"Not as wet as they're gonna be once I get my hands on ‘em."
Preacher started to laugh, and so did Tiny. And shit, even with Tiny stinking to high heaven, Preacher realized how much he really had missed his friend.
"Get a couple a' drinks in ‘em and we'll be in like Flynn," Tiny suggested, waggling his eyebrows.
Preacher spared the group of women another quick, dismissive glance. Shrugging, he turned back to the sunset and lit a cigarette. Minutes passed in silence.
"He really was worried," Tiny said eventually.
Preacher didn't answer him.
"You stupid or something?" Tiny asked irritably. "He blamed himself the entire time you were locked up! And then you come home and you ain't actin' right! Next, you up and take off in the middle of the night and nobody knows where the fuck you are! And now you've showed up here outta nowhere? Man, you can't blame him for wonderin' what the fuck you're gonna do next. Hell, brother, I'm wonderin' the same damn thing and I can guarantee you so is everyone else."
Sighing, Preacher flicked his cigarette away. He didn't want to talk about this shit, not with Tiny, not with anyone. He didn't like the way it made him feel-guilty and pissed off, and angry with everyone, himself most of all.
His frustration mounting, feeling suddenly uncomfortably warm, he shrugged out of the pack on his back and started removing layers. Once he felt cooler and less like punching someone in the face, he glanced down at the bag in front of him and froze.
Shit.
He'd been so pissed off, he'd left Debbie alone with his family. She was probably cursing him to hell and back.
"You gonna tell me where you been all this time?"
Preacher glanced at Tiny and shrugged. "Nowhere. Just … on the road."
"Doin' what?"
"Nothin'."
"Okay, fine. Who's the broad?"
"Just some chick."
"She ain't exactly your type."
"I don't have a fuckin' type," Preacher muttered, despite knowing full well that he most definitely had a type. And Debbie was so far removed from the loud, flashy women Preacher had always preferred. But even as he pictured them-the well-built blondes he'd once thought he'd never get enough of-his thoughts immediately veered back to Debbie.
Tiny snickered. "Brother, you've got a type, and she is the exact opposite of it!"
"It ain't like that," Preacher snapped. "I'm just helping her out, is all."
"Is that what you're callin' it now?"
"Dumbass, I'm not fuckin' her." Preacher punctuated each word with every ounce of irritation he was feeling regarding Debbie. Irritation because all he could seem to think about was how he wasn't fucking her.
"You're not fuckin' her?" Tiny sounded confused.
Preacher glared up at the sky. "I'm not fuckin' her," he growled.
"You're really not fuckin' her?"
"I'm really not."
"Are you sure you're not-"
"I'm not fuckin' her!" Preacher exploded, grabbing the attention of a passing group of campers. Shooting Preacher a disapproving look, an older woman covered a young girl's ears and hurried off down the path.
Beside him, Tiny was chuckling. "Man, maybe you should be … "
"She's sixteen," Preacher muttered. Almost seventeen, he silent added.
Tiny didn't appear concerned. "Ain't sixteen legal … somewhere? Didn't Fore-Face get hitched at sixteen?"
Fore-Face was the nickname given to a neighborhood girl whose forehead had been abnormally large. They'd all gone to school together, where she'd been picked on mercilessly. It was no wonder she'd spread her legs for the first piece of shit to come calling-a man twice her age.
"Fore-Face got knocked up and her parents made her marry the chump. And just ‘cause the only chicks you can talk into bed are too young to know better don't make it right."
"Didn't realize you'd become such a fuckin' pillar of righteousness, brother."
Preacher opened his mouth to snap back, then quickly closed it. Just because he didn't currently recognize himself or know what the fuck he was doing didn't mean he should take any of it out on Tiny.
Fiddling with the straps on Debbie's backpack, Preacher stared off across the park, thinking about … mother-fucking-Debbie. Why was that exactly?
Although very pretty, she was no great beauty.
Not that being beautiful had ever been a requirement Preacher had sought in a woman. He had his preferences in the looks department, but he'd never discriminated. A fuck was a fuck, usually made better if the girl knew what she was doing. If Preacher had enjoyed the fuck, that's what brought him back for more, not her looks.