Chapter 21

Heat.

Debbie was feeling intense heat all over her body that had nothing at all to do with the warm, sticky night air, the blazing bonfire before her, or the whiskey she’d consumed.

The heat was from the lean body she was tucked against, the muscled arm wrapped around her, and the calloused fingertips tracing invisible lines over and under her collarbone. Back and forth, up and down, Preacher lulled her into a place she’d never been before.

If she let herself, it’d be easy to forget that they weren’t the only ones seated around the bonfire.

Everyone was here; even Preacher’s father had chosen to join them. Seated in one of the few lawn chairs, Gerald stared somberly into the fire, while most of the others engaged in quiet conversations amongst themselves. Janis Joplin’s Summertime was playing on the tape deck and Ginny and June were singing along. Across the way, Knuckles and Max were roasting marshmallows.

Preacher’s fingers stilled as he bent his head to hers. “Tell me somethin’ else about you, Wheels. Gimme more truth.”

She shook her head. There was no way she was going to ruin any more moments with more of her truths. “Nope,” she said, her tone intentionally light. “It’s your turn. Tell me something about you.”

“What else is there to know? You’ve already met my entire family.”

Debbie angled her head toward Preacher. Firelight and shadows danced across his handsome face.

“How’d you get the name Preacher?” she asked.

“Same way you got the name Wheels.” His lips twitched; humor glinted in his eyes. “Some asshole thought it was funny.”

Giggling, Debbie sank down against Preacher’s side and turned back to the fire. His fingers started up again, sliding back and forth across her clavicle before dipping down low. Preacher slowly outlined the swells of her breasts, sending jolts of sensation tearing straight to her core.

Feeling flustered and fevered, Debbie gulped down her next several breaths, then gripped the neck of the whiskey bottle propped between her legs and took a lengthy swig.

As if Preacher somehow realized the fiery thoughts running amok in her mind, he chuckled quietly, his warm breath tickling her neck and sending a heated shiver down her spine.

All day long, since the encounter at the bathhouse, Debbie had been able to think of little else. She hadn’t wanted to stop. It had been Preacher who’d eventually pulled away, who’d said “not here” in a heavy, hoarse tone that belied his words. Who’d then taken her hand and led her back to the swimming hole.

And though he hadn’t kissed her again, Debbie couldn’t think of a single moment since that he hadn’t been touching her. An arm around her shoulders. His fingers brushing against hers. A hand at her waist, sinking slowly down her hip. And in doing so, he’d kept her in this strange state of being, lost in a haze, teetering on the edge between reality and sensation.

“I’m the asshole who coined him Preacher.”

Debbie’s haze cleared. The gruffly spoken statement had come from Gerald. Leaning forward in his chair, hands steepled beneath his chin, his eternal grimace was focused on Debbie.

Feeling the weight of Gerald’s scrutiny as if it were a crushing boulder, she attempted to straighten, but Preacher’s arm across her chest only tightened.

“Like a goddamn preacher, he never did know when to shut his mouth,” Gerald continued. “Had a damn opinion ‘bout everything. Always buttin’ his nose in my business, always thinkin’ he was right and tellin’ me how to do my job.”

Gerald let out a low chuckle and his eyes slid to Preacher. “Ain’t that right? Couldn’t wait to get your hands on that gavel, could ya?”

Preacher’s chin came down on Debbie’s shoulder, refusing to even look at his father. Gerald’s smile slowly flattened and he turned back to the bonfire, frowning.

“Don’t know what happened, though,” he muttered. “Don’t even know my own boy anymore.

“I went to war, you know.” Nodding, Gerald continued to frown at the fire. “Doc and Jim here, they went to war, too. And we’ve seen some shit, haven’t we? Now that kinda shit… that can change a man.” Gerald paused as if carefully considering his next words. “But prison…”

Preacher’s head jerked up, and Debbie didn’t have to see his face to know that his expression was murderous. She could feel it in the suddenly rigid lines of his body—every part of him that was touching a part of her had turned to stone.

“Gerry, no,” Ginny whispered, her expression pleading.

“In prison,” Gerald continued loudly, ignoring his wife, “you get a roof over your head, three square meals a day, clean clothes, and a nice warm bed to sleep in every night.” Gerald glanced around the bonfire. “Sounds like a goddamned vacation if you ask me.”

Ginny’s eyes squeezed closed.

Though Janis Joplin still played and the fire continued to crackle and hiss, the campsite had fallen quiet. All eyes were on either Preacher or Gerald.

And Preacher, he was shaking. Not visibly, just a slight shudder with every breath he expelled, as if he were full to the brim with ugly things that he could no longer contain.

Debbie covered the arm banded across her chest with her own. Slipping her fingers between his, she squeezed his hand and waited for the explosion. The entire campsite waited.

Instead, Preacher reached around her, seizing the whiskey from between her thighs. Lifting the bottle to his mouth, he chugged the amber liquid. Having soon finished what was left, he tossed the empty bottle aside and gestured to Tiny. “Gimme that,” he growled.

Tiny glanced down at the joint cinched between his fingers, and then quickly handed it over to Preacher. Puffing on the joint, thick smoke poured from Preacher’s mouth, billowing around Debbie. Eventually, the arm around her chest began to loosen.

“So, uh, they’re playin’ Taxi Driver at the theater in town.” Smokey glanced around the bonfire, a strained smile on his face.

“We should go,” Max offered meekly. “Ain’t nothin’ else to do around here.”

“Haven’t you seen that already, Maxwell?” Ginny asked tentatively, her eyes on Gerald. “Back home?”

Knuckles, who seemed to have forgotten the tension entirely, gaped at her. “Are you kiddin’, Little Ginny? You could see that movie a hundred times and never get sick of it!”

At that, Max perked up. Grinning, he turned to Knuckles and drew a finger-gun from his pocket. “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?”

Knuckles mimed drawing a gun from an invisible holster and pointed his own finger-gun at Max. “Don’t try it, you fuck,” he shot back, laughing.

“I’m in,” Tiny announced.

“Count me and Anne in, too,” Whiskey Jim added.

“I wanna go,” Sylvia said, looking at Joe.

“You?” Joe snorted and shook his head. “No way. You’d hate it.”

“God forbid I would wanna get outta this park for a couple hours!” she hissed. “The bike fumes are makin’ me queasy!”

Joe’s teeth clenched. “You shoulda stayed home. I told you not to—”

“We should all go,” June hurriedly interrupted, “Make a day of it. I’ve been wanting to head into town. And Ginny, you probably want to go to the farmers’ market?”

Ginny glanced at Gerald before turning to June. “No, no, you all go.” She waved her hand and smiled. “Take the van and go into town and make a day of it. Give… Gerry and me some peace and quiet.”

“Wheels.” Preacher’s breath, smelling strongly of whiskey and marijuana, fanned her cheek.

Debbie turned, finding Preacher’s face only inches from hers. His arm fell away from her chest, his hand cupped her cheek. Taking a drag off the joint, he closed the remaining gap between their lips and exhaled into her mouth.

Debbie drew in a hard breath and earthy-tasting smoke billowed inside her mouth, pouring down her throat. Preacher’s tongue came next, sweeping through her mouth, while his hand slid into her hair, cupping her head. Smoke trickled out from between their lips as they kissed slowly, deeply. Debbie’s thoughts grew fuzzy and muddled from either the drugs, or the man, or both.

“I haven’t seen a movie since before I got tossed in the joint,” Preacher whispered, after releasing her mouth.

“What movie was it?” she murmured.

He glanced away, considering. “Jaws,” he finally said. “I think. Wait, no… coulda been Death Race. Don’t remember which. What about you?”

Once upon a time Debbie had treasured going to the movies. Before her mother had remarried, she’d worked odd jobs and strange hours, and with Debbie’s school schedule they’d rarely seen one another, with the exception of Sundays. Every Sunday they’d go to their local theater for classic movie night.

Unlike most mothers and daughters, Debbie and her mother had never been close. But every Sunday it had felt as if she’d almost had a mother—at least for a couple of hours. The tradition had continued until her mother had remarried, and then Sunday movie nights were no more.

The only movie theaters she’d been inside recently had been ones she’d snuck into for warmth and to catch a few hours of sleep.

She shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

“You wanna go, then?” He watched her through lazy, half-lidded eyes, his pupils noticeably larger. He appeared relaxed, the only remaining sign of stress was the subtle tightening around his eyes. At some point he’d lain his hand on her thigh and was now toying with the hem of her shorts. His fingers started up again, dancing a drunken path up and down her leg.

“Sure,” she breathed as she shivered beneath his touch. The movies, New York City, in that moment, Debbie would go anywhere with Preacher.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and any remaining strain in his expression vanished.

• • •

Being bad felt damn good.

This was something Preacher had learned from a young age. It had started out innocently enough, disobeying his parents or lying to a schoolteacher. Tiny acts of defiance that made a small boy in a world of men feel not quite so insignificant.

At ten years old he was shoplifting from the corner bodega and slipping money out of The Judge’s wallet. At thirteen he was placing illegal bets in the back alley behind the neighborhood butcher shop.

And by the time Preacher was in high school, he’d graduated from shoplifting to jacking neighborhood cars and joyriding with his friends.

Even after his father had brought him into the club and illegal doings had become a way of life, Preacher had still found ways to get his kicks. Taking another man’s girl to bed just because he could. Skimming money from business associates, or snagging some junk for himself. It was never enough to cause notice—just enough to satiate Preacher’s appetite for rebellion.

In Preacher’s mind, those tiny bits of rebellion had kept him fresh. Awake. Alive.

He’d since grown stale in prison. He’d forgotten what being him felt like. He’d forgotten how much he loved to push boundaries. To break rules. To bend them to his will.

He remembered now and he had Debbie to thank for that.

It wasn’t that being with Debbie was necessarily bad, only that Preacher had deemed it not the right thing. He’d drawn a line.

And then he gave his conscience a swift kick off a tall bridge and dove headfirst right over that line.

And yeah, it felt damn good.

Crouched inside his tent, Preacher zipped the door flap closed and turned toward Debbie. Seated cross-legged on top of the sleeping bag he’d laid out, she looked up at him with a nervous, expectant expression. Moonlight filtering through the tent’s windows bathed her in an almost angelic glow, emphasizing the dark of her eyes.

Was that a little bit of fear he was seeing, too?

It might have given him pause… if he hadn’t been so drunk. And high. And three times as keyed up as he could ever remember feeling before in his life—an uncomfortable combination of angry and horny that desperately needed an outlet.

Not bothering to kick off his boots or remove his cut, Preacher moved swiftly across the tent. Cupping the side of Debbie’s face, he claimed her mouth. And as his tongue plunged past her lips, he used the weight of his body to push her onto her back and maneuver himself between her legs.

While his hands were busy skimming the length of her, Preacher thrust his hips forward, rocking himself over the sweet spot between her thighs. She jerked at the contact, gasping softly into his mouth. He continued mimicking sex until her legs were wrapped around his waist and she was grinding against him the same way she kissed him—absolutely inexperienced, but at the same time, so crazy into it.

This girl did not think, not when it came to him anyway, and Preacher fucking loved it.

A breast in one hand and a handful of ass in the other, he broke their kiss and moved to her neck, licking, sucking, biting his way across the soft skin there.

He traveled quickly down to her collarbone, pushing her T-shirt up as he went.

He didn’t bother to take her top off—he’d already freed the parts of her he wanted. He groped and kneaded and teased until Debbie was panting.

And then his mouth replaced his hands.

Debbie’s hands went to his head, gripping handfuls of his hair. Soft, needy, sexy-as-hell noises filled his ears, and he went from straining uncomfortably against his jeans to nearly punching straight through them.

Heaving himself up over her, he took her mouth again, kissing her hard and fast.

Still wet from his mouth, her tits were in his hand; he palmed one and then the other before sliding his hand down her stomach toward her shorts.

He yanked open the top button.

“Preacher.” Debbie turned her head, freeing her mouth. “Preacher… wait.”

He continued fumbling with her shorts, pulling open two more buttons. Although he’d heard her, nothing had registered. His skin was too hot, his anger with The Judge was still simmering inside him. And his dick felt full to the point of bursting. He was sick of only wanting this girl—he wanted to have her.

Legs twisted beneath him, hands shoved at his shoulders. “Preacher, stop!”

Preacher froze and Debbie shoved at him again. He rolled off her onto his side as she scrambled to sit. Flushed and breathing hard, she wrenched her T-shirt down and quickly fixed her shorts.

“What’s wrong?” Preacher asked, unable to hear himself over the rapid roar of blood pumping through him.

Biting her bottom lip, refusing to look at him, Debbie only shook her head.

Irritation rose inside him, and Preacher had to fight to battle it back down, to remain calm. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his unbound hair and blew out a breath.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Debbie whisper. Her voice sounded small and timid, and Preacher heard real fear there. He blew out another breath, and with it, some of his frustration.

“It’s cool,” he muttered. “We don’t gotta do it.”

“It’s not that.” Debbie joined him at the door. “I do wanna do it. It was just…”

She trailed off and Preacher made the mistake of looking at her. Her hair was a mess, her lips wet and swollen. Her nipples were visible beneath her T-shirt, tiny torpedoes aimed straight at him. Inside his jeans his dick surged, the buildup of pressure quickly becoming uncomfortable. His hands began to twitch, suddenly desperate for something to do.

Grinding his teeth, Preacher moved quickly across the tent and opened the door. “You don’t gotta explain shit to me,” he managed to grit out as he fumbled to light a cigarette.

Staring out into the night, he puffed on his cigarette like his life depended on it, feeling like he might actually explode if he didn’t fuck… something.

Debbie’s hand appeared on his arm, her touch an electric surge to his already fried system. “I’m really sorry. I just got—I don’t know. It was, um—it was just too fast.” The hand on his arm began to quiver almost as much as her voice. “I don’t know—”

Preacher cut her off by shoving a cigarette between her lips. “Shh,” he growled, “and let me calm the fuck down.”

They smoked in silence. Preacher lit one cigarette after another until the mountain in his jeans was more of a semi-hard mound and his heartbeat had returned to normal.

When he eventually chanced another glance at Debbie, he found her with her arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees, nervously twisting a small silver ring around her finger. And now that he could think clearly, he felt like a first-class asshole.

“Wheels,” he said, sighing. “Look at me.”

Her big brown eyes lifted, full of riotous emotions that Preacher wasn’t going to begin to guess at.

“Whatever bullshit you got goin’ on inside that head of yours, it better not be because of me. I ain’t mad. You don’t gotta fuck me. Hell, you don’t even gotta talk to me and I’ll still get you to the city. A promise is a promise.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“After you get me to the city. Are you going to stay… or are you going back on the road?”

Preacher studied her. “You tryin’ to ask me something specific?”

She stared at him a moment, then shrugged. “Just wondering.”

It was too flippant a tone, too cavalier a gesture to be anything other than a lie. And Preacher wondered if that’s why she’d stopped him. It made sense—why would a good girl like her want to sleep with an asshole like him, especially if he was just going to cut and run in a few days?

“I don’t know.” He rubbed his neck. “I got some shit goin’ on with my dad.”

“I know, but… why don’t you just talk to him?”

Preacher snorted. The idea that The Judge would be willing to hear anything Preacher had to say was a pipe dream at best. His old man was wired wrong. He couldn’t actually listen to anything anyone said. He was built to give orders, nothing more.

“That ain’t gonna happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because if it doesn’t have somethin’ to do with him or the club, he doesn’t give a shit. He was in the Marines and the Navy, Wheels. He thinks he’s the biggest, baddest thing out there. He thinks he’s seen and done it all, and only he knows best. And he thinks we’re all his goddamn soldiers. He can’t handle anyone questionin’ him. He can’t handle anything but blind fuckin’ obedience.” Preacher shook his head. “I used to look up to him. I used to want to be just like him. But now… ” He trailed off, unsure of what to say, unsure of what he wanted.

“So what, then? You’re just never going home again?”

He didn’t answer her right away. He’d been asking himself the same question every day for months now and had yet to come up with anything even resembling an answer.

“I don’t fit there anymore,” he eventually said. “That’s his world, not mine.”

The statement was true. The Judge had always liked flat surfaces and straight, even lines. He liked all his soldiers lined up in a row, ready to salute. And Preacher didn’t have straight lines anymore. He’d never had straight lines, but now… he was all over the place—a mess of jagged edges and incoherent scribbles.

“You’re so lucky,” she whispered, and Preacher was startled to find tears shining in her eyes. “You’re so stupid, too. You don’t even realize how lucky you are. You have this huge family, all these people, and they all love you.” Shaking her head, she gestured passionately with her hands. “They love you so much that they’re angry with you for taking off. And they’re so happy you’re back, and you’re just going to leave them again because you’re scared of your dad—”

“I ain’t scared of him,” Preacher interjected. “That cranky old bastard—”

“Wants you around!” Debbie snapped. A tear slipped free from the corner of her eye, glinting in the moonlight.

“You’re so stupid,” she continued, her voice cracking. “You’re so lucky and you don’t even realize it. I wish every day I had a family like yours.”

Preacher stared at her, feeling a little bewildered, and ten times the asshole he’d previously thought himself to be.

“Jesus, Wheels, come here.” He held out his arm to her, and she quickly tucked herself against him. She folded her knees to her chest, and he slid his arm around her back. Neither of them spoke for a long while, and he found himself marveling at how perfectly she fit beside him.

“I don’t want you to disappear.”

He glanced down to find Debbie’s eyes on him—big, expressive eyes like vacuums, sucking all thoughts straight from him. Those eyes. That mouth. That vulnerable look on her face that made him want to tuck her inside his jacket and shield her from the world.

She was definitely a problem he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with. On the one hand, he wanted to fuck her, and on the other, he wanted to save her. Were both possible? Or was one going to cancel out the other?

Cupping Debbie’s cheek, Preacher ran the pad of his thumb over her lips. She stared up at him in a way that made him think that when his mother had told him Debbie was halfway in love with him, she hadn’t been exaggerating.

It was a responsibility he wasn’t quite sure he wanted and made him feel more than just a little uneasy. He could hardly fend for himself these days, let alone someone else.

But even as he thought it, it wasn’t enough of a concern to deter his baser wants or to distract from the way he felt when he looked at her. 

“Who are you?” he muttered. Then he kissed her, not bothering to wait for an answer.

If she didn’t want to fuck, they didn’t have to fuck. But Preacher still wanted his hands on her—blue balls be damned.