Chapter 32

Humming Van Morrison’s Brown-Eyed Girl, Preacher cradled Eva in his arms, softly swaying her. Sucking on a pacifier, she stared up at him from beneath heavy, fluttering eyelids. Looking at her angelic features, one would never know just how truly diabolical she was.

Death by insomnia was his baby girl’s superpower, as Preacher was fairly certain he hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep since her birth.

He was so exhausted he was daydreaming about sleep. So goddamn exhausted that he’d chosen to stay home today rather than head to the club. Although considering the sort of bullshit that awaited him at the club, choosing to stay home hadn’t been a hard decision to make.

With the gaping absence of the Rossi family, the Columbo family was now the reigning mafia in New York. Typically Preacher wouldn’t have given them a second thought—they were just a school of sharks in a vast sea filled with predators. Only these particular sharks had recently severed what little business relationship the Silver Demons had with them and gone radio silent—an aggressive move he translated to mean that a storm was brewing off in the distance. Another storm that Preacher didn’t want to have to face just yet.

Still humming, Preacher moved into the living room. Dancing past the windows, he grimaced as the bright sunlight streaming in through the slatted blinds temporarily blinded him. His feet made quick work of the floor, eating up the distance between him and the crib in the corner.

“You need your own room, baby girl,” he whispered. “Can’t be sleepin’ in the living room forever, can you?” Preacher had meant to have found a bigger place by now, at the very least an apartment with two bedrooms. He just hadn’t yet found the time.

Glancing down at Eva, he found her eyes closed and her pacifier dangling precariously from the side of her mouth. Shoulders sagging with relief, he slowly lowered her into the crib.

Don’t wake up, don’t wake up, he chanted silently, half expecting her eyes to flip open at any moment and the ear-splitting yowling to begin again. When she remained sleeping, he blew out the breath he’d been holding.

“You need to sleep for at least five hours,” he scolded quietly. “Shit, I’ll even settle for three. You gimme three hours of sleep, and I’ll buy you whatever the hell you want—a car, a pony, a goddamn golden diaper. You name it, baby girl, and it’s yours.”

Turning away, he’d managed only a few steps when the phone rang. Horrified, Preacher darted into the kitchen, yanked the phone off the wall and the cord out of the jack, and tossed the entire contraption into the sink. Cursing, he closed his eyes and waited for the crying to begin.

Seconds passed without a sound, and Preacher cracked one eye open. Still nothing.

Relief flooded him. “Crisis averted,” he muttered.

Heading down the hall toward the bedroom, Preacher’s only plan was collapsing into bed and getting as much shut-eye as possible before Eva woke up. Instead, he found himself leaning against the doorjamb, admiring the girl in his bed.

Debbie was laying on her side, her back to him. The windows were open, and muted sounds of the city below filled the room. A warm breeze caused the hem of her T-shirt to billow, giving Preacher a nice glimpse of her backside. His eyes slowly traced the curve of her hip down to the seam where ass meets thigh. Then lower, admiring the full length of her legs.

Moving into the room, Preacher took a seat beside her on the bed. She twitched as he palmed her calf, and then shivered as he ran his hand up the length of her leg, pausing on her hip.

Smiling, he leaned over her, and was startled to find her eyes red and her cheeks wet. The moment their gazes collided, she hurriedly swiped at her cheeks and attempted a smile.

Preacher shifted onto his stomach beside her. “Wheels, what the hell?”

She only stared back at him, her bottom lip trembling, looking for all the world like the sky was going to come crashing down around them at any moment.

“I have to tell you something,” she eventually whispered. Swallowing thickly, she cast her eyes aside. “You’re going to be angry.”

“Why? You steal my wallet again?” He winked at her. Only his joke didn’t have the intended effect, and instead of laughing, Debbie’s eyes filled with fresh tears.

“Hey,” he said gently, grabbing her and swiftly tucking her partially beneath him. Situating his leg between hers, he lowered his head, bringing them nose to nose. “Whatever it is, whatever’s wrong, I’ll fix it, okay? I’ll fuckin’ fix it.”

She made a noise—a choking sob, and her eyes squeezed shut. She attempted turning away, and Preacher quickly rolled over top of her, caging her beneath him. “Wheels,” he growled, growing frustrated. “Baby, talk to me.”

Her eyes opened tentatively. Worry lines creased her brow. Breath shuddered from her lungs.

“Please don’t get mad,” she whispered.

Eyes narrowed with concern, he shook his head. “I promise.”

Another breath shuddered free and then, “My name isn’t Debbie,” she whispered in a rush.

He blinked, and then pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. Brows lifted, he murmured, “You don’t say…”

“It’s Elizabeth,” she continued. “My real name is Elizabeth.”

Debbie held his gaze, and surprise rippled through Preacher. She was telling the truth. After all this time, she finally trusted him.

“Elizabeth Taylor?” he asked—an attempt to lighten the mood.

She choked on her laughter, laughter that quickly turned to a sob. “Preacher,” she whispered frantically. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I should have told you the truth from the beginning. I should have—”

Moving off her, he helped her to sit and pulled her into his arms.

“Wheels, I don’t give a shit what your name is. Never did, still don’t. You think names matter to me, then you don’t know me at all.” He shook his head and shrugged. “Far as I’m concerned, I’m Preacher, you’re Wheels, and everything else can go—”

There was a knock at the front door—a heavy, frantic pounding. Debbie jumped and Preacher rolled quickly out of bed, cursing.

“Goddammit,” he muttered, stalking down the hallway. “I’m gonna kill whoever that is if they—”

Eva’s cry rang through the apartment.

Still cursing, Preacher flipped the locks on the door and flung it open.

“Preacher!” Joe burst inside and grabbed Preacher’s arms. His one eye was wild, and a light sheen of sweat covered his face.

“Why the fuck aren’t you answering the phone?” he demanded. “We’re in the middle of a fucking shitstorm! The Feds found the house in Greenpoint! Preacher, man, they raided it this morning! Killed two of Rocky’s guys when they stormed the place!”

Pain flared hot in Preacher’s neck, and his temples began to throb. He shoved Joe away. “Shit,” he breathed, running his hand over his mouth and beard. “Fucking shit.” He swallowed hard. “What about the others?”

Joe shook his head. “The other two guys got away. They made a beeline for Rocky, and now he’s movin’ all his boys outta the city as we speak.”

“No, idiot, the other warehouses. Did the Feds find ‘em?”

“No, man, no. Everything else is solid. But… Rocky’s pissed. He wants to move the—” Joe’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes flicking to something past Preacher.

Glancing over his shoulder, Preacher found Debbie standing just outside the living room. Wide-eyed and pale-faced, she was bouncing Eva gently in her arms.

 “They can’t trace the warehouses to us,” he muttered quietly, turning back to Joe. “We made sure of it.”

“They can trace the fuckin’ Road Warriors to us!” Joe hissed.

His headache worsening, Preacher grabbed Joe by his shirt collar and brought them nose to nose.

“Do you ever pay attention? The Road Warriors ain’t patched in. All the Feds found was a couple nomads inside a warehouse. Owning a motorcycle and wearing a cut doesn’t automatically make those men mine, does it? Greenpoint is gonna lead them to the Rossi family, and dead men don’t tell tales. Worst case scenario, the Feds raid the clubhouse on a hunch, hoping to find a connection, and you know the worst thing they’re gonna find? Tiny’s fuckin’ stash of special brownies.”

Joe’s shoulders slumped. “Jesus, Preacher… I thought we were up shit creek for sure.”

Gritting his teeth, Preacher released Joe with a shove. They were still up shit creek. Never mind the Feds, Preacher’s concerns lay with the Columbians. With the loss of the Greenpoint warehouse, the Silver Demons had just lost a great deal of product they’d been entrusted to move.

“Man, I don’t get it.” Joe kept his voice low. “We had that shit locked up tight. There’s no way the Feds coulda found Greenpoint on their own… unless we can’t trust Rocky, or fuck, what if it was one of our boys?”

Preacher’s head all but exploded with pain. While massaging his temples, he wracked his brain, trying to think of when, or with whom, he might have screwed up.

“Preacher.”

He turned to Debbie. Still holding Eva, she’d plastered herself against the wall. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I’m s-sorry.” Her lips trembled and her words shook. “I’m so sorry.”

Preacher stared at her.

“I should have told you the truth.” She continued to cry.

“Preacher?” Joe moved to stand beside him.

“Go downstairs.” Preacher’s tone was clipped and hard. “Wait for me there.”

“But—”

“Now, Joe. Right fuckin’ now.”

Preacher stayed quiet until he heard the door close.

“What did you do?” he bit out, and when Debbie didn’t respond immediately, he shouted, “What did you fuckin’ do?”

Startled, Eva began to cry. Blanching, Debbie shrunk against the wall. “There were two agents!” she blurted out. “And they told me—”

“I don’t give a shit what they told you!” he raged, advancing on her.

“They knew who I was!” she cried. “Preacher, they said they were going to send me home! They said they’d take Eva away! They—”

“Stop!” he roared. “Fuck!” Running his hands agitatedly through his hair, he turned away.

His eyes darted in every direction—he didn’t know what to do, where to look, what to think. How had this happened? His girl had betrayed the club—shit, his girl had betrayed him. Adrenaline-fueled anger took root inside of him. His hands clenched into fists, and he spun around to face her.

“Whatever they said, whatever they threatened, you should have come to me first! Now two men are dead because of you, and if I can’t somehow make back the money for everything the club just lost, I’m gonna be next!”

Debbie’s tear-stained face crumpled, and she sank to her knees on the floor. “I didn’t know,” she gasped. “Please, I didn’t even know what Greenpoint was. I was scared—I didn’t know—”

“What else did you tell them?” he demanded tersely through clenched teeth.

“Nothing! I swear it, Preacher, nothing! I don’t know anything!”

Jaw locked and twitching, muscles coiled and ready to spring, Preacher lost the battle he was waging with his temper and sent his fist hurtling into the wall, smashing through the plaster. Twice more he punched the wall, the action doing nothing to soothe the waves of aggression rolling through him.

Worse, Debbie was still crying, and Eva had progressed to wailing. And Preacher needed to get the fuck out of there.

He moved quickly to the door, snatching his wallet and keys from the table as he passed.

“Preacher—wait!”

Whirling around, Preacher pinned Debbie with the full weight of his fury. “I have to go,” he bit out. His chest heaved with angry breaths. “I have to fix what you did.”

Shaking, Debbie got to her feet. Clutching a still-crying Eva to her chest, she took a tentative step forward. “Please,” she whispered brokenly. “Please don’t let them send me back home. I can’t go—”

“Stop!” he shouted, “just stop! I can’t—fuck, I can’t deal with you right now!”

Turning away, he shoved into his boots, wrenched open the door, then slammed it shut behind him.

Debbie’s sobs followed him down two flights of stairs before fading away.

• • •

It took Debbie over half an hour to settle Eva down, and then nearly another hour to calm herself to the point where she could think clearly—if a panicked stream of consciousness could be considered thinking clearly.

She moved around the apartment feeling jittery and itchy, alternating between wringing her hands and scrubbing mindlessly at her cheeks and arms. Occasionally she’d sit, only to end up fidgeting, growing frustrated and jumping up again.

“Oh God,” she whispered as she wandered. Two men had been killed, and all because of her. Preacher was right; she should have gone to him first. No, she should have told him the truth from the beginning. If only she wouldn’t have lied, maybe this could have all been avoided.

Her heart began to pound, and her tears spilled over. What good was wondering what might have been when she’d already ruined everything?

Finding herself in the bedroom, Debbie glanced around blindly. What would Preacher do when he returned? She’d never seen him so angry—all of his anger directed at her. Would he throw her out? Force her to leave?

Hot tears slid down her cheeks as she stared at their bed, unable to conceive of never sleeping beside him again.

Could he forgive her for this? And if he did, would he ever look at her the same way again—as if the mere sight of her made his day better?

A sob escaped her. Had she really ruined everything? Hopelessness and helplessness engulfed her, and she sank to her knees on the floor. Hugging her chest, she rocked herself while she cried.

Gazing miserably across the room, she noticed her canvas backpack hanging on the doorknob. Her scrambled thoughts paused—she could disappear for a little while. She wouldn’t leave for long, just until she turned eighteen and the FBI could no longer use her against Preacher. And maybe some time apart would give Preacher the time he needed to calm down… and hopefully forgive her.

Scrambling to her feet, she retreated quickly into the hallway and practically ran to the living room. Peering inside Eva’s crib, Debbie’s heart painfully squeezed. Tentatively she reached out and ran her shaking fingertips down Eva’s cheek. Tears blurred her vision.

She couldn’t leave her daughter. She just couldn’t.

“I love you so much, baby girl,” she cried softly.

But maybe she should leave…

Just for a little while.

Just long enough to make everything right again.

• • •

Preacher elbowed his way past the many men crowded outside the office, then slammed the door shut in their faces. Right now, his head was a mess of problems without solutions, and he didn’t have the patience to deal with everyone at once.

He took half a second to eyeball the desk he’d sworn he’d never sit behind before kicking the chair out from under it and collapsing into it. Uncapping the bottle in his hand, he guzzled at least two inches worth of gin before looking up and acknowledging the others in the room.

Rocky stood in a corner, arms crossed over his chest, head lowered, black eyes flashing beneath a heavy brow. Joe and Frank sat at opposite ends of the meeting table. While Joe appeared distraught, tapping his fingers anxiously over the oak slab, Frank was as stiff and as unreadable as ever.

“Two of my men are dead,” Rocky spat angrily. Everything about the man was threatening—the menacing edge in his tone, his wide stance, and the clenched fists at his sides.

 “Aren’t they my men now?” Preacher growled. In an effort not to punch something, he picked up a pen lying on the desk and spun it between his fingers.

Rocky took a deliberate step away from the wall. “Am I missin’ something? Did I sleep through bein’ patched in?”

Preacher raised an eyebrow. “It’s a damn good thing I didn’t patch you in, or we’d all be in fuckin’ cuffs right now.”

Grimacing, Rocky shook his head. “Who’s this we you’re so concerned about? Your men or mine? Seems to me like you’re thinkin’ mine are expendable.”

Preacher shot up out of his chair. The pen in his grip snapped in half, and ink dripped from his clenched fist onto the desk. “In case you forgot, I’ve got two dead men myself.” He stared at Rocky, hard and unblinking. “At the end of the day, we’re all fuckin’ expendable.”

Preacher didn’t bother bringing up his mother. Rocky didn’t place the same value on women as he did men and wouldn’t consider her death as any great loss to the club.

Unconsciously, Preacher’s gaze slid to the family photograph on the desk. Avoiding The Judge’s disapproving stare, he looked instead at his mother, and he couldn’t help but feel that when the club had lost Ginny, they’d lost everything.

He turned back to Rocky. “Greenpoint is gone. Your two men? Gone. Now we can sit here screamin’ about it, or we can get down to business and make sure this shit doesn’t happen again. What’s it gonna be?”

Seconds passed in silence while Preacher and Rocky stared each other down. Rocky looked away first and retreated to the wall, looking only slightly less lethal than before. Tossing the broken pen away, Preacher wiped his ink-stained hand on his jeans and took his seat.

“Good choice,” he muttered, “Now let’s fix this shit.”

“It’s like I told One-Eye over here.” Rocky jerked a thumb in Joe’s direction. “We need to get the goods outta the city. Couple of my guys got some land over in Illinois—a pumpkin farm with a barn. It’s the perfect place for long-term storage. Middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”

Preacher nodded. “That solves one problem. Now what about Greenpoint? How’re we gonna make back what we lost?”

“We jack up prices for a while,” Frank offered. “Columbians won’t ever need to know what happened.”

Joe scrubbed at his jaw. “We can do that with the metal, but it ain’t gonna fly with the drugs. We’re gonna need to cut up what we’ve got left, stretch it as far as it’ll go.” He shrugged. “Fake it ‘til we make it all back.”

Frank frowned. “That’s risky.”

What Joe was proposing was very risky. If buyers caught on to what they were doing, which someone undoubtedly would, people were going to get pissed—and when people got pissed, things had the potential to get messy. Messy and bloody.

But not nearly as messy as losing their heads at the hands of the Columbians.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Joe rolled his eyes at Frank. “But it’s either that or we start robbin’ banks.”

Frank slowly turned in his seat, his deadpan stare landing on Joe. “Your old lady likes guns, don’t she? You two gonna be the next Bonnie and Clyde?”

Snorting, Joe flipped him off.

Preacher grabbed his bottle of gin and took a long swallow. “Nobody’s robbin’ any banks. Nobody’s givin’ Sylvie any guns, either.” He pointed between Joe and Rocky. “You two, get the fuck outta my office and go tell the rest of ‘em what they need to know.”

When the door had closed behind them, Frank faced Preacher. “You’re really gonna make Rocky your sergeant?”

Sighing, Preacher eyed the office door. “For now.”

“He’s a loose cannon.”

“I know.”

“He’s gonna be trouble.”

“Not much I can do about it.”

“Yet,” Frank said.

“Yet,” Preacher agreed and took a swig.

“We got any leads on who tipped off the Feds?”

Preacher chugged another several inches of gin. “It was Debbie,” he said tightly.

“What was Debbie?”

“Greenpoint. She ratted us out to the Feds.”

A subtle flaring of his dark eyes was Frank’s only reaction.

“They scared the shit outta her… threatened her with… somethin’.” Preacher shook his head. “I don’t know specifics.”

“If she folded once, she could do it again.”

Preacher sank down further into his chair and took another swig of gin. “I’ll figure it out,” was all he said. Just not right now, he added silently.

Right now he was going to drink himself into oblivion and hopefully forget the never-ending, ever-expanding pile of problems heaped at his feet… for just a little while.

“Here.” Frank set down an unopened bottle of rum in front of Preacher. “You’re lookin’ a little low.”

Muttering his thanks, he continued to drink, hardly noticing when Frank left.

Sometime later, Preacher staggered out into the hall looked blearily toward the living room. Music was playing, and he could hear chatter and laughter. Rum in hand, he stumbled forward.

The bright colors in the living room made his head hurt, and he sat down on the first empty seat he came across. Someone called out his name, though he wasn’t quite sure who.

Eyes closed, he rested his head against the back of the sofa and continued to drink.

Feeling disoriented, sluggish, and blissfully numb, Preacher almost didn’t register the sudden extra weight on his lap. He cracked one eye open and waited until his spinning vision fell into focus.

He recognized her, or rather he recognized the ring in her nose and the safety pins dangling from her ears. She was new to the club, had been hanging around only this past month or so. Her name was Jenny or Jessica—he couldn’t remember which. With her ripped-up clothing and bleached blonde Mohawk, she looked better suited to standing outside CBGB’s, screaming about anarchy and animal rights, and flipping off anyone who didn’t look like her.

“You look sad, Mr. Preacher President,” she said, then giggled.

Preacher thought her speech might have been slurred—or maybe it was just his hearing that was slurred.

Her hand appeared on his chest and dragged slowly down the front of him. Gripping his belt, she yanked hard. Her lips split into a sly smile—a blur of bright red lipstick and gleaming white teeth. “You want me to cheer you up?”

“No.” He tried swatting her hand away—a piss-poor attempt that had her giggling.

She grabbed him again, this time below his belt. “Lemme make you feel better,” she purred, stroking him through his jeans. “I promise you, your girl ain’t ever gonna know.”

His girl. Bitter laughter lodged in his throat. His fucking girl was the reason two men were dead and a third of their goods had just been confiscated by the goddamn FBI.

But she hadn’t meant it. She hadn’t known. She was a good girl. She was his good, good girl.

And this was his fault. All of it. He’d kept her in the dark thinking he was protecting her from his world. Instead he’d ended up being the reason she’d been tossed into this sea of sharks, head first and without a lifejacket.

Are you a monster, too? Debbie’s voice echoed in his thoughts.

He lifted the bottle to his lips and chugged until his head was heavy, bobbing involuntarily, and rum was spilling from the corners of his mouth.

“I’m a monster,” he whispered brokenly to the girl on his lap.

“I like monsters,” she said, and grinned. And the next thing Preacher knew, she was nose to nose with him, licking the rum from his lips. He made a half-hearted attempt to push her head away while his own lolled backward, hitting the wall.

Giggling, she resumed tugging at his belt.

Too tired to move, too drunk to care, Preacher’s eyes began to close, and soon… everything faded to black.