She opened her eyes. "Are you safe?"
The corner of his mouth lifted. "How many times do I gotta tell you? You don't need to worry ‘bout me."
It was such a small thing-a single extra blink-that Debbie almost didn't notice it. And probably wouldn't have if she hadn't been looking directly into his eyes.
"Lie," she whispered.
He stared at her for a long time, a mix of emotions passing over his features-guilt, sadness, and pain. The same pain she always glimpsed in his eyes when she found him roaming their apartment at night.
"Oh, Preacher," she whimpered, and kissed him-a soft brush of her lips. He drew in a deep, ragged breath and then covered her mouth with his.
Then she poured everything she was feeling-all her shock, her anger, and her fears-into their kiss. All her love too.
And when they broke apart, and Preacher's hands fell away from her face, gone was the pain in his eyes. Instead, they burned hungrily.
"Come on," he said, taking her hand. "We're goin' home."
No sooner had they'd turned toward the door when Knuckles burst through it. Smoke and music filled the room. "Sylvie's gonna kill Joe!"
"Sylvie's here?" Frowning, Preacher looked at Debbie. Biting down on her bottom lip, she nodded.
"Preacher, man, she's got a gun!" Panic-stricken, Knuckles was hopping from foot to foot, while both nodding and shaking his head back and forth. "She's really gonna kill him!"
"A gun?" Again, Preacher looked at Debbie.
Mouth hanging open, she only shook her head.
Preacher looked instantly ten years older and markedly more exhausted than she'd ever seen him before. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Jesus. Fucking. Christ."
"Knuckles, you stay with her." Preacher pointed at Debbie. "And lock this fuckin' door behind me. None of the trash out there gets anywhere near my girl, you got that?"
Knuckles nodded. "I got it, boss."
Locking the door behind Preacher, Knuckles turned to Debbie, a strained smile on his face. "You ain't got no gun, right Debbie darling?"
He pointed to the words on his T-shirt-PEACE, LOVE, AND PUSSY.
"'Cause, I'm a lover, not a fighter."
• • •
Preacher found Frank waiting for him at the bottom of the first-floor stairwell. In sharp contrast to the others, Preacher could always count on Frank to be sober and ready for anything that came their way. The man had zero distractions-he didn't drink, didn't use drugs, and didn't mess with women outside of his marriage. Back when they were kids, Preacher used to rag on him for his inability to let loose and run wild. Now though, as a grown man with the responsibility of the entire club resting solely on his shoulders, he was glad for Frank's steadfastness and reliability-even if it was sometimes to the point of neurosis.
"All clear?" he asked.
Frank gestured to a small cluster of half-dressed people being ushered down the stairs by Whiskey Jim. "That's the last of ‘em."
"It's only the three of them still up there," Jim called out, shooting Preacher an irritated look. He'd been doing that a lot lately-irritated looks, exasperated sighs, and eye rolls. All blatant signs of disrespect that Jim would never have dared with The Judge.
Preacher was aware that Jim wasn't happy about the changes being made to the club, mainly the addition of the Road Warriors. But that decision wasn't up to Jim or anyone else.
Having had enough of Jim's blatant disregard for his authority, Preacher held Jim's stare, silently conveying his displeasure until Jim had the good sense to look away. Satisfied, he turned back to Frank.
"Did he say three? Who else is up there?"
"Sylvie won't let the whore leave."
Preacher cursed the entire way up three flights of stairs. He expected this shit from Max-eighteen years old and newly patched in, he was a ticking time bomb, ready to blow his load over every pair of tits that so much as jiggled in his direction. But Joe? With a wife and kid at home and another kid on the way, Joe should be spending less time at the club, not more.
To make matters worse, Joe rarely put the bottle down these days. More often than not, Preacher would find him passed out somewhere in the clubhouse, sans clothes and with no memory of what had happened the night before. With the arrival of the Road Warriors, Joe had only gotten worse.
Maybe it was time to start rethinking Joe as his vice president. Maybe he should have told tradition to go fuck itself and given the job to someone better suited. If things continued on this way, if Joe couldn't get his shit together, eventually Preacher was going to have to give the position to someone else-someone up to the task.