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.