbie staggered back a step, much to the amusement of several giggling bystanders.

Then he was back, gripping her wrist and tugging her off the pathway. He led her around the corner of the bathhouse to an alcove partially hidden by several towering pine trees.

Standing there, half an arm’s length away from one another, they stared. Preacher’s eyes were wild, his breaths hard, his chest visibly expanding. His shoulders were squared, his legs spread apart, one hand gripping his belt buckle right above the unmistakable bulge in his jeans.

She wanted him back. Every bit of her he’d kissed and touched wanted more. And in that moment Debbie wasn’t sure she’d ever wanted anything so badly before in her life.

He stepped toward her and stopped. “Ah, fuck, Wheels,” he groaned, looking away. He scrubbed a hand down his face and across his beard. “We can’t do this.”

Still reeling, she pressed her lips together, forcing her heavy breaths through her nose. Adrenaline and lust were caught in her throat—a ball of hot and cold, making breathing difficult.

 “Lie,” she said after a moment, and his eyes shot to hers. “We can do this—I want to do this.”

His lips twitched “You’re… sixteen. I’m twenty-four.”

“I’m almost seventeen.” The childish plea slipped free before she could catch it and lock it away.

When he still made no move toward her, she tried again, one last time. “Preacher… I’m not a virgin.”

His nostrils flared. His eyes were liquid fire. But still, he didn’t move. More seconds ticked by. Then, just as Debbie was feeling the faint stirrings of defeat infiltrate her haze of need, he was back.

An arm came down on either side of her, caging her in, and Debbie dragged herself up the wall onto her tiptoes, reaching.

His lips were on hers, her hands tangled in his shirt, and they kissed hard and fast until their breaths grew ragged and kissing was no longer enough.

Lifting Debbie off the ground, Preacher used his body to keep her flat against the wall. Legs around his waist, ankles locked at his back, she brought that desperate, aching place between her thighs flush with the bulge in Preacher’s jeans. He ground himself against her, half growling, half groaning into her mouth, and if Debbie’s eyes had been open, they would have rolled back.

She. Was. Melting.

Melting into nothing. Weightless. Writhing energy. A feather-light slave to the throbbing need between her legs.

Everything else… gone.

She’d finally found it—a place to exist without pain.