Chapter 27

“More cookies, please?”

Tiny fingers beckoned Debbie from just below the edge of the countertop. Leaning over, she found a pair of dark eyes framed in long, thick lashes blinking up at her from beneath a messy mop of brown hair.

“Frankie,” she cooed, grinning at the toddler. She crooked her finger. “Come here, you.”

Little legs, thick with baby fat, wobbled around the kitchen counter. Scooping Frankie into her arms, Debbie set him down on the countertop. After a quick glance toward the hall, ensuring no one would catch her, she slipped her hand inside a large metal tin and handed Frankie another cookie, which he promptly put in his mouth.

“Good?” she asked, ruffling his hair. Frankie smiled around a mouthful of cookie. Eyes wide, he nodded vigorously.

“Aw, Debbie!” Storming into the kitchen, Sylvia sent Debbie a scathing look. “Those are for the church potluck tomorrow!”

Balancing her son Trey on her hip, Sylvia began checking through the numerous tins full of goodies she’d spent the entire weekend preparing. “God bless Ginny and this giant kitchen. Or thanks to you two, I wouldn’t have any cookies left!”

The clubhouse kitchen was spacious, with ample counter space, wall-to-wall cupboards, and every appliance under the sun. It was also oddly mismatching, with country wooden cupboards, green tiled walls, and a red linoleum floor. Ginny’s unique, colorful tastes had even extended to her kitchen.

“I could never do all this in my kitchen at home,” Sylvia continued. “You hear that, Joey? Can’t even cook a decent lasagna in that glorified closet you call a kitchen!”

Both Debbie and Frankie cringed as Sylvia’s voice turned shrill. Trey only opened his tiny mouth in a wide, toothless yawn.

“I swear that man is hidin’ from me,” she muttered. “Only time I ever see him anymore is when he’s crawling into bed at night wantin’ somethin’. He gets his rocks off and all I get is pregnant.”

Sylvia glanced sideways at Debbie. “Not that I need to tell you about that.”

Reflexively, Debbie’s hand went to her stomach. Whereas Sylvia was only two months pregnant and couldn’t stop talking about it, Debbie was nearly six months along and still having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that she was pregnant at all.

She didn’t want a baby. She was only seventeen and didn’t know the first thing about being a mother. She couldn’t even think about the birth or what would come after without feeling anxious and breaking out in a cold sweat. What if she was as horrible a mother as her own had been?

Debbie shuddered through her next few breaths. This pregnancy wasn’t fair to either of them—her or the baby growing inside her.

Worse, she was alone in her feelings. Preacher seemed… almost happy about it.

Maybe because it served as a distraction from the ugly things that often plagued his thoughts. Most nights Debbie would find him wide awake and pacing the hallway in their tiny apartment. Debbie would go to him, and Preacher would pull her into his arms. Eventually, his hands almost always ended up on her belly, and his entire expression would shift—the shadows would flee his face and his eyes would brighten.

They never spoke of what bothered them—Preacher didn’t talk of what kept him up at night and, not wanting to burden him further, Debbie kept her pregnancy fears to herself. They’d talk only about meaningless things—television sitcoms, whatever idiotic thing Tiny had done recently, and Debbie’s frequent outings with the girls.

For the first time in nearly two years, her hair was styled, cut into feathered layers, and enhanced by her natural waves. And her nails were done, painted a soft pink that matched the color of the flower studs in her ears. Her outfit today was simple yet fashionable—a white, long-sleeved peasant top paired with a beige corduroy skirt. Dark tights and knee-high boots completed the ensemble.

Flicking a cookie crumb off her skirt, she couldn’t help but smile. A year ago she never would have thought she’d be wearing clothing like this again. A year ago she’d never have imagined this was where she’d be—in New York City, in love with a man, and blessed with all the creature comforts she’d thought she’d lost forever.

And so Debbie took solace in how different things were now compared to a year ago. How incredibly lucky she was and, aside from her pregnancy, how good things were with Preacher.

“There you are!” Maria Deluva rushed inside the kitchen and gathered Frankie into her arms. “I was looking everywhere,” she lovingly admonished her son and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Maria was a small woman, slim and petite with olive skin and long jet-black hair, and one of the only people associated with the club that Debbie had yet to spend any real time with. Unlike the other wives and girlfriends, Maria was soft-spoken and reserved, and rarely made an appearance at the clubhouse. She was only here today because it was the first Saturday of the month, the one day each month that Preacher required everyone to gather for family day.

Even if Preacher himself wasn’t currently here.

Three weeks earlier, Preacher had left for business reasons. The last Debbie had heard from him was almost a week ago, promising her he would be home two days ago. She wasn’t worried yet; he often arrived later than he said he would. She simply missed him.

“More cookies, please.” From Maria’s arms, Frankie beckoned Debbie.

“How many have you had already?” Maria asked.

“Just two,” Debbie lied.

“One more?” Frankie asked, holding up four fingers. “Please, Mama?”

“Oh, alright,” Maria laughed. “Just one—”

“No more.”

Everyone froze as Frank’s booted feet pounded a heavy, authoritative cadence across the linoleum. He stopped beside Maria and placed a possessive arm over her shoulders. Maria seemed to stiffen further beneath him. Even little Frankie appeared eerily still. It was as if Frank’s presence had sucked the life straight from them both.

Frank wasn’t an overly large man, his stature was fairly similar to Preacher’s. But standing beside his wife and son, instead of giving the impression of a doting husband and father, he had the look of a king dominating his subjects.

Frank was an enigma Debbie hadn’t quite figured out yet. Although he dressed the part of a biker, he hardly looked like his fellow Silver Demons. His short hair was always neatly trimmed and perfectly styled, and his face was always clean-shaven. And unlike the other men, whose hands and clothing seemed forever stained with grease, Frank’s were always uncommonly free of grime.

“Ready to go?” Though Frank was addressing Maria, his calculating gaze was on Debbie. She often found him staring at her—his brown eyes so dark they appeared black. And each and every time it made her uncomfortable. Yet, Preacher considered Frank a good friend, so Debbie was inclined to keep her feelings to herself.

Maria nodded mutely, and as Frank led his family from the kitchen Maria glanced over her shoulder and flashed Debbie a small, wooden smile.

“Say goodbye to Debbie,” Maria encouraged Frankie.

Chocolate-covered fingers wiggled. “Bye-bye Debbie.”

She blew the little boy a kiss. “Bye-bye Frankie.”

Debbie remained inside the kitchen until she heard the front door open and close, signaling the Deluva’s departure. Moving into the hallway, she stopped suddenly when she found Joe dangling over the side of the stairwell railing.

“Debbie!” he whisper-shouted. “Where’s Sylvie?” His one eye darted nervously around the hallway.

Debbie only shrugged in response. She’d made a point to never get involved in Joe and Sylvia’s sham of a marriage. Grimacing, Joe spun away and darted up the stairs. Rolling her eyes, she continued on, pausing briefly to glance into the stairwell Joe had been hanging from.

The Silver Demons’ brownstone was an impressive five stories high, not including the rooftop patio and flower garden. The second-floor apartment was where Gerald, Ginny, and Max had lived, while the third and fourth floors contained rooms for the club members.

Max lived with Joe and Sylvia now, and Preacher had closed off the second-floor. As for Ginny’s flowers on the roof, Louisa and Debbie took turns tending to them as best they could.

Debbie entered the living room—a large space lined with couches and chairs in a variety of sizes and colors. Mismatched rugs covered the in-between areas. Large, colorful pop art prints from the 1950s and 1960s hung on nearly every wall. Near the back stairwell a bar area had been set up, and on the other side of the room sat a wall-to-wall entertainment center.

Today Louisa and Anne were huddled together at the bar, while Whiskey Jim was stretched out over one of the sofas, snoring loudly. Some Girls by the Rolling Stones was buzzing softly through the speakers while a Silver Demon named Bullet browsed the records.

 “What’s your pleasure today, Debbie darling?” Bullet called out. “We got Queen, we got the Doobie Brothers… we got some Aerosmith…”

“Blondie,” she replied with a smile. “Always Blondie.”

He flashed her a gleaming white grin that accentuated his dark brown skin. “’Course,” he drawled, “What was I thinkin’? I got your Blondie comin’ right up, little mama.”

Debbie headed for the bar and took a much-needed seat on one of the stools. Although her pregnant stomach was still measuring relatively small and had yet to become a bother, she was tired and sore almost all the time.

“Aw, honey,” Anne cooed. “You look exhausted. How’re ya feelin’?”

She shrugged. “I’m okay, I guess. Just wish Preacher was back.”

Sighing, Louisa frowned down at the drink in her hand. “They were supposed to be back days ago.”

“Preacher’ll be back soon, don’t you worry, honey.” Anne wrapped an arm around Louisa’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “Yours too, baby doll.

“I envy you both, though, you know?” Smiling mischievously, Anne tucked her long blonde hair behind her ears and leaned over the bar. “Jim’s gettin’ on in years, so he doesn’t go riding as much. But when he did…” Anne’s smile turned positively wicked. “Oh honey, the welcome home sex was some of the best I’ve ever had.”

Debbie and Louisa glanced to where Jim was still snoring on the sofa and started giggling. “Gross,” Louisa mouthed to Debbie and Debbie nodded vigorously in agreement.

“I saw that!” Anne snapped. “And all I gotta say is don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

“Speaking of gross…” Louisa’s eyes darted suspiciously around the room, and she lowered her voice. “Did Frank leave?”

 Debbie nodded. “A few minutes ago.”

Brows up, Louisa looked at Anne. “Did you get a load of Maria wearing that big ol’ neck scarf, lookin’ like Mary Tyler Moore?”

“Mmhmm, sure did.”

“He’s hitting her again. I just know it.”

Anne snorted. “Who are you kidding? He didn’t ever stop.”

“Hitting her?” Debbie repeated dumbly, her gaze darting between the two women. “Frank hits Maria?”

Louisa bobbed her head dramatically up and down. “Oh my God, Debbie, it’s so obvious. This one time last year she wore sunglasses all through dinner. Like we wouldn’t know what she was hiding underneath.”

Anne nudged Louisa. “And remember when I saw the bruises on her arm?” Facing Debbie, Anne said, “I accidentally walked in on her in the bathroom. And I’m talkin’, these weren’t no small bruises. Her whole arm was black and blue.”

Debbie’s hand went to her stomach. Thinking of Maria, how quiet she was, and the way she always shied away from Frank’s touch, made Debbie feel sick. “Does Preacher know?”

Anne shot her a disbelieving look. “Most men are oblivious to things like that. ‘Sides, it ain’t any of our business. It’s their marriage.”

Louisa nodded in agreement, and Debbie gaped at them both.

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it before—the painful secrets Maria was carrying around. Especially when she knew full well the burden of carrying around painful secrets. Debbie might have left the source of her pain on the other side of the country, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still with her. It would always be with her.

“Someone should tell Preacher,” she insisted.

“Honey, you know those two have been friends since forever, right? You tell Preacher and he says somethin’ to Frank and Frank gets angry, and then who do you think gets the short end of the stick, hmm?” Lips pursed and twisted, Anne regarded Debbie.

Debbie recalled the one and only time she had tried to tell her mother what was happening to her. It hadn’t gone well, and things had only gotten worse for her.

“Frank will take it out on Maria,” Debbie whispered.

Anne nodded gravely. “You see? That’s why we mind our own business. Now hand me the ashtray, will you?”

Sliding off her stool, Debbie reached down the bar and grabbed one of two glass ashtrays residing at the end. She slid one toward Anne, leaving the other where it had remained untouched since her arrival in New York City—with a half smoked clove cigarette still resting inside.

Debbie had hardly known Ginny and Gerald, but after spending half a year with their family and friends, she certainly felt like she’d known them. Ginny most of all.

Debby felt Ginny’s presence almost everywhere in the clubhouse—in the fun styles of the furniture and the colorful décor. Certain rooms even smelled like the clove cigarettes she’d loved.

“Alright, I’m heading home.” Debbie glanced around the room. “Anyone seen Tiny?”

Preacher insisted that Debbie have a round-the-clock bodyguard whenever he couldn’t be with her. Unfortunately for Debbie, her bodyguard was usually Tiny. Although he always meant well, the man was a public nuisance. He was loud, obnoxious, usually stinking to high heaven, and always drawing attention Debbie would rather not receive.

“Last I saw he was chillin’ out front,” Bullet called out. “Probably scammin’ on chicks.”

Anne choked on her laughter. “Unless he’s offerin’ money up front, that ain’t never gonna happen!”

• • •

Keys jingling in his hand, Preacher bounded up the poorly lit staircase that led to his fourth-floor apartment—a dinky, dingy one-bedroom. All his furniture were hand-me-downs from his parents, and his decorations were sparse—only the bare necessities.

It had been perfect for him—a minimalist who’d never spent much time at home—but with Debbie here now and a baby on the way, he’d been meaning to find a bigger, nicer place.

He just needed to find the time.

He’d been gone three weeks this time. And three weeks without Debbie was three weeks too long. If she wasn’t pregnant, he’d be taking her with him. Although… not on this last trip.

The Road Warriors had more than lived up to their reputation for sex and violence, and sometimes both at once. He’d watched them pass around their own women to fellow club members without reservation. He’d seen brother pitted against brother in bloody boxing matches that almost always ended in an all-out brawl.

He’d also witnessed something far worse.

While meeting with a group of Road Warriors inside a highway bar in West Virginia, a young woman had been forcefully dragged up onto a pool table, stripped naked, and raped. Nearly every Road Warrior in the place had taken a turn with her, sometimes two at a time.

Almost two weeks had passed since the incident, and Preacher could still hear her screams, could still see her thrashing on the pool table every time he closed his eyes.

The Judge, had he still been alive, would have stripped his patch for that—for standing idly by and allowing a woman to be raped on his watch. Hell, The Judge would have punched his lights out for even associating with men like the Road Warriors.

But The Judge was gone.

There was only Preacher now. And his vengeance.

Without any other leads, he’d convinced himself that the Rossi family had exacted the hit on his parents. Only he had no proof, and he couldn’t exactly go around accusing a well-known crime syndicate of murder and expect to keep his head attached to his body.

Instead, he’d decided to slowly rip the rug out from beneath the Rossis. And once the Silver Demons were free of them? Adios, you murdering mobster motherfuckers.

But to accomplish everything he had planned, Preacher was going to need a big show of muscle and a hell of a lot more manpower than he had.

When it came to ending the Rossi family, Preacher figured the end would justify the means. Thanks to the Road Warriors, he now had the means.

Television static and slobbery snores greeted Preacher as he entered his apartment. Finding Tiny passed out on the couch, snuggled up to a half-eaten box of cookies, he pried the box from his friend’s grip and switched off the television.

Inside his bedroom he found the lights on and Debbie curled up at the wrong end of the bed. Using her sketch pad as a pillow, she was also clutching a pencil in one hand.

Laughing softly, Preacher took a seat beside her and pulled the pencil from her hand. After tossing it away, he gently tugged the sketch pad from beneath her head and set it on the floor.

He brushed her long dark hair away from her face and caressed her cheek, then her chin, and finally the soft swell of her full bottom lip.

Staring down at her, Preacher felt his lungs deflate.

He wouldn’t have made it the last six months without her. Those first few months after Four Points had been rough. There’d been so much to do, to sort through, and figure out. And so many awful feelings associated with all of it.

Somewhere in the middle of it all Debbie had become his anchor, and the only thing keeping him steady inside the raging sea that had become his life. With her, Preacher didn’t have to be the president of anything. With her, he could still be him.

“Wheels.” He bent down to kiss her, once on the tip of her nose, and twice on her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Preacher?” she mumbled sleepily and blinked up at him. “Preacher!” She shot upright and flung her arms around his neck. “When did you get back?”

“Just now.”

He wrapped his arm around Debbie’s waist and pulled her sideways onto his lap, a position that drew his eyes to the belly bulge beneath her nightgown. Smiling, he placed his hand on her stomach and was startled to feel a flutter beneath his palm.

His eyes met Debbie’s. “Holy shit. Was that… him?”

The shift in Debbie’s demeanor was instantaneous. Her brow furrowed, lines appearing. The excitement shining in her eyes faded fast into unease.

“Yes,” she muttered, shoving his hand away.

Preacher exhaled noisily. He knew she was terrified. From day one she’d refused to talk about the baby, and whenever he brought it up, she’d either change the subject or leave the room. Unlike most pregnant women Preacher had known, Debbie balked at the idea of going shopping for the baby. What few things they did have, had been purchased by Sylvia.

He understood her fear. The pregnancy had been a shock to him as well, especially being so soon after his parents’ death. And, hell, Preacher had no idea how to be a father and hadn’t pictured himself ever becoming one. Still, it was just a matter of time before there was no choice but to accept his fate—he was becoming a father whether he liked it or not.

So instead of wallowing, he told himself that a baby was something to look forward to, something pure and good in a cruel world.

And lately, he needed all the good he could get his hands on.

Preacher bent his head and placed a kiss on Debbie’s lips. “You smell like cookies,” he mumbled. Traveling to her neck, he sniffed her skin.

“Somethin’ you wanna tell me ‘bout you and Tiny?” Sniffing turned to kisses, and he kissed his way back to her mouth.

“Ew, Preacher! Gross!” Laughing, she shoved at his shoulders until he released her. Moving off his lap, she leaned back against the pillows.

Preacher got to his feet and began undressing. “How’s things at the club? Anything I need to know about?”

For a moment Preacher thought Debbie looked troubled, but the look vanished nearly as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him wondering if he’d only imagined it.

She shrugged and then grinned. “Same shit, different toilet.”

“Jesus Christ, Wheels. No more hangin’ ‘round Hightower for you.”

“But he’s my favorite,” she replied, her tone as sweet as sugar. Preacher paused in unbuckling his belt.

“How you gonna say that shit to me?” he demanded. “I thought I was your favorite.”

Debbie smiled slyly. “Oh, you are… when you’re here. And Hightower’s my favorite when you’re not.” She shrugged again.

Preacher yanked his belt free from his jeans with a loud crack. Tossing it aside, he quickly finished undressing and climbed into bed.

Narrowed eyes on Debbie, he growled, “You wanna try that again, smartass?”

Debbie rolled toward him and slung her arm around his stomach and tucked her leg between his. “You could just never leave again. Then you won’t ever have to wonder who my favorite is.”

Already the stress of the last several weeks was beginning to wane. Preacher’s head was clearing. The tension between his shoulders was evaporating. And his dick was waking up and taking notice of the beautiful girl on top of him.

Debbie had become Preacher’s drug of choice. And when he was gone too long, like a junkie craving his next fix, Preacher craved his girl.

He rolled them over, flipping their positions. “I missed you.”

“I missed this mouth.” He nipped at her bottom lip.

“This ass, too,” He slipped a hand beneath her and squeezed one perfectly round cheek.

Debbie wrapped her arms around his neck and slid her fingers through his hair, freeing it from its binding. Spreading her legs apart, she hooked her feet around his calves.

Gazing up at him through hooded eyes, she whispered, “What else?”

He shifted his hips, brushing himself against her. “This what you’re lookin’ for?”

Debbie made a noise—a sexy combination of a gasp and a moan. Arching her back, she slowly dragged her pussy over the length of his dick. Grinning, Preacher pulled away from her only long enough to rid her of her nightgown.

He took his time entering her, watching with male satisfaction as her breath hitched and her eyes flared wide with every inch he claimed.

Ahhh, goddamn. Preacher dropped his face into the sweet-smelling space between her neck and her shoulder. Debbie’s arms tightened around him. Her fingers dug into the skin on his back. Her body arched, she crushed her breasts to his chest. Then her hips began to move—small, jerky movements in an attempt to get him to increase his pace.

“Impatient,” he grunted, and gripped her hip, stilling her.

“Control freak,” she whispered, wriggling wildly beneath him.

With a growl, he increased his speed. And with it, everything quickened. His mouth on hers. Her breaths. His heartbeat. Her hands roaming his back and ass.

Debbie dragged her nails across his shoulders and moaned his name—a sexy-as-hell something she always did right before she came. Glancing at her face, he found her perfect features tightly drawn, and barely breathing. He watched, rapt, as her breath abruptly punched past her lips and her eyelids fluttered erratically. Gasping, she cried out his name twice more. And as she clenched and pulsed around him, he doubled his speed and finished only moments later.

Preacher collapsed on the bed beside Debbie and spent the next several minutes just catching his breath. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he turned to look at her. Her eyes were already on him, gleaming with satisfaction.  

“I love you,” she whispered.

“Yeah?” He started to smile. “That mean you’re gonna take back that shit you said about Hightower?”

Preacher caught Debbie’s hand before she could smack his chest, and quickly gathered her in his arms. Laughing, he buried his face in her neck.

“I can’t believe Tiny slept through all that screamin’,” he murmured, breathing in the salty scent of her sweat-dampened skin.

Debbie huffed. “I wasn’t screaming.”

“You were definitely screamin’.”

“Was not.”

“Was.”

“Was not.”

Eventually they fell silent, and Preacher soon grew drowsy. Untangling himself from Debbie, he rolled over and turned off the light.

“Preacher?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you can’t tell me what you’ve been doing on the road, but… you haven’t been saving girls at truck stops, have you?”

Although he couldn’t see her face in the dark, and her tone was light, Preacher picked up on her underlying unease.

She worried for nothing. Yeah, he had opportunities to be with other women, but he always passed on them. Because he gave a shit about this girl. Loved her, even.

If there was anything losing his parents had taught Preacher, outside of his newfound thirst for revenge, it was not to take the people he loved for granted.

Reaching out blindly, he pulled Debbie to him, tucking her tightly against him.

“Not a chance in hell,” he said. “I learned my damned lesson the first time.”