Undeserving (Undeniable #5)(91)

"She needs a dick in her mouth!" a man shouted.

"She needs two!" someone else answered.

As cheers went up across the kitchen, bodies surged, converging on the table. A chair was thrown, dishes were shattered. Men toppled over one another as they scrambled to climb onto the table.

A large, burly black man emerged, towering over the crowd. He crossed the kitchen, pushing and shoving other men out of his way as if they weighed nothing. Coming up behind the man still pumping furiously into the woman, the burly man grabbed hold of the other man's neck, wrenched him off the table, and sent him flying into the nearby wall.

While the fighting continued all around him, he took the other man's place between the woman's legs and unzipped his pants. And as he began to thrust, cheers and jeers went up across the rowdy crowd.

Sylvia turned briefly to Debbie. "He's fucking dead," she spat and spun away. Before Debbie could respond, Sylvia darted down the hallway.

Taking care not to draw attention to herself, Debbie pressed herself against the wall and followed it down the hall. She slowly approached the living room where the music was playing at near-deafening decibels and peered inside.

Everywhere she looked she found more of the same-more Road Warriors and more women in various stages of undress, and almost all of them engaged sexually.

Her wide-eyed stare paused on a familiar shock of blond hair. Knuckles was sagging against the far wall, his eyes screwed shut, his mouth agape. In one hand he held a beer and in the other a fistful of corkscrew curls. Debbie's eyes dropped to the dark-skinned woman on her knees before him, whose head was bobbing steadily in his lap.



       
         
       
        

Heat exploded in Debbie's cheeks, and she quickly looked away, only to immediately spot another familiar face.

On a couch crawling with naked and half-dressed bodies, Crazy-8 was snorting white powder off a topless woman's breasts. Finished, he used his tongue to lick off anything that remained. When they started kissing, Debbie forced herself to turn away from the hurtful scene. She didn't understand how he could do that to Louisa-a woman he claimed to love.

Taking a quick, shaky breath, Debbie dragged her sweaty palms down the sides of her dress and then fretfully continued her search through the room. Afraid of finding Preacher in a similar situation, she began frantically twisting her butterfly ring.

Debbie's search ground to a halt. Leaning back against the bar, Preacher stood alone, surveying the room with an impassive expression. As if there weren't drunken orgies happening all around him. As if there weren't two naked women dancing on the bar directly behind him.

Her heart pounding furiously inside her chest, Debbie quivered through her next breath. Now that she'd found him, she had no idea what on earth she was going to say to him. In her current state, shocked and disgusted, she wondered if returning to Sylvia's car would be better than confronting him.

She was still undecided when one of the women dancing on the bar dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Preacher's neck. Laughing drunkenly, the woman slumped forward, forcing Preacher to catch her.

When the woman moved in for a kiss, Debbie's breath turned to ice in her lungs.

He wouldn't.

Oh God, he couldn't.

Relief came quickly when Preacher all but dropped her. Grabbing her arm, he hauled her across the room and handed her off to a cluster of men.

Then Preacher returned to the bar and lit up a cigarette. Brow heavy, mouth grim, he continued to inventory his surroundings.

For all intents and purposes, he looked like the Preacher Debbie loved. His long brown hair was tied back in a knot at his nape and his short beard was in need of a trim. He was wearing his usual attire-a pair of black jeans, a Led Zeppelin concert tee, his black leather vest, and his riding boots.

But there was something startlingly different about him. An eerie stillness to him. A strange deadness in his eyes.

This man was harder and colder than she knew Preacher to be, and more detached than she'd ever seen him before. And she'd thought she'd seen him at his worst-grief-stricken, full of rage, and feeling helpless.

"I remember you." Hot breath, smelling strongly of whiskey tickled Debbie's ear and cheek. Jerking away, she whirled around.

Flat, dark, dispassionate eyes met her gaze. An oily smile full of malevolence twisted beneath a thick black mustache. If she hadn't already been flush against the wall, she would have taken several steps back. 

"Rocky," she said, quickly finding her voice. "Hi."

Rocky's unnerving stare cruised her figure, halting on her protruding belly. "Well fuck." He laughed horribly, his black eyes flicking to hers. "That Preacher's bastard in there?"