"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.
Chapter 33
Present Day
Preacher released a shuddering sigh, and as the air fled his lungs, the light leached from his eyes. He slumped back against his pillows, looking shaken.
"Daddy?" I whispered. "What happened next?"
He turned his face just a fraction, enough for me to see the tears in his eyes. "I went home the next mornin' and found you in your crib screamin' something fierce. Hungry, diaper hadn't been changed."
I was gripping the bedrail so hard my knuckles had turned white. "Where was she?"
He shook his head. "She was gone, Eva."
"Gone? As in-"
"As in half her shit was gone and so was she."
I glanced up at Deuce. Standing beside me with one hand on my back, he was watching Preacher intently, every bit as captivated by the story as I was. Releasing the bedrail, I wiped my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. "So she did run off, then?"
"Never woulda guessed she woulda left me-or you-like that." Preacher's voice began to quiver. Blinking rapidly, he swallowed several times. "But I fucked up, Eva. I said some shit I shouldn't have. None of that shit was her fault. It was mine-it was all my fault."
"Did you ever find out anything? Anything at all?" My voice was hoarse-strained with desperation. And my skin felt too tight, my lungs and throat, too-as if my last shreds of hope were strangling me.
"I kept thinkin' she'd show back up after she cooled off. I kept thinkin' that she had to come back … for you, at least."