Chapter 8

Debbie Reynolds. This chick was a liar, liar, pants on fire. And a horrible one, at that. Preacher could detect a liar a mile away, could easily spot the extra blinks, extra swallows, and the avoidance of direct eye contact. Although with this girl, none of that had been needed. She was by far the worst liar he’d ever encountered. The worst hooker, too.

She had never spread her legs for money before, that much had been painfully obvious. And would have been comical if she hadn’t looked so damn scared.

Amusement aside, he hadn’t realized exactly how much her baggy clothing had hidden. She had a nice figure, good-sized tits, a decent curve to her hips, too—even if the rest of her was a little on the thin side. Most eye-catching, though, were the sleek lines of her muscles. Her arms and legs had been toned nicely from what was undoubtedly a hell of a lot of walking.

“Debbie Reynolds,” he muttered, snickering.

The girl’s—Debbie’s—nostrils flared wide. The patches of red that had taken up residence on her cheeks began to spread. Preacher continued to smirk. Debbie fucking Reynolds. Hell, if she wanted to lie about something as useless as her name, that was fine with him. In fact, why not play along?

“Our moms have something in common. The Singing Nun is her favorite.”

Debbie cleared her throat, another sign she was lying. “I prefer The Rat Race,” she mumbled, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Yeah? Your mom have a thing for Tony Curtis, too?” Preacher might be entertaining Debbie’s lies, but he wasn’t lying. His mother really did have a thing for Tony Curtis. Recalling how her face would flush at the mere mention of the actor, and his father’s irrational jealousy, Preacher laughed outright.

Debbie still wouldn’t look at him. Chewing anxiously on her bottom lip, her shuttered gaze was glued to the floor.

Studying her, he fell quiet. He wasn’t an idiot—whatever was going on inside her head more than likely wasn’t anything good. Having grown up the way he did, knowing a large variety of people, he knew that most of them—the drifters, the grifters, the pavement pounders, the scammers and con-artists, and what was left of those goddamn piece-of-shit hippies—almost always had one thing in common.

They were all running from something. Always with some sad story trailing a million miles behind them.

His own mother was a perfect example. Her mother had died young, and her father had been a drunk who’d spent more time at the local tavern than he had at work. They’d had very little money and almost no food, but it wasn’t until he’d started beating on his daughters that Preacher’s mother had decided enough was enough. She’d packed a bag for herself and her sister and they’d hit the road together, eventually taking up with the circus.

Even decades later, his mother found it hard to talk about her childhood.

“Where you headed? Anywhere in particular or just driftin’?”

Debbie’s eyes lifted; her bottom lip popped out from beneath her teeth. “New York City.”

Preacher’s brow shot up. “Yeah? You got friends there? Family?”

She shook her head, and he sighed noisily. New York City. The glittering city on the coast, the island that never slept, a city that gave birth to unattainable dreams in the minds of young people all across the nation—and then systematically crushed each and every single one of them.

Preacher would be the first to admit that his home-sweet-home was more cesspool than not. The streets were filthy. Crime was on the rise. Drug use was rampant, as were prostitution and homelessness. Hilariously ironic was that his club was one of those facilitating the flow of drugs into the city, and therefore was partly responsible for the crime that inevitably followed.

“I live there,” he said. His revelation caused those unnervingly big eyes of hers to grow even wider.

“Born and raised… and I’ve seen people comin’ and goin’ all my life. I know what you’re thinkin’. That a city like New York, with all those people everywhere, all those dark corners to hide in, all those wallets to grab and purses to snatch, that you’re going to be raking it in.” He paused to shake his head. “You ain’t the first street rat to think it, and you ain’t gonna be the last. Believe me when I tell you that you’re gonna have some serious competition out there. With no family, no friends…”

He trailed off, choosing his next words carefully.

“And you’re young… and female… and good lookin’...” Preacher trailed off again, hoping his implication would be clear without having to spell out all the gory details.

“You don’t know me,” she said quietly, too quietly. There was anger simmering beneath her softly spoken words.

Preacher felt like laughing. He did know her. He knew her type: lost little girls and boys who packed up their bags, said a prayer and hopped on a bus or a train, big city-bound. But once they arrived in the Big Apple, they usually lost everything—including their dignity and sometimes their lives. There was just too much competition in New York, too many crazies, too many whores, too many junkies, all wanting the same damn thing and usually fighting each other for it. Bodies were found every day, John and Jane Does—robbed, raped, beaten to death, stabbed or shot—the possibilities were endless. Too many of those bodies were never claimed, either because no one knew who they were, or no one cared to find out.

Looking at Debbie, lost little thing that she was, he could see exactly how wrong it was going to go. She was going to trust the wrong person, or find herself in a bind nearly identical to the one he’d just helped her out of, and that would be it.

“It’s not the paradise everyone seems to think it is. And trust me, I’ve been everywhere. You’re better off out here.”

An assortment of emotions passed over Debbie’s face—disappointment, embarrassment, anger. Preacher almost felt bad. Almost, because he didn’t want to crush her dream; but not quite, because he wanted to help spare her from those who would try to take advantage of her.

Debbie slowly stood, her white-knuckled fist clutching tightly to the front of his flannel shirt. Unblinking, she glared at him. “You don’t know me,” she repeated coldly.

“I do know you,” he said evenly, holding her stare. “I’ve seen a million just like you. Little girls who don’t have a clue. What are you? Sixteen, seventeen? Baby, you are prime real estate for some of these scumbags. I give you a week in the city before one of ‘em sinks their hooks into you, has you workin’ the corner, droppin’ your towel for every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

Unmoving and barely breathing, Debbie’s eyes were flashing fire.

“Your best bet,” he continued, “is to keep doin’ what you’re doin’. Sticking to small towns. Less people, less police, less problems. Maybe find yourself a job under the table. Hell, I don’t know your story, but maybe goin’ home would be—”

Debbie suddenly spun away and hurried across the room. The bathroom door slammed behind her, the force reverberating throughout the walls.

Preacher stared after her, one eyebrow cocked, wondering why women were all so damn irrational. Sighing, he sprawled backward on the bed.

What he’d told Debbie had been for her own benefit, and in response, she’d decided to throw a temper tantrum? And therein lay the problem with the fairer sex—they were always falling victim to their emotions. Acting like the sky was falling when someone was only giving them some damn good advice.

The sitcom on the television let out a peal of laughter. Preacher turned and blinked, barely registering what he was seeing on the screen. Wave after wave of exhaustion swept through him, until his limbs felt heavy and his thoughts grew muddled.

Goddamn, he was tired.

He glanced at the bathroom and frowned. Did he just leave Debbie in there, or… what? Hell, he didn’t know, and at the moment, he didn’t really care. He hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours and was suddenly struggling to keep his eyes open.

He had just enough sense to grab his duffel bag and stuff it under his pillow before sleep consumed him. If anyone—mainly the overly emotional pickpocket in the bathroom—tried to rob him while he slept, he’d wake right the hell up.

• • •

Debbie stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, watching as her throat bobbed with each hard swallow. A heavy mass of self-pity churned in the pit of her stomach, expanding, growing, until her abdomen outright ached. She was feeling all sorts of things she wasn’t prepared to feel in the face of Preacher’s revelations. But she mostly felt foolish. Foolish and deflated. Like a child who’d discovered that Santa Claus wasn’t real before they were emotionally prepared to handle it.

No friends. No family. Little girls who don’t have a clue.

His judgment was like a razor blade to her wrists, slashing her open, revealing all her shortcomings.

It wasn’t as if she weren’t aware of her situation. It had just sounded so pathetic, so pitiful coming from Preacher’s mouth—a perfect stranger. She was used to the judgment and condemnation of strangers, but coming from Preacher it had felt worse than usual, and much more personal.

All this time she’d thought she’d been working toward something, and that goal had made this life just a bit more bearable. She’d thought that someday she’d have something again, something resembling an actual life… only to come face to face with the bewildering blow Preacher had just delivered to her. A blow that had caused all her ugly truths to rise to the surface. One by one, combined and crushing, they smacked her in the face. This was who she was—no one, and with nothing—and it was all she would ever be. There was nothing more for her out there, nothing better waiting around the corner. And everything she’d been so desperately seeking were nothing more than the pipe dreams of a foolish girl.

He hadn’t even wanted to fuck her, not even for ten dollars. She couldn’t even sell herself for ten measly dollars.

She touched a fingertip to her still stinging and now quivering lip, hating, despising everything that was looking back at her, wishing the world away. Wishing the floor would open up beneath her and swallow her whole, taking her far away from here. To the ends of the Earth, to heaven or hell, anywhere really. It didn’t matter as long as it wasn’t here.

To make matters even worse, Preacher had suggested she go home.

Home.

Just the thought of it, the mere suggestion—

Debbie’s hands balled into fists as she tried to breathe through the outpouring of uninvited memories. One after another, they flashed in her mind—a slideshow of horror.

A flash of a face she’d tried so hard to forget. Black hair. A neatly trimmed mustache. Thick fingers. The glint of a gold wedding band. A crisp, clean shirt, always with the top few buttons undone. An expensive leather belt, the silver buckle gleaming as he pulled it from his pants. The smell of expensive liquor and Cuban cigars on his breath.

The hard press of a hand over her mouth.

The heft of a body over hers.

Unwanted touches, unwanted kisses.

The confusion, the pain, the self-doubt, the desperation, the fear. Oh my God, the constant fear.

And yet her treacherous body had allowed him inside of her, time and time again. No matter how vehemently she’d hadn’t wanted it, no matter how hard she’d fought him.

She hated herself for that. But more than anything else, she hated her mother for doing nothing to stop it.

The disappointment. And isolation. And sorrow.

Debbie’s skin was quivering, her muscles straining with the effort to keep from smashing her fists into the mirror. She’d spend a thousand nights in the rain, sleeping in the mud, wet and cold, before she’d ever go back there.

She’d rather starve, wither away to nothing.

She’d rather die before she ever went back.

• • •

Preacher blinked sleepily. A stream of sunlight warmed his left cheek, and for a moment, all he could see were the dust motes floating up the stream, all the way to the gap in the curtains. His neck ached, his pillow hard and lumpy beneath him. Groaning, he rolled over, away from the light.

He’d been having the most incredible dream—dreaming of homemade lasagna, of Polish sausage, and heavily buttered rye bread. Chocolate cake drenched in frosting. It had been so vivid, he swore he could still smell the sausage grease sizzling in the pan. Jesus, what he wouldn’t give for a slice of homemade cake.

His eyelids flickered closed, and he began to drift off again.

His eyes burst open. Cursing under his breath, he pushed at the pillow beneath his head, feeling nothing but hard, unforgiving lumps. He pushed at it again and again, trying to fluff it, until realization suddenly dawned—he was sleeping on his duffel bag.

Sitting up, he surveyed the small motel room through blurry eyes. Where was he? What time was it? And where the hell were his cigarettes?

Recalling Debbie, he glanced to the bathroom, finding the door wide open. The other bed was empty, still made. Had he dreamed her? A quick assessment of his body, revealing the still-tender bruise on his bicep, told him he hadn’t.

He needed a drink of water. No, scratch that. Before anything else, he needed a cigarette. His gaze darted to the bedside table—no cigarettes. Narrowing his eyes, he did another survey of the room. Where the fuck was his jacket?

Rolling out of bed, he searched the floor. His jacket nowhere to be found, he stormed across the room and flipped the bathroom light on. Empty.

Nostrils flaring widely, he spun around and stared at the room, eyes darting to and fro.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathed. She’d taken his jacket, his leather-fucking-jacket, and his cigarettes, and—

Eyes wide, he quickly patted down his body and, as he’d expected, found his back pocket empty. She’d taken his jacket, and because he’d forgotten to take his wallet out of his jacket, she’d also gotten his wallet. As luck would have it, his wallet would have never been inside his jacket if she hadn’t tried to steal it in the first place.

“You little mother-fuckin’-bitch,” he spat, giving himself another once-over. His necklace, a slim gold chain, was still hanging around his neck, and his keys were still clipped to his belt loop.

Fuming, he darted across the room, grabbed his duffel bag, and dumped out the contents. Finding everything accounted for, most importantly the roll of cash he’d stuffed inside a dirty sock, he sank down onto the bed beside his belongings and glared at the wall.

It could have been a lot worse. He still had plenty of money and an extra jacket in his bag. Still, she’d pulled the wool over his eyes. Him, outsmarted by a street rat.

He continued glaring at the wall, his jaw clenched and twitching.

“Females,” he muttered, “give ‘em an inch, and they take your fuckin’ wallet.”