Preacher folded his arms over his chest. Head tilted slightly to one side, he stared at her, watching her so intently she had to fight not to squirm. “Debbie what?”
Her mouth opened and instantly closed. She blinked several times quickly. No one had asked her for her last name in… she couldn’t even recall the last time someone had asked. Most people she encountered didn’t even ask her first name.
“I—uh. Reynolds.” She said the first name that she could think of.
“Your name is Debbie Reynolds?” Preacher’s expression was a mixture of disbelief and hilarity. “America’s sweetheart, huh? Nice to meet ya, Debbie darlin’, I’m Fred fuckin’ Astaire.”
Her stomach dipped down low and her cheeks flamed hot. Debbie Reynolds? Her eyes closed briefly.
It had been so long since she’d engaged in a real conversation with another person. Not that she’d ever been any good at talking to people. Thinking about it, she couldn’t seem to a recall a time in her life when she hadn’t preferred to blend into the background, going unnoticed by all.
“My mom was a fan—she thought she was being clever,” she muttered, hating the way the truth tasted on her tongue. Her mother loved the silver screen and worshipped the men and women who brought her favorite films to life. So obsessed, she’d named her daughter after one of her beloved actresses… it just hadn’t been Debbie Reynolds.
Her stomach twisted at the memory of her beautiful mother, feeling both the sharp sting of betrayal and the dull throb of longing, all rolled into one horrible ache.
She blew out a shaky breath. Ugly things often came in beautiful packages, and her mother had been the single loveliest monster she’d ever met.
Chapter 8
Debbie Reynolds. This chick was a liar, liar, pants on fire. And a horrible one, at that. Preacher could detect a liar a mile away, could easily spot the extra blinks, extra swallows, and the avoidance of direct eye contact. Although with this girl, none of that had been needed. She was by far the worst liar he’d ever encountered. The worst hooker, too.
She had never spread her legs for money before, that much had been painfully obvious. And would have been comical if she hadn’t looked so damn scared.
Amusement aside, he hadn’t realized exactly how much her baggy clothing had hidden. She had a nice figure, good-sized tits, a decent curve to her hips, too—even if the rest of her was a little on the thin side. Most eye-catching, though, were the sleek lines of her muscles. Her arms and legs had been toned nicely from what was undoubtedly a hell of a lot of walking.
“Debbie Reynolds,” he muttered, snickering.
The girl’s—Debbie’s—nostrils flared wide. The patches of red that had taken up residence on her cheeks began to spread. Preacher continued to smirk. Debbie fucking Reynolds. Hell, if she wanted to lie about something as useless as her name, that was fine with him. In fact, why not play along?
“Our moms have something in common. The Singing Nun is her favorite.”
Debbie cleared her throat, another sign she was lying. “I prefer The Rat Race,” she mumbled, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Yeah? Your mom have a thing for Tony Curtis, too?” Preacher might be entertaining Debbie’s lies, but he wasn’t lying. His mother really did have a thing for Tony Curtis. Recalling how her face would flush at the mere mention of the actor, and his father’s irrational jealousy, Preacher laughed outright.
Debbie still wouldn’t look at him. Chewing anxiously on her bottom lip, her shuttered gaze was glued to the floor.
Studying her, he fell quiet. He wasn’t an idiot—whatever was going on inside her head more than likely wasn’t anything good. Having grown up the way he did, knowing a large variety of people, he knew that most of them—the drifters, the grifters, the pavement pounders, the scammers and con-artists, and what was left of those goddamn piece-of-shit hippies—almost always had one thing in common.
They were all running from something. Always with some sad story trailing a million miles behind them.
His own mother was a perfect example. Her mother had died young, and her father had been a drunk who’d spent more time at the local tavern than he had at work. They’d had very little money and almost no food, but it wasn’t until he’d started beating on his daughters that Preacher’s mother had decided enough was enough. She’d packed a bag for herself and her sister and they’d hit the road together, eventually taking up with the circus.
Even decades later, his mother found it hard to talk about her childhood.
“Where you headed? Anywhere in particular or just driftin’?”
Debbie’s eyes lifted; her bottom lip popped out from beneath her teeth. “New York City.”
Preacher’s brow shot up. “Yeah? You got friends there? Family?”
She shook her head, and he sighed noisily. New York City. The glittering city on the coast, the island that never slept, a city that gave birth to unattainable dreams in the minds of young people all across the nation—and then systematically crushed each and every single one of them.
Preacher would be the first to admit that his home-sweet-home was more cesspool than not. The streets were filthy. Crime was on the rise. Drug use was rampant, as were prostitution and homelessness. Hilariously ironic was that his club was one of those facilitating the flow of drugs into the city, and therefore was partly responsible for the crime that inevitably followed.
“I live there,” he said. His revelation caused those unnervingly big eyes of hers to grow even wider.
“Born and raised… and I’ve seen people comin’ and goin’ all my life. I know what you’re thinkin’. That a city like New York, with all those people everywhere, all those dark corners to hide in, all those wallets to grab and purses to snatch, that you’re going to be raking it in.” He paused to shake his head. “You ain’t the first street rat to think it, and you ain’t gonna be the last. Believe me when I tell you that you’re gonna have some serious competition out there. With no family, no friends…”
He trailed off, choosing his next words carefully.
“And you’re young… and female… and good lookin’...” Preacher trailed off again, hoping his implication would be clear without having to spell out all the gory details.
“You don’t know me,” she said quietly, too quietly. There was anger simmering beneath her softly spoken words.