"Is that what you do, then?" she asked. "Is that what your club does?"
Preacher pressed a finger to Debbie's lips. "Me," he said quietly. "I went to prison for drugs. Not the club. Never the club. The club doesn't do anything. And don't ever let my dad hear you talkin' about the club."
Debbie stared up at him. For such a threatening statement, there was nothing currently threatening about Preacher. No longer tense, his shoulders were loose. Even his eyes were soft as he gazed down at her.
And his finger? The one that was slowly tracing the outline of her mouth? Debbie stared up at Preacher, her body buzzing with an entirely different feeling.
He moved closer, close enough that Debbie could feel the heat from his body whisper across her skin. She felt her nipples harden, and a delicious ache flared to life low in her belly.
The pad of his thumb paused on her bottom lip. He was going to kiss her again. He was definitely going to kiss her again.
Then Preacher's finger was gone, as was he. Bending down, he scooped up her sneakers and backpack.
"I'm hungry," he announced. "You hungry?" He didn't wait for her to answer before striding quickly back to the path. "Fucking starving to death … " he continued to mutter.
Debbie had to take a moment to catch her breath and find her composure, and then she hurried after him.
Chapter 20
A cigarette dangling from his lips, Preacher twirled the sharp tip of his dagger over the picnic table surface, watching the wood splinter beneath it.
He was avoiding everyone, especially his father, which was not a difficult feat since the old bastard was also doing his best to avoid him. The Judge had left the park entirely and gone into town with Doc and Smokey.
Complaining that the heat from the midday sun was getting to them, Ginny and June had retreated inside the trailer to listen to music. Preacher knew his mother well enough to know that "listening to music" was code for smoking weed, and he'd bet his life they were higher than kites right about now. Somewhere, Tiny and Crazy-8 were off engaging in similar activities.
Everyone else-Joe and Sylvia, Jim and Anne, Louisa, Knuckles, and Max-had gone to the swimming hole to stave off the heat. And Debbie? It had taken Preacher nearly to twenty minutes to convince her to tag along with them.
She'd refused at first, and he'd understood that she was uncomfortable, that they were strangers to her, but he needed a breather. Debbie being out of sight didn't necessarily mean she was out of mind, but at least out of sight meant his hands were off of her.
All morning and all afternoon had been an exercise in self-control for Preacher.
After breakfast, Debbie had retreated to the fire pit where she'd curled up in a lawn chair with her notebook and pencil. The campsite continued to bustle all around her, and no one paid her any attention. She'd faded away into the background for everyone except him.
Like a blinking beacon in a thick fog, she consistently drew his eyes. He traced the shape of her legs as she swung them back and forth over the arm of the chair. He stared at the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath. He followed the movement of her hair every time the warm breeze lifted it. He watched the way she'd pause in drawing, absentmindedly chewing on the tip of her pencil.
Lifting his blade, Preacher drove the sharp tip down into the wood, causing tiny fissures to splinter in all directions.
Before prison, he'd lived a life of self-indulgence-women, drinking, drugs. He'd never wanted for anything; it had all been at his fingertips.
Everything was different now. He was denying himself. And maybe that's where this unusual interest and attraction to her began and ended. By telling himself no, he was only worsening the craving.
"What did that table ever do to you?"
Flicking his cigarette away, Preacher watched as Ginny slid onto the bench across from him. Her long dark hair had been pulled up into a thick bun, and just as he'd suspected, her smile was lazy, her eyes bloodshot and glossy.
Smoothing her hands down the front of her wrinkled white tunic, she produced a clove cigarette from her pocket and lit it. "Where is everyone?" she asked around a mouthful of spice-scented smoke.
He shrugged. "Swimming."
"Debbie too?"
Preacher nodded.
"And why aren't you swimming?"
Another shrug.
Puffing on her clove, Ginny's tipped her head to one side and studied him. "Damon, talk to me. What's the problem? Is it your father or the girl? Are you sleeping with her?"
Preacher internally groaned. Even doped up, his mother missed nothing.