Chapter 22

The Four Points farmers’ market was small but plentiful, with rows of tables piled high with baskets full of seasonal fruits and vegetables—apples, peaches, and raspberries, as well as corn, beans, beets, and more. The veritable rainbow of colors reminded Debbie of the local farmers’ market back home—a much larger market that had been open all year round. She’d wasted entire days wandering the market, happily lost among the feast of colors and smells.

And today was no different. Debbie strolled through the aisles, breathing in the crisp, fresh scents, returning the smiles of the men and women selling them. She took extra inhales when she came across a table laden with sugary baked goods and large loaves of fresh bread.

A short ways down the aisle, Debbie paused beside a table covered in short stacks of used books and ran a finger over a coverless copy of Anna Karenina, the book stained and torn. She found herself unexpectedly frowning—a frown that had nothing to do with the tragic love story beneath her fingertips and everything to do with Preacher.

Last night had been… confusing at first. They’d been kissing, and that had felt amazing. And Preacher had been touching her, and she’d been touching him, and that had also felt amazing.

But then something unexpected had happened. Something ugly had wormed its way inside her happy haze. Only this time it hadn’t been her past to darken her thoughts and fill her with unease. It had been her future.

Debbie hadn’t ever factored someone like Preacher into her life. She especially hadn’t considered all the feelings that had come with him. Turbulent, foreign feelings. Excitement and panic, sometimes to the point of fear. She felt as if her world had been rocked and then set on fire, but instead of burning her, the flames licking up and down her skin had left her soft and warm and utterly consumed.  

I love him.

Those three words banged through her head like a gong, jarring and irrefutable. And completely ridiculous. She knew it was silly, and yet everything she was feeling told her otherwise. And what she was feeling? Oh my God. It was twice what she’d felt for him yesterday and triple the day before that. And she felt oddly hopeful, too. Hopeful in a way that made her chest ache. Hopeful in a way that scared her.

It had to be love.

What else could it be?

Moving away from the books, Debbie stopped in front of a table covered in large wicker baskets overflowing with large green apples. Allowing her backpack to slide down her arm, she casually flipped the top flap open. Leaning far over the table, pretending to browse the selection of apples, she covertly rolled one straight off the top of the pile and into her bag. She did this several more times before finally selecting an apple to pay for.

Biting into the fruit, Debbie glanced over her shoulder and found Preacher where she’d left him—leaning against a wooden pillar just outside the market, hands shoved inside his jeans pockets. Wearing head to toe black, his dark hair was pulled tightly away from his face, giving his already stone-hewn features even more of an edge. Beside him, Tiny was talking animatedly, oblivious that Preacher’s attention was elsewhere.

Having just witnessed her shoplifting, Preacher was smirking as he pushed away from the pillar. Taking another bite of her apple, Debbie watched him approach, and by the time she swallowed, he was beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his head bent to hers. She breathed in deeply, smelling leather and smoke—and since he’d showered this morning, faint hints of soap.

“Can’t believe you’re stealin’ apples from a little old lady.”

Debbie motioned him closer. Their faces almost touching, she whispered, “If you feel so bad about it, you could always pay her for them.”

While Preacher was staring at her mouth, Debbie reached around him, slipped her hand inside the back pocket of his jeans and pulled his wallet free. He realized what she was doing at the last second, quickly straightened, and snatched her wrist.

Grinning, he plucked his wallet from her hand and stuffed it back in his pocket. “You tryin’ to turn me on, Wheels?”

Debbie didn’t know what she was doing, exactly. She was just reacting to Preacher and how he made her feel.

“’Cause it’s workin’,” he continued quietly, and Debbie watched the humor in his expression fade, his features tighten, and his eyes begin to burn. It was a look that, each time she saw it, left her feeling twice as desperate as the last time. Hot and needy, too. And Beautiful. Debbie felt beautiful for the first time in her life.

Beautiful not just because of the way Preacher looked at her, but because of the way he kissed and touched her, too—like he couldn’t get enough. And beautiful because, despite what hadn’t happened between them last night, Debbie had woken this morning and found herself tucked against his side, her cheek resting on his chest and his arm wrapped tightly around her middle.

Preacher tugged her closer and slapped his hand down on her ass. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, Wheels,” he murmured, “and that little old lady is gonna get a show.”

Bursts of awareness zinged through Debbie. Awareness of Preacher’s proximity, the location of his hand, the way he couldn’t ever seem to keep his eyes off her mouth. Her breaths grew shallow and her heart began to race. The rapidly rising heat inside of her reached volcanic levels.

“Quit eye-fuckin’ your girl, VP, and get your ass on your bike.”  Knuckles appeared beside them, glancing between them and grinning slyly.

Cursing, Preacher shoved him backward and started advancing on him. Laughing, Knuckles nearly tripped over his own feet as he tried to scramble away.

“What was that, asshole?” Preacher demanded, his good-natured grin belying his tone. “You think I’m gonna let some scrawny little shitstain from the goddamn neighborhood talk to me like that?”

Knuckles made it to the edge of the parking lot just before Preacher tackled him. Both men lurched forward, lost their balance, and went toppling over one another into the dirt.

“I ain’t scrawny no more!” Knuckles shouted. “Like my shirt says—pussy builds strong bones!”

“I second that, brother!” Crazy-8 called out. “Pussy gets me growin’ every damn time!”

While the elderly woman selling apples looked on in horror, laughter erupted from the Silver Demons.

Shouldering her backpack, Debbie hurried to join the rest of the group in the parking lot. Standing beside Gerald and Ginny’s van, Smokey turned to Debbie with a rare smile on his face. He was quite handsome for an older man, she decided, when he didn’t look like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Ginny tells me we’ve got you to thank for this.” Smokey nodded toward Preacher and Knuckles.

Her forehead wrinkled. “Me?”

“Little Ginny said Preacher didn’t want you headin’ into the city not knowin’ no one. So he brought you here to introduce you to his family—to all of us.”

Debbie’s heart skipped a beat. Preacher had… what?

“You see, we didn’t know where he was,” Smokey continued. “Didn’t know if he was dead or alive or what, ‘til now. You brought ‘im back to us, and now we’re in your debt. You ever need somethin’, sweetheart, you come talk to me. I’ll make it happen.”

Speechless, Debbie could only nod, and Smokey turned his happy gaze back to Knuckles and Preacher. Both men were on their feet now, covered in dust and playfully shoving one another. A smear of dirt on his cheek, grass stuck in his hair, Preacher’s eyes locked with hers.

Flushing from head to toe, Debbie took a bite of her apple.

And those three silly words continued to beat an undeniable rhythm inside of her.

• • •

Much like the park, the local movie theater was chock-full of bikers and their families, and as their own large group made its way to the ticket counter, Debbie couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the nervous expressions of the townspeople and theater workers. If only they knew how sweet these men really were, how caring and giving too.

At the same time, she enjoyed the adverse reactions. She liked it when others averted their gazes or swallowed nervously as they passed. Beneath Preacher’s arm, tucked against his side, she felt safe and protected in ways she’d never felt before—powerful feelings for someone who’d spent years living in fear.

Inside the screening room, Preacher broke away from their group and led Debbie to the back of the theater to the very last row, where there were less people, and very little light.

Preacher took the aisle seat, and as Debbie edged past, he grabbed her hips and tugged her onto his lap. Quickly divesting her of her backpack, he captured her mouth in a kiss.

They kissed slowly at first—deliberate, leisurely strokes of Preacher’s tongue, so slow, so perfect, and Debbie sighed into his mouth. She forgot entirely about the movie, forgot she was even in a movie theater. She forgot about everything but the lips moving hungrily over hers and the hands quietly roaming her stomach and hips.

Their kisses sped up—quick, hungry kisses in rapid succession—and Debbie felt Preacher grow hard beneath her. She started to squirm, the thick, firm feel of him beneath her causing a now-familiar ache to flare to life between her thighs.

Growling softly, Preacher wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her still. She attempted pulling away to complain, only he captured her cheek and held her in place.

Soon Debbie’s kisses became distracted and messy. These feelings—the needy, pulsating knot low in her belly and the insatiable ache between her thighs—were all she could focus on. She wanted… no, she needed to be touched.

But Preacher seemed made of stone—the hand on her cheek remained firm, and the band of steel wrapped around her middle flexed and tightened.

It took all of Debbie’s strength to pry his hand from her side. Frustrated and aching, she shoved it down between her legs.

As if he’d been waiting for this moment, Preacher promptly broke their kiss and spread his legs apart, unceremoniously dropping Debbie between them.

The disruption gave Debbie a brief glimpse of reality—the movie had begun. Playing overhead, the bright screen highlighted the room full of people. Her cheeks heated, flushing with embarrassment, only to quickly realize that no one was paying them any attention. And that the people nearby were other couples engaged in the same sort of activities.

Then Preacher’s mouth found her neck and his arm snaked around her middle, gripping her tightly. Situating one of her legs over his, he tugged open her jeans.

Debbie’s breathing hitched, all other thoughts instantly forgotten.

His hand slid slowly down her midriff, the feel of his calloused palm against her smooth stomach causing delicious friction that sent a shiver spiraling through her.

His hand disappeared inside her jeans.

Her breath shuddered free, and Debbie sank back against Preacher and gripped his arm, her nails biting crescent moons into his skin.

This was… he was… oh my God.

Eyes rolling back, lids fluttering furiously, she was nothing more than a rolling boil of sensation, waves of heat rising and falling, but never quite cresting.

Afraid of making a sound, Debbie pressed her lips together tightly and turned her head. Preacher glanced down, his eyes dark, his expression hard, determined. Their eyes locked and her lips parted, dragging in a staggered breath.

And suddenly everything inside of her lit up all at once, her body drew up tight, and then… exploded.

Debbie sagged sideways, boneless and breathing hard, little more than a quivering bag of jelly.

Looking up, she found Preacher staring at her, his eyes half-lidded, his nostrils flaring wide with each heavy, hungry breath he took.

Her hand moved of its own accord, cupping his cheek, her fingers twining through his beard. Arching her back, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him gently on the lips. A soft rumble in his throat, he covered her mouth with his and deepened their kiss.

Yes, she loved him.

• • •

Holding tightly to Debbie’s hand, Preacher veered quickly through the river of people leaving the theater. He wanted to get back to the park as soon as humanly possible. Back to camp, back inside his tent, and back inside—

He glanced at Debbie. Her bottom lip tucked beneath her teeth, her concentration was on the crowd ahead of them. His gaze traveled the rest of her, over all the places he wished he were still touching.

Her tank top was thin, she wasn’t wearing a bra, and the night breeze that greeted them as they exited the theater was just cool enough for her nipples to stand up and take notice. Her high-waisted jeans were snug on her hips and thighs, emphasizing the curves Preacher liked best, but also baggy around her calves and feet, hiding her sneakers. She was both sexy and adorable and damn near perfect.

The following surge in his jeans was a visceral reaction, but it was more than just that. Preacher felt invigorated, and much younger than he had only a week ago. He wanted something again. He was looking forward to something instead of dreading it.

It had grown dark during the movie, the only remaining light emanating from the streetlamps, the brightly lit storefronts, and the full moon hanging low and fat in the distance. A short ways down the street, Preacher spotted half of their group congregated around their motorcycles. The van was gone, meaning the others had already left.

“How’d you like the movie, Wheels?” he asked, glancing down at her. Still biting down on her lip, Debbie fought to contain a smile.

Laughing, Preacher released her hand and slung his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “It was good, right?” he teased. “My favorite part was when that guy did that thing. You know what I’m talkin’ about, right? That thing?”

Truth be told, Preacher had very little idea what the movie had been about. He’d only managed to catch bits and pieces here and there when he hadn’t been preoccupied with Debbie—which hadn’t been all that often.

Debbie’s blush deepened.

 “What?” he asked, “you didn’t like that part? Wheels, come on! That was the best fuckin’ part!”

Bursting into giggles, Debbie turned and buried her face in his chest. Laughing loudly, Preacher squeezed her even tighter.

“Bunch of fuckin’ slowpokes!” Knuckles called out. “Whaddya do—stick around for the cleanin’ crew or somethin’?” Leaning against his motorcycle, Knuckles twirled a pair of women’s pink panties on his finger.

Eyes wide and mocking, Preacher pointed. “Man, you forgot to put your underwear on!”

Seated on their bikes close by, Smokey and Jim began to snicker.

Knuckles stopped twirling and grinned. “Brother, I’m just workin’ out my pussy finger for the next lucky lady.”

Draped over Jim’s back, Anne rolled her eyes and groaned. “Only one finger, huh? I’m guessin’ you’ve left a lot of ladies feeling pretty unlucky.”

“I only need one.” Waggling his eyebrows, Knuckles flipped Anne off. “I got fat fingers, baby.”

“And I’ll break every single last one of ‘em, if you ever talk to my ol’ lady like that again,” Jim growled.

Behind Jim, wearing a self-satisfied smirk, Anne stuck her tongue out at Knuckles.

His expression contrite, Knuckles folded his arms across his chest and muttered, “She fuckin’ started it.”

Smokey released a world-weary sigh. “Christ, kid. You sound like a broken record. Tits and pussy. Tits and pussy. You know there’s more to life, right?”

Knuckles whirled on Smokey, his mouth hanging open. “Did you see that chick?” he demanded.

“How could I not?” Smokey’s expression was as dry as his tone. “Hard to watch a movie when I got a goddamn ass bouncin’ in my face.”

Knuckles continued to look horrified. “Fuckin’-A, that was a piece of ass worth lookin’ at!” He mimed smacking a woman’s backside.

“You’ve seen one ass, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

“Man, what happened to you? You’re, like, asexual or somethin’ now?”

Amused, Preacher glanced between the two men. Smokey wasn’t asexual; he was just a man who’d loved his wife and lost her. Growing up, Preacher couldn’t remember a time when Maryanne hadn’t been sick. As a diabetic, she’d slowly grown thinner, frailer, until her body eventually succumbed.

Before Maryanne’s passing, Smokey had been a different man. He’d had a sense of humor, was hardly ever seen without a drink in his hand, and had often indulged in other women. He’d been a lot like Knuckles, actually. It wasn’t until after Maryanne’s death that Smokey had done a one-eighty in the personality department. Full of guilt and grief, the club’s business became his sole focus.

Knuckles didn’t understand this yet, how something could change a man so drastically. Truth be told, just two years earlier, neither had Preacher.

Just then, a police car flew past at top speed, lights blazing, sirens wailing, turning everyone’s attention to the street. The response of the several dozen bikers still milling around was to thrust their fists in the air, shouting slurs and obscenities.

“Something’s goin’ on at the park,” Jim said. “That ain’t the first pig to blow by here.”

Knuckles faked a yawn. “It’s the same old shit every year. Last summer some dumb shit drank himself to death. Bunch of kids found him floatin’ face down in the swimmin’ hole, buck-ass naked, and the cops sent us all packin’. You ask me, they’re just lookin’ for an excuse to kick us out.”

Preacher raised an eyebrow. When you put a large number of out-of-control people in a space together, it wasn’t uncommon for things to get, well, out of control. Tempers flared and fights broke out. People drank too much booze, smoked too much grass, and then some dumbass kid goes and accidentally fucks the wife of a Hercules-sized bastard with a rare knife collection. Not that Preacher knew anything at all about that.

Smokey started his bike, revving his engine. “Whatever it is, it ain’t got shit to do with us.” He looked to Preacher and jerked his chin toward the road. “Come on VP, take your place up front and lead us back.”

Jim revved his engine and Knuckles followed suit—all eyes were on him.

Preacher’s neck muscles stiffened and began to ache, and his chest felt suddenly too tight. Smokey had been appointed temporary vice president while he’d been locked up. Now it appeared as if the man was handing him back his title.

Only he didn’t want it. More, he didn’t deserve it. A man like Smokey was far more qualified, and infinitely more deserving than he would ever be. Unlike Preacher, Smokey was loyal to both the club and The Judge and would never have abandoned either.

As he reached for his neck, Debbie stepped out from under his arm, plucked his helmet from his bike and placed it on her head. Fumbling with the chin strap, she offered him a small, encouraging smile that he found himself returning.

Mounting his motorcycle, Preacher waited for Debbie to climb on behind him before starting the engine. Her hands on his shoulders, she scooted quickly up the seat until her body was flush against his. Wrapping her arms around his middle, she slid her hands over his stomach, her fingertips pressing possessively into his skin.

It was a small, seemingly insignificant thing that Preacher might never have noticed had he not had the misfortune of having had very little human contact for two full years. And what contact he did have had been the glaring opposite of pleasurable.

But this—an unconscious gesture from his pretty-little-pickpocket, laying claim to him, telling him in no uncertain terms that she most definitely wanted him—filled Preacher with something he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. If ever. And almost instantly the pain in his neck began to ease.

Preacher covered her hands with one of his, and Debbie squeezed him tighter. His chest loosened and he blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Five minutes later they were heading down the road, with Preacher riding point.