Undeserving (Undeniable #5)(10)

Unsure of what to say, Preacher said nothing at all.

"Preacher, you still there?"

Swallowing, Preacher eyed the night sky. "Yeah man, I'm still here …  hey, I know it's late, but is my mom around?"

"Naw, brother, everyone left this mornin'. You forget the date? They're all headed to Four Points."

Preacher's brow shot up. Four Points? Jesus, he had completely lost track of time out here.

Held in upstate New York, the Four Points Motorcycle Rally was a two-week-long excuse for bikers from all over to get together and show off their rides, and The Judge never missed an excuse to tout his choppers or his high standing in the motorcycle community. Back before he'd been locked up, neither had Preacher.

"What about Tiny?" Preacher asked, knowing how much his friend hated camping. "Frank?"

"Yeah man, Tiny went with ‘em. He's been on a tear lately ‘bout how he don't ever get laid in the city, so he might as well try the country. Frank, no. Frank went …  to Philly … "

Hightower trailed off, his implication clear. If Frank was in Philadelphia, that meant The Judge had sent him there on club business.

"Tiny can't get laid anywhere," Preacher said with a hint of a smile. Tiny was as big as a house and usually sweating profusely, even on a cool day. Finding a woman to take an interest in him had never been an easy task. It usually required a hell of a lot of alcohol and a lot of cash up front.

Feeling a sliver of homesickness, the first he'd felt since he'd been on the road, Preacher asked, "How's everyone doin'? Things good?"

"Things are good, brother, real good … " There was a pause. " …  and we're all wondering when the hell you're comin' home. You're comin' home, right?"

Unsure of what to say, Preacher remained silent.

"Preach-"

A robotic feminine voice took over the line, asking for another twenty cents. Reaching into his pocket, Preacher fingered the change inside. The voice asked a second time and Preacher pulled his hand from his pocket. Taking the phone from his ear, he looked down at the receiver and …  hung up.



       
         
       
        

Blowing out a heavy breath, his gaze fell on the diner, and Preacher absentmindedly scanned the mix of bodies inside. While the food at truck stops left a lot to be desired, lately he much preferred the company of truckers over everyone else.

Two years up the river doesn't seem like a whole heck of a lot of time until you find yourself back on the streets among people who aren't half mad. Suddenly surrounded by normalcy, and feeling out of place in a world in which he'd once thrived, had been a brutal shock to Preacher's system. It was easier for him in places like this, around those who lived on the fringes, who barely gave you a first glance, let alone a second.

The diner door opened, the bells on the door jingling, and a dark figure stepped outside. The man's lowered head lifted and his gaze connected with Preacher's. Recognition was instantaneous.

"Dickie," Preacher greeted him as they briefly clasped hands. "How the fuck have you been?"

"I'm cookin', cat, I'm cookin'." Dickie snapped his fingers together and pointed at Preacher. "I heard you were doin' time. You break out? Am I dealin' with an honest to God fugitive right now?"

Richard "Dickie" Darvis was a longtime friend of Preacher's father and the club. Tall and wiry, his jeans cuffed at the ankles, his dark hair slicked into a jelly roll, the self-proclaimed lone rider still looked every bit the 1950s greaser he'd been in his youth.

Preacher attempted a laugh. "I maxed out a few months back. Been out on the road." He shrugged. "Needed to clear my head."

The joy in Dickie's expression vanished. "Don't gotta tell me, cat. Been behind bars more times than I care to remember. You get enough miles behind you, and soon you'll be poppin' that clutch, gettin' back to it."

An ache in Preacher's neck flared to life, and he reached up to rub it. "Yeah well, it is what it is, right? Anyway, whatcha doin' on the east coast? Last I heard you were headed out west to play cowboys and Indians."

Dickie barked out a rough, grating laugh, a painful-sounding testament to the two packs a day he smoked. "Was as bored as a blind man at a peep show out there. Just got back this way, was actually thinkin' about heading to the city and dropping in on Gerry."

Preacher shook his head. "He ain't there. He's at Four Points. You know he wouldn't miss the chance to show off his favorite girls."

Dickie's eyes lit up. "Yeah? Don't blame him, cat. Don't blame him one bit. Those are some rare beauties he's put together. Speakin' of …  what are you riding these days?" Dickie's eyes scanned around the lot.