Undeserving (Undeniable #5)(78)

"Not that I know of … you know how dad is with those guys. Everyone fuckin' loves him."



       
         
       
        

Yeah, everyone had loved The Judge. Respected him and looked up to him, too. Everyone except Preacher. More things to add to the list of stomach-turning things he couldn't think about right now.

Preacher?"

"What?"

"You're comin' home, right? Because I can't-I can't-" Joe took a breath and tried again. "I can't do this by myself."

Though Joe's voice was deep and gruff, that of a grown man, his shaky timbre reminded Preacher of when they were kids. Scared of thunderstorms, Joe would climb into bed with him when it rained and whisper timidly, "Make it stop." And he would cover Joe's ears with his hands, blocking out the noise until Joe was calm enough to fall asleep.

Nostrils flaring, eyes burning, Preacher nodded jerkily. "I'm comin' home."

Watching Joe walk away, Preacher wished it was that simple now. That he could just cover Joe's ears and make it all just fucking stop.

Closing the door behind him, Preacher locked it and then spent several moments just staring at it, noticing every crack, every scuff and scratch. He ran a finger over a particularly long fissure in the paint, feeling the weight of everything that had just been laid at his feet.

His new reality.

The one in which Max would continue to cry for a mother he'd never see again. Where Joe no longer had a father to push him to do better, to be better. The reality where an entire club had just had their footing ripped out from under them, all their tethers sent scattering in the wind.

All they had now was …  him.

Preacher knew what he needed to do-what his father would expect of him. He needed to pick up the burden at his feet and place it squarely on his shoulders. Only how? How did he-someone who couldn't get his own shit together-take on the responsibility of everyone?

"Preacher?"

Turning, Preacher's eyes roamed the destroyed room before coming to rest on Debbie. Sitting up in bed, she was wearing only a tank top and her underwear. She stared back at him, her brow furrowed with concern.

Again he glanced around at his destruction. Then down at his swollen hands, covered in dried blood. Blood, just like the blood smeared on the trailer door. Had it been his father's blood or his mother's?

His stomach heaved, and Preacher scrubbed a hand down his face-a failed attempt to scrub the image from his mind.

"I'm gonna go clean up." Refusing to look at Debbie, he headed to the bathroom.

Turning on the shower, Preacher quickly divested himself of his shirt and jeans and stepped inside. Bowing his head, he watched the water circling the drain turn pink from his blood. Blood, like the smear of blood on the trailer door. He squeezed his eyes shut, only to see it all again. 

June on her hands and knees. Joe, red in the face, and shouting. The blood smeared on the door. Max running across the campsite. One after the other, as if someone was rapidly changing the channel in his mind, he flicked through the collection of unnerving images.

He opened his eyes, and the images evaporated.

Jesus Christ. He couldn't do this.

Cursing, Preacher grabbed hold of the shower curtain and tore it open. Debbie stood in the center of the bathroom, still wearing the same concerned look on her face. "I was …  worried about you," she stammered.

He didn't respond. He didn't know what to say. To anyone. And neither did he know what to do-for anyone.

"You're bleeding again." Debbie hurried forward and he let her take his hand. Fresh blood welled at his knuckles and dripped onto the bathroom floor. Onto her hands. Onto her bare feet. Blood-there was fucking blood everywhere.

"Some of these are really deep. You need to wrap them."

Preacher only stared back at Debbie, wondering what the hell she was still doing here with him and this god-awful mess, and yet thankful that she was. He couldn't bear to be around the others, couldn't face another second of witnessing the devastation in their faces …  but neither did he want to be alone.

"It's fine," he muttered, taking his hand back and turning away. Although his wounds throbbed angrily, the pain was insignificant compared to the storm raining down chaos and destruction inside of him.

Had they died quickly? The thought of his mother suffering was too much for him, and he slapped his forehead against the shower wall. Then again, harder. And again, harder still, wishing that his skull were an eggshell and easy to shatter. Easy to discard.

Preacher stilled when he felt a brush of soft skin against his leg. A hand touched his back, and tentative fingers trailed up his spine.