Undeserving (Undeniable #5)(9)

He'd thought putting some miles between him and the city would do him some good. Just him, his bike, and the road, and he'd be back to his old self in no time. He snorted. If anything, his bad mood had worsened.

When he'd first been released from prison, he'd figured there'd be a small adjustment period as he settled back into the real world, but as the days had turned to weeks and the weeks to months, he'd found himself drunk more often than not, wanting to do little more than sleep most days.



       
         
       
        

When awake, he was constantly agitated or outright angry. Nothing seemed to help-not booze, not drugs, not women. And beneath the anger, he felt …  empty, for lack of a better word. Like a gaping hole had taken up residence inside his fucking chest, and everything he did to try to fill it, to fix himself, only seemed to make him feel that much worse.

Another blast of whipping wind and cold rain circled around Preacher, causing him to falter, lose his footing, and nearly trip. Growling, he pulled the collar of his leather jacket up over the lower half of his face and pressed on.

By the time the flickering lights of the truck stop came into view, Preacher was drenched from head to toe. His soaked hair clung heavily to the sides of his face. Water sloshed inside his boots, and his jeans felt heavy, the denim sticking uncomfortably to his legs. Beneath his leather, his skin felt cold and clammy.

Three steps into the parking lot and the rain suddenly stopped. Preacher halted. Nostrils flaring, he lifted his middle finger to the sky and waved it around, hoping like hell God had a bird's eye view of him.

The truck stop was a sad-looking little place. A slash of concrete semi-filled with trucks bordered a small, squat building. Flickering lampposts surrounded the entire space, sending shadows bouncing across the otherwise dark area. A fueling station sat unattended to his left, and to his right stood a set of pay phones.

Reaching into his pocket, he jingled the change inside. He should call home. He'd left without saying goodbye and had been gone a while now without sending word. And his mother was a worrier. His father, however, was half the reason he'd left.

Gerald "The Judge" Fox was a grumpy old asshole on his best day. And a goddamn hurricane on his worst.

Preacher and he had never seen eye to eye. While Preacher had once preferred late-night partying and a different woman every night, The Judge was his polar opposite. He'd never strayed from his wife. He didn't drink to excess, and he certainly didn't use drugs. Every night he went to bed late, woke up far too early, had the work ethic of a honeybee and the personality of a pack mule. Stodgy. Determined. Unwavering.

Since Preacher's release from prison, their tenuous relationship had only grown more strained. Preacher couldn't be bothered to get out of bed most days, something The Judge couldn't relate to.

I've been to war, he'd lectured Preacher. I've seen horrible things happen to good people, I've done things I can't take back, and I've never felt like shirking my responsibilities and sleeping my life away.

Preacher recalled telling his father exactly where he could shove his so-called responsibilities. And the black eye he'd gotten because of it.

His father wasn't the sort of man you could have a heart to heart with. You did what you were told, end of story, or you got a fist to the face. The Judge only understood three things-the club, loyalty, and family, and in that particular order. The club was his whole world, built from the ground up after he'd served in World War II. In the beginning, it had consisted of only Gerald and a few of his war buddies, drinking beer and fixing up bikes, but after dipping their feet into the sleazier side of life, they had since become a fairly profitable business. 

The Judge didn't look at what the club did as criminal. In his mind, their illegal dealings were a way of keeping money in the pockets of war veterans-men who'd put their lives on the line for an ungrateful country and gotten nothing in return.

A criminal with a steady moral compass. That was The Judge.

Whatever Preacher was, it wasn't that.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, Preacher approached the pay phones. He dialed his parents' line first, and when no one answered, he called the club phone. A familiar voice picked up on the fourth ring. "Yelllow"

"Hightower," Preacher muttered. "What's doin'?"

There was a moment of silence and then, "Preacher?"

Hearing the combined joy and relief in Hightower's voice caused guilt to well in the pit of Preacher's stomach. "Yeah man …  it's me."

"Brother, shit, we've been wonderin' about you! We thought-fuck, we didn't know what to think! Where are you? You comin' home?"