Preacher closed his eyes briefly. "She's not here." And when Dickie cocked an eyebrow in question, Preacher shook his head. "Don't ask. It's been the day from hell."
The wrinkles around Dickie's eyes deepened, his dark eyes shining with amusement. "First rule of the road, cat, you never try and outrun the rain."
Preacher sighed noisily. He'd been so lost in his own miserable thoughts, he hadn't even realized there'd been rain clouds looming. Lost. Amazing how one four-letter word could sum up his entire life.
"You joinin' Gerry upstate?" Dickie asked.
The pain in Preacher's neck doubled. He shrugged. "Maybe … haven't made up my mind yet."
"Maybe I'll see you there." Dickie waggled his thick, salt-and-pepper eyebrows. " … after I check in on a couple of my dollies up in Buffalo."
Preacher snorted. "A couple of ‘em, huh? Still breakin' hearts across the country, Darvis?"
Winking, Dickie reached out and gave Preacher another hearty clap on the arm. "Is there any other way to live?"
Another grin, another slap on the arm, and Dickie was striding across the parking lot. Several minutes later, still standing in the same spot, Preacher watched as his friend's glowing taillight disappeared into the darkness.
That's when he felt it: an unnatural shift in the air around him; the presence of someone else. One of the many things prison had taught him was the necessity of awareness-awareness of the space around you-so that no one could catch you off guard.
Preacher spun and grabbed, snatching hold of a slender arm. Slim fingers, nails bitten to the quick-they held his wallet captive.
The girl let out a small, surprised squeak and tried to wrench her hand from his grip, but Preacher easily held her in place. In her other hand, a small blade flicked free from its sheath, glinting as it caught the light from the diner. Preacher took a moment to eye the weapon: a flimsy, rusted little thing he'd bet his bike wasn't sharp enough to do more than clean his nails.
"What's that you got there? A toothpick?" He smirked at her.
Long, limp hair framed a face smudged with dirt. A pair of tired brown eyes, flashing fear and resentment, met his. Her juicy-looking lips twisted bitterly.
A sense of familiarity slithered through Preacher-he knew a street rat when he saw one. Life on the road curses everyone, young and old, male and female, with the same expression-one part weary, one part bitter, two parts desperate.
But for a road-weary thief, she sure was cute.
He slid his gaze down her figure, taking in her flannel shirt and dirty jeans, worn straight through at the knees. The baggy clothes mostly hid her, but not so much that he couldn't see the outline of feminine curves beneath. An army-issued sack, bulging with her belongings, was slung smartly across her back.
"That's mine," he said. Plucking his wallet from her grasp, he released her wrist.
She jumped backward and stepped to the side, keeping her gaze locked with his. He remained where he stood, making a show of tucking his wallet inside his jacket's inner breast pocket. Still smirking, he gave his pocket a firm pat.
The fear in her gaze was nearly gone now. Through narrowed eyes she assessed him, her expression conveying that she didn't quite know what to make of the situation. Thoroughly amused now, Preacher was contemplating giving her a few dollars when a gruff shout interrupted his thoughts.
"Found her! Over here, boys, over here!" A broad-shouldered, heavyset man was storming toward them. His red face bulging with fury, he was making a big show of waving around a baseball bat.
Unimpressed, Preacher eyed him beneath furrowed brows. "Friend of yours?" he asked the girl.
"I saw you, you little bitch!" the man growled, pointing his bat at the girl. "Hand over the bag!" He angled the bat in Preacher's direction. "You too!"
"Hey now," Preacher started to say, "I didn't … "
"Gimme the bags, you thieving shits!" the man bellowed.
There was no way in hell Preacher was going to hand his bag over, and judging by the look on the girl's face, she wasn't going to be giving hers up either. Not without a fight.
Preacher rolled his shoulders. Fine. A fight was just fine with him. Growing up with brothers had left him well acquainted with solving problems with his fists. And if things got really out of hand, he had a blade in his boot big enough to send Red here crying back to whatever rig he'd crawled out of.
Jaw locked, fists clenched, Preacher was ready to step forward when he heard the clatter of footsteps approaching. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him two more men had joined their group, one brandishing a tire iron.