Fat Becky, an average-sized woman whose only visible feature behind the magazine was a head of messy brown hair, grunted and lifted a hand in greeting.
Debbie began to introduce herself and suddenly stopped short. Preacher, Rocky, Duke, Angel… Fat Becky? Was it some sort of motorcycle club requirement? Preacher’s words—follow my lead—echoed in her thoughts again.
“I’m Wheels,” she said.
“Wheels?” Angel arched one slim, black brow. “You’ve got to tell me the story behind that.”
Debbie shrugged. “Short for Hell on Wheels.”
“Nice,” Angel said, looking suitably impressed. “So, how long have you been riding with him?”
Debbie took precious seconds to wonder what the right answer would be.
“I’m not sure,” she finally said, mimicking Angel’s carefree, rather flippant tone. “Never really kept track of stuff like that, you know?”
Head bobbing in agreement, Angel reclaimed her seat next to Becky. Holding up a gleaming silver cigarette case, she patted the ground beside her. “Come sit. Smoke with me.” She beckoned Debbie with the case.
Debbie spared another glance at Preacher, still surrounded by Road Warriors, before reluctantly taking a seat.
“You’re lucky, you know? Your old man is a real fox.” Angel’s eyes were on Preacher as she placed a joint between her lips and lit it. “Rocky ain’t too easy on the eyes, but he knows how to get down.” She shivered excitedly. “And I’ll take a big Johnson over a pretty face any day.”
Becky glanced up, her freckled face and light blue eyes illuminated by firelight. “Too thin,” she said dryly, and disappeared back behind the magazine.
Debbie took the joint Angel offered her, distractedly puffing on it while her gaze turned back to Preacher. She’d felt the hard slabs of muscle layering his abdomen when seated on the back of his bike, her arms wrapped around his middle. She’d seen the twin bulges of his biceps. Even now, surrounded by several big, burly men, Preacher looked like he could hold his own.
Debbie’s eyes narrowed with indignation. Fat Becky was wrong.
He was long and lean, yes, but Preacher definitely wasn’t thin.
Chapter 12
Rocky unfolded his arms, opening them wide. “You see? I’m not unreasonable. All I’m askin’ for is a piece of the damn pie. What your old man refused to give me.”
The tension had dissipated. The rigid posture and threatening expressions from earlier had been replaced with relaxed shoulders and a surprisingly expectant expression.
The Road Warriors were sick of being gypsies. They wanted to stop wandering endlessly and put down some roots. Only roots required money, and money required work. And if nothing else, the Silver Demons excelled at work.
Nevertheless, Rocky approaching Preacher was pointless. The Judge didn’t employ or work alongside men like Rocky. He already knew what his father would say. That you couldn’t trust the Road Warriors—that they were nothing more than homeless thugs. That there had to be honor among thieves, or your house of cards was going to come crashing down around you.
It didn’t matter that The Judge’s way of thinking was hypocritical and self-serving; he would never change. He wasn’t just set in his ways, he was half blinded by his own superiority complex and firmly entrenched in his unwavering, half-mad convictions. In layman’s terms, a working relationship with the Road Warriors was never gonna happen.
Even as vice president, Preacher held very little sway over the wheelings and dealings of the Silver Demons’ business machinations. It was The Judge, and only The Judge, who opened and closed those doors. Everyone else only offered suggestions or followed orders.
But Rocky didn’t need to know any of that, and what Rocky didn’t know, Preacher had used to his benefit. He’d promised to put in a good word with The Judge, assuring Rocky he’d detail the benefits of a working relationship between the Silver Demons and the Road Warriors.
The latter hadn’t been a ruse. Rocky had an impressive network of men, nomads who were scattered all over, ready to ride or work at a moment’s notice. Only an idiot wouldn’t realize the benefits of having eyes and ears across the nation.
Of course, if it were up to Preacher, the Road Warriors would have to agree to strip their colors and patch in as Silver Demons.
Preacher practically salivated at the thought of a Silver Demons clubhouse in all fifty states and the ability to control distribution not only along the east coast but nationwide. If done right, bringing the Road Warriors into the fold could create a highly profitable business relationship.
Hell, Preacher envisioned The Judge’s business becoming a veritable empire.
Rocky motioned to Trick—the man holding Preacher’s cut and Preacher stepped forward and snatched it from him. Shrugging it on over his jacket, the leather molded comfortably to his body like a second skin.
Rocky gestured to the bonfire. “Knock a few back with me?”
Preacher reluctantly agreed. No matter how badly he wanted to leave, refusing a drink with Rocky would be bad form—the equivalent of spitting in the man’s face.
As they made their way toward the bonfire, Preacher’s eyes were on Debbie. She was slumped forward, her hair hiding her face, fiddling with something on the ground in front of her. Frowning, he picked up his pace.
“Hey.” He bent down and tapped her knee. “You okay?”
Her head lifted slowly, her long hair parting to reveal a pair of bloodshot, unfocused eyes.
Her mouth stretched into a wide smile.
“Hi,” she whispered, then giggled.
He grinned at her. “Debbie Reynolds, you are baked.”
“Yes,” she whispered, shrugging. “You said to follow your lead.”
“You wanna smoke? It’s my own blend.” The proud declaration came from a raven-haired girl shaking a silver cigarette case at Preacher. Flicking the case open, she revealed several neatly rolled joints.
Holding up a hand, Preacher shook his head. Things might seem amicable at the moment, but the Road Warriors had still coerced him into a meeting. A head full of drugs was the last thing he needed while among men he didn’t trust.
The girl glanced at Debbie. “Wheels seemed to like it.”
Brows up, Preacher looked to Debbie, who quickly turned away. Her cheeks had gone pink and her bottom lip had disappeared beneath her teeth.
Chuckling, he sat down beside her and nudged her shoulder with his. “Wheels, huh?” he whispered, and Debbie ducked her head, burying her face in her hands.
“We’ve got whiskey and moonshine.” Rocky stepped forward, a bottle in each hand. He shook one of them. “Right outta the backwoods of West Virginia.”
Knowing better than to put himself in a moonshine coma, Preacher gestured for the whiskey.