Chapter 24

Debbie took one last look around the quiet motel room as she shouldered her backpack. Sylvia lay in bed, holding her swollen stomach, and Anne curled up beside her. Neither woman had spoken in hours. Expressionless, Sylvia simply stared at the wall, while Anne cried softly.

The grief in the room was evident, and Debbie didn’t know these women well enough to know what to do or say to help them. She figured leaving them to one another was the best thing she could do for them.

Quietly pushing open the door, she slipped outside. It was early morning, though the sun was nowhere to be found, and a heavy fog had settled over the surrounding area.

She couldn’t recall which town they were in, only that the motel they’d been directed to stay at was only three miles from the county sheriff’s department—where all the men currently were. The women had been dropped at the motel, with the exception of June, who’d been taken to a hospital in a fire truck, and Louisa, who’d requested to stay with her.

Debbie sucked in another heavy breath. She still couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Doc was dead. Ginny and Gerald were dead. And yet she’d seen them just yesterday. Gerald had been manning the grill, cooking up the hot dogs and hamburgers that Ginny was dishing out. All three had been alive and well when their group had left the park, only to return to find them… gone.

No, not gone. Murdered.

God, it all felt so surreal. Like a dream, or rather, a nightmare. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how the others were feeling. More specifically, how Preacher was feeling.

Debbie sank down onto the curb, feeling utterly bewildered and helpless. The last time she’d seen Preacher he’d been frighteningly out of control, thrashing violently against the four police officers who’d been dragging him through the park. It had taken the officers nearly fifteen minutes and sheer brute strength to force him inside the back of a police car. Joe, who’d been equally enraged, had received similar treatment. And everyone else had been quickly gathered and given instructions to follow the police back to the station.

“Debbie,” she had informed the questioning officer, her voice shaking. “Deborah Reynolds. I’m—I’m Preacher’s, um, I’m Damon’s girl.”

Other than her name, the police had asked her where she’d been that day and who she’d been with, and then she’d been dismissed. Eventually Jim had been instructed to bring the women here.

Her arms wrapped around her shins, Debbie rested her head on her knees and stared off into the fog. She was well past exhausted and yet unable to sleep. Her worry for Preacher’s wellbeing was too pressing, and dominating all her other thoughts.

All except for one.

Her eyes squeezed closed and her arms tightened around her legs. Was it selfish to hope Preacher wouldn’t send her away? That he would still want her around? She swallowed thickly. Of course it was selfish. Self-absorbed and utterly contemptible.

Still, she continued to hope.

The sound of an engine eventually roused her, and Debbie blinked back the gathering sleep in her eyes as a familiar blue van pulled into the parking lot. A state police car followed closely behind the van, two officers inside. While the van pulled up to the building, the police remained across the lot.

One by one the Silver Demons climbed out of the van, each man looking some variation of strung out and bleak. Nobody paid her much attention as they trudged past her and entered the room. She paid them little mind as well, her sole focus on the van. The last to exit, Preacher’s long legs preceded him. His boots hit the ground hard, and when he turned, lifting his head, Debbie both flinched and cursed.

Dark bags ringed his bloodshot eyes. His left cheek was swollen and mottled with blue and purple bruises. His bottom lip had been split down the center.

Shoulders drooping, sagging with exhaustion, Preacher dropped down beside Debbie with a pained groan. Panic rose inside her as she wondered what she should say. Nothing she came up with sounded right, or nearly enough.

“Just the one room?” he asked. His voice was rough as if he’d spent the last several hours shouting.

“Two. And mine.” Debbie dug a key out of her jeans pocket and showed it to him. Jim had paid for two motel rooms before leaving with the van, after which she’d taken the initiative to purchase a third room with her own money.

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” she finished softly.

Preacher slumped forward on his knees, and his eyes found hers. Seeing the suffering look on his face, her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Instinctively she wanted to reach out and touch him, and instead closed her hand tightly around the key, squeezing to the point of pain.

“Preacher.” His name was a hoarse whisper on her lips. “I… I…” She trailed off, and her eyes filled with tears. Quickly glancing away, she silently cursed herself.

Debbie jerked when Preacher unexpectedly placed his hand over hers and gently pried open her fingers. Taking the key, he glanced over his shoulder. “Lemme tell them where we’ll be.”

Minutes later, inside Debbie’s room, Preacher fell back against the door and stared across the room as if he were drugged, looking like he might topple over at any moment.

Debbie set her backpack on the floor and took a hesitant seat on a bed. She stared at Preacher, tears still burning in her eyes, and at a loss for how to help him.

“Doc was alive.”  Preacher’s eyes blinked furiously, and his voice was brittle and weak. “A woman found him crawlin’ across the campsite, bleedin’, tryin’ to talk. She ran for help, but—”

He shook his head, let out a hoarse sigh, and slid down the door all the way to the floor “He was gone by the time the park rangers got to him.”

Debbie continued to watch him, desperately wanting to touch him, hold him, comfort him in any way she could. Second-guessing herself every other second, and unsure of what he needed, she remained where she was, with her fists clenched tightly in her lap.

“Nobody saw anything,” he continued. “Nobody saw anything, and no one knows jack shit.” Preacher’s head lolled back and rolled across the door. Their gazes collided. “How’s that work? A whole fuckin’ park full of people and no one saw a goddamn thing?”

“I’m sorry,” Debbie whispered, and instantly wished her words back. Cringing, she closed her eyes. What was she thinking? I’m sorry wasn’t good enough. I’m sorry was useless and trivial. People apologized when they spilled a drink or cut in line—not when someone’s parents were murdered. Feeling wetness on her cheek, Debbie swiped her hand quickly across her face, wiping away the tears she had no right to cry.

When she opened her eyes again, Preacher was still staring at her. Just staring and breathing—harsh, ragged breaths that sounded as if his lungs were crumbling.

“I can’t get it to stick,” he croaked. “Every time I try to think it, it doesn’t make sense. It won’t stick.”

He looked away, his haunted gaze finding a blank wall. “They’re gone. But how the fuck can they be gone? I just saw ‘em—how can they be gone?”

Filled with grief for Preacher, Debbie had to fight to keep from sobbing.

“How’s that work exactly?” he shouted, and shot to his feet. “They were there, right fuckin’ there when we left, and now they’re just gone?”

Ashen-faced, his hands running violently through his hair, Preacher glanced aimlessly around the room. “How’s that fuckin’ work?” he demanded.

He turned and faced Debbie, desperation and agony further distorting his bruised and swollen features. And her heart wrenched at the sight of him.

Debbie stood and stepped slowly toward him. She didn’t have any idea what she was going to say or do once she reached him; she only knew that she needed to reach him.

Preacher watched her approach, glancing from her face to the hand she was offering him when suddenly an anguished groan flew past his lips and he spun away, sending his fist barreling into the wall closest to him.

Debbie scrambled backward, her hand flying to her mouth, while Preacher continued to punch the wall. And then proceeded to tear the room apart.

When he reached her, a trail of destruction behind him, his chest heaving with heavy, labored breaths, blood gushing from his shredded knuckles, Debbie thought he might tear her apart, too.

Instead, he collapsed at her feet.

Debbie dropped down beside him and threw her arms around his neck. Half expecting him to push her away, she was surprised when he pulled her into his lap instead, buried his face in her neck, and began to cry.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered frantically. “Oh God, Preacher, I’m so sorry.”

She curled her legs around his back, her arms around his quaking shoulders, and just held him as tightly as she could.

• • •

Preacher jolted awake. His head was pounding, throbbing in time to the beat of the heavy-handed knock at the door.

Sluggish and blurry-eyed, he untangled himself from Debbie and swung his legs out of bed. The movement caused the pressure and pain in his head to worsen and he spent several seconds only kneading his forehead with the heel of his palms. Everything hurt. His hands hurt. His face hurt. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt.

Another round of knocking echoed through the motel room.

Cursing, Preacher shot to his feet, then cursed again when the pain in his head tripled.

“I’m coming!” he ground out and stalked quickly across the room. He threw open the door and found Joe, his fist hanging in mid-air. His eyes were bloodshot, puffy, and ringed in red. His usually tan skin was a sickly shade of pale.

Seeing Preacher, Joe shoved his hands into his pockets. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

 “How’s your face?” Joe’s gaze dropped to Preacher’s blood-encrusted hands and his eyes narrowed. Peering around Preacher inside the destroyed motel room, Joe’s eyes widened. “Shit, man. That’s gonna cost us a fortune.”

Leaning back against the doorjamb, Preacher looked past his brother. “Yeah.”

“We gotta be back at the sheriff’s office in a few hours.”

They both glanced to where the police cruiser was parked. They’d been told the extra company was for their protection, but they knew bullshit when they saw it. The law was here to ensure the Silver Demons stayed put.

“You gotta control yourself.”

“Yeah.”

“Ain’t gonna be long before the Feds get wind.”

Preacher nodded in agreement. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out that the Federal Bureau of Investigation was already on their way. According to the law, the Silver Demons were considered a gang. But they weren’t just any gang; they were a gang with ties to a well-known east coast crime syndicate. Because of that working relationship, the Feds had been breathing down their necks for quite a while.

So far they’d been unsuccessful at proving the Silver Demons’ affiliation with the mob and their attempts to infiltrate the club. Desperate, they’d since resorted to picking off individual members. Preacher had been the third Silver Demon to be locked up for a low-level crime as part of the FBI’s continued attempts to break them down.

“How’s Max?” Preacher eventually asked. Yesterday Max had been inconsolable. He’d cried for hours, bordering on hysteria until out of nowhere he’d shut down. He’d stopped crying. He’d stopped speaking, too. He’d just sat there, his limp, unfocused gaze staring off at nothing.

“He’s sleepin’ now.” Joe ran a shaking hand through his hair. “You know he’s got another year of school left?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Preacher muttered.

Joe began to turn, then paused. “Hey, uh, do you think this was Reaper…” He trailed off, his throat noticeably bobbing.

Preacher gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, refusing to succumb to his rising emotions. He was well aware of what had transpired yesterday. Doc was gone. His parents were… gone. But for sanity’s sake, he couldn’t quite bring himself to think about the finality of it and hope to remain in any sort of control of himself. The mess he’d made in the motel room was proof enough of the edge he was teetering on.

Even now he felt precariously close to slipping into the black abyss that beckoned. And he knew that if he slipped, he wouldn’t be crawling back out anytime soon.

“No,” Preacher rasped. Clearing his throat, he straightened and forced himself to face his brother. “Reaper ain’t that stupid.”

Reaper West was a lunatic, but Preacher was positive he wasn’t so insane as to exact a hit that would undoubtedly have the police looking his way. In fact, Preacher didn’t think it was a rival club hit at all. It certainly didn’t feel like one. The police, while questioning him, had revealed several particularly gruesome details that led him to believe this had been the mob’s doing.

At the moment a mob hit was the only scenario that made any sense. The mob liked to deliver a message in the goriest way possible, and the mob certainly didn’t have any qualms about taking out innocent family members.

His mother’s face crept into his thoughts and Preacher nearly choked. Clenching his fists, he forced her away. He couldn’t do this here. Right now he had to keep his shit together.

“You think the Rossis did this, don’t you?” Joe pressed his fingertips over his eyes and scrubbed. His already bloodshot eyes grew even redder.

“I don’t know,” Preacher admitted. “But I’m gonna find out. Did Dad mention somethin’? Was he havin’ trouble with anyone?”

“Not that I know of…you know how dad is with those guys. Everyone fuckin’ loves him.”

Yeah, everyone had loved The Judge. Respected him and looked up to him, too. Everyone except Preacher. More things to add to the list of stomach-turning things he couldn’t think about right now.

Preacher?”

“What?”

“You’re comin’ home, right? Because I can’t—I can’t—” Joe took a breath and tried again. “I can’t do this by myself.”

Though Joe’s voice was deep and gruff, that of a grown man, his shaky timbre reminded Preacher of when they were kids. Scared of thunderstorms, Joe would climb into bed with him when it rained and whisper timidly, “Make it stop.” And he would cover Joe’s ears with his hands, blocking out the noise until Joe was calm enough to fall asleep.

Nostrils flaring, eyes burning, Preacher nodded jerkily. “I’m comin’ home.”

Watching Joe walk away, Preacher wished it was that simple now. That he could just cover Joe’s ears and make it all just fucking stop.

Closing the door behind him, Preacher locked it and then spent several moments just staring at it, noticing every crack, every scuff and scratch. He ran a finger over a particularly long fissure in the paint, feeling the weight of everything that had just been laid at his feet.

His new reality.

The one in which Max would continue to cry for a mother he’d never see again. Where Joe no longer had a father to push him to do better, to be better. The reality where an entire club had just had their footing ripped out from under them, all their tethers sent scattering in the wind.

All they had now was… him.

Preacher knew what he needed to do—what his father would expect of him. He needed to pick up the burden at his feet and place it squarely on his shoulders. Only how? How did he—someone who couldn’t get his own shit together—take on the responsibility of everyone?

“Preacher?”

Turning, Preacher’s eyes roamed the destroyed room before coming to rest on Debbie. Sitting up in bed, she was wearing only a tank top and her underwear. She stared back at him, her brow furrowed with concern.

Again he glanced around at his destruction. Then down at his swollen hands, covered in dried blood. Blood, just like the blood smeared on the trailer door. Had it been his father’s blood or his mother’s?

His stomach heaved, and Preacher scrubbed a hand down his face—a failed attempt to scrub the image from his mind.

“I’m gonna go clean up.” Refusing to look at Debbie, he headed to the bathroom.

Turning on the shower, Preacher quickly divested himself of his shirt and jeans and stepped inside.  Bowing his head, he watched the water circling the drain turn pink from his blood. Blood, like the smear of blood on the trailer door. He squeezed his eyes shut, only to see it all again.

June on her hands and knees. Joe, red in the face, and shouting. The blood smeared on the door. Max running across the campsite. One after the other, as if someone was rapidly changing the channel in his mind, he flicked through the collection of unnerving images.

He opened his eyes, and the images evaporated.

Jesus Christ. He couldn’t do this.

Cursing, Preacher grabbed hold of the shower curtain and tore it open. Debbie stood in the center of the bathroom, still wearing the same concerned look on her face. “I was… worried about you,” she stammered.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say. To anyone. And neither did he know what to do—for anyone.

“You’re bleeding again.” Debbie hurried forward and he let her take his hand. Fresh blood welled at his knuckles and dripped onto the bathroom floor. Onto her hands. Onto her bare feet. Blood—there was fucking blood everywhere.

“Some of these are really deep. You need to wrap them.”

Preacher only stared back at Debbie, wondering what the hell she was still doing here with him and this god-awful mess, and yet thankful that she was. He couldn’t bear to be around the others, couldn’t face another second of witnessing the devastation in their faces… but neither did he want to be alone.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, taking his hand back and turning away. Although his wounds throbbed angrily, the pain was insignificant compared to the storm raining down chaos and destruction inside of him.

Had they died quickly? The thought of his mother suffering was too much for him, and he slapped his forehead against the shower wall. Then again, harder. And again, harder still, wishing that his skull were an eggshell and easy to shatter. Easy to discard.

Preacher stilled when he felt a brush of soft skin against his leg. A hand touched his back, and tentative fingers trailed up his spine.

“Preacher,” Debbie whispered. “Preacher, look at me.”

He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t even breathe. If he breathed, he was going to lose it.

“I don’t know what to do. But I want to help. Just tell me what to do. Tell me what you need.”

When he didn’t respond, she continued. “I lost my dad when I was little. He was killed in a car accident and I—”

White noise exploded in Preacher’s mind and he turned, grabbed hold of Debbie and pulled her beneath the water. Unable to speak for fear that he’d lose his feeble grasp on control, he only shook his head tightly.

Wide-eyed, she lifted her shaking hands to his face and laid them gently on his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed. “So sorry.”

She stroked his cheeks, his forehead, and tucked his wet hair back behind his ears. Then she rose up on her tiptoes, draped her arms around his neck, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his lips, his nose. Preacher let out a shuddering, ragged breath, and found himself leaning into her.

She was naked, he realized once they were pressed against one another.

Preacher’s hands slid up her back, and she continued to kiss him. Soft, gentle kisses, as if she were afraid he might break.

The next kiss Debbie placed on his lips, Preacher returned. He kissed her painstakingly slow with long, deep, lingering strokes of his tongue. One hand cupping her jaw, the other slid down the side of her body. And as his mental machinations slid swiftly into a different gear, his body hardened.

Pushing Debbie up against the wall, Preacher lifted her leg and wrapped it around his hip. Lifting her, he used his body to hold hers to the wall and positioned himself between her thighs.

Debbie’s eyes found his. Her pupils dilated. Her breaths sped up. Her breasts heaved with the rapid rise and fall of her chest. And Preacher resented her—he envied the single-minded need shining in her eyes.

He wanted that.

He wanted to not think about all that would be coming next.

He wanted to not see the smear of blood on the trailer door.

He wanted not to hear his brother screaming for their mother.

He wanted not to feel the shock, and the fear, and the pain.

Jesus Christ, he wanted just a moment even, just one single fucking moment, to be free of all of it.

Preacher slammed his hips forward and Debbie cried out. He pulled back, the tight, slick feel of her clenching around him tearing a groan from his throat. He thrust again, harder, and Debbie’s answering cry echoed throughout the room.

He thrust again; she cried out again—a harsh, frantic sound, as hungry as the nails scouring his back.

Thrust, cry. Thrust, cry. Thrust, cry.

Hard and fast, Preacher fucked himself into oblivion. Skin-slapping strokes and a primal chorus of guttural groans, desperate cries, and breathless pants were the soundtrack to his manufactured bliss.

His mind was nearly blank, focused only on the body he was pressed against—soft in all the right places, firm in all the right places, and how he felt sheathed inside her—a warm, wet sanctuary where he could hide from everything that was coming.

Because he knew.

He knew what sort of hell lay in wait for him outside of her body. Outside of this room.

The kind that there was no coming back from.