A cigarette dangling from his lips, Preacher twirled the sharp tip of his dagger over the picnic table surface, watching the wood splinter beneath it.
He was avoiding everyone, especially his father, which was not a difficult feat since the old bastard was also doing his best to avoid him. The Judge had left the park entirely and gone into town with Doc and Smokey.
Complaining that the heat from the midday sun was getting to them, Ginny and June had retreated inside the trailer to listen to music. Preacher knew his mother well enough to know that “listening to music” was code for smoking weed, and he’d bet his life they were higher than kites right about now. Somewhere, Tiny and Crazy-8 were off engaging in similar activities.
Everyone else—Joe and Sylvia, Jim and Anne, Louisa, Knuckles, and Max—had gone to the swimming hole to stave off the heat. And Debbie? It had taken Preacher nearly to twenty minutes to convince her to tag along with them.
She’d refused at first, and he’d understood that she was uncomfortable, that they were strangers to her, but he needed a breather. Debbie being out of sight didn’t necessarily mean she was out of mind, but at least out of sight meant his hands were off of her.
All morning and all afternoon had been an exercise in self-control for Preacher.
After breakfast, Debbie had retreated to the fire pit where she’d curled up in a lawn chair with her notebook and pencil. The campsite continued to bustle all around her, and no one paid her any attention. She’d faded away into the background for everyone except him.
Like a blinking beacon in a thick fog, she consistently drew his eyes. He traced the shape of her legs as she swung them back and forth over the arm of the chair. He stared at the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath. He followed the movement of her hair every time the warm breeze lifted it. He watched the way she’d pause in drawing, absentmindedly chewing on the tip of her pencil.
Lifting his blade, Preacher drove the sharp tip down into the wood, causing tiny fissures to splinter in all directions.
Before prison, he’d lived a life of self-indulgence—women, drinking, drugs. He’d never wanted for anything; it had all been at his fingertips.
Everything was different now. He was denying himself. And maybe that’s where this unusual interest and attraction to her began and ended. By telling himself no, he was only worsening the craving.
“What did that table ever do to you?”
Flicking his cigarette away, Preacher watched as Ginny slid onto the bench across from him. Her long dark hair had been pulled up into a thick bun, and just as he’d suspected, her smile was lazy, her eyes bloodshot and glossy.
Smoothing her hands down the front of her wrinkled white tunic, she produced a clove cigarette from her pocket and lit it. “Where is everyone?” she asked around a mouthful of spice-scented smoke.
He shrugged. “Swimming.”
“Debbie too?”
Preacher nodded.
“And why aren’t you swimming?”
Another shrug.
Puffing on her clove, Ginny’s tipped her head to one side and studied him. “Damon, talk to me. What’s the problem? Is it your father or the girl? Are you sleeping with her?”
Preacher internally groaned. Even doped up, his mother missed nothing.
Ginny Fox was most definitely prettier than her husband, nearly a decade younger too, and a hell of a lot nicer. But she had at least one thing in common with The Judge—neither of them beat around the bush. They were both as straightforward as they came.
Brows up, he gave his mother a look—the same look he’d given her every time she’d try to bring up his sex life. It was a look that said there was not a chance in hell he was going to answer her.
Talking sex with his father was one thing. His mother? Preacher would rather be strung up by his toes on a clothesline and gutted with a dull blade.
Knowing he wasn’t going to answer her, Ginny snorted out a small laugh and shook her head. Leaning forward, she placed her hand over his and squeezed. “Don’t make that face at me. I’m your mother. I have a right to know what’s going on in my baby boy’s life.”
“Not a baby,” he muttered.
She laughed again. “Oh yes you are. You are my baby and always will be.” She tapped the ash from her clove cigarette. “Furthermore,” she whispered, her eyes darting around the campsite, “you’re my favorite. Your firstborn is always your favorite.”
A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. Ginny had been telling Preacher he was her favorite for as long as he could remember. He was also fairly certain she fed both Joe and Max the same line of bullshit.
“Yeah? I thought the youngest was always the favorite.”
Ginny’s upper lip curled. “That little pervert has got the whole block in an uproar. He’s chasin’ everything in a skirt these days, even that homely little thing next door. You remember Cecelia? Alfonso’s girl?”
“The butcher’s daughter? What the hell? She’s a little kid!”
Ginny smiled. “No baby. You weren’t home long enough to get the lay of the land. She’s the same age as Max. Terribly ugly, though. Looks just like her daddy.” She paused to tap her clove again. “Anyway, these girls are just falling all over one another fighting for his attention, and I’m afraid he’s getting a big head because of it. Not to mention all the angry fathers poor Gerry is having to deal with. Alfonso showed up at the club with a shotgun!
“Your father is furious with Max over it, too. Lord help us all if he ends up like Joe. But the little devil doesn’t seem to care. Just a few weeks ago Gerry caught him on the roof with a pretty little blonde thing, both of them nearly naked. And well, he dragged Max inside and gave him a good talking-to.”
Shrugging, Ginny took another puff from her clove before stubbing it out on the tabletop and flicking it away. “Didn’t do a lick of good. A week later I caught him in his bedroom with Sean Boyle’s daughter bouncing away on top of him. And she’s a little vixen if I ever saw one. Red curls as far as the eye can see and is she ever freckled! Even her ass has freckles! Tits, too!”
“So whaddya do?” Preacher asked, fighting laughter.
Ginny shrugged. “What could I do? I told her to get her freckled backside off my son and put some clothes on. Then I took her to the kitchen, gave her a slice of Bienenstich, and told her that if she didn’t start keeping her knees together, her five minutes of fun with my Max was going to land her at Sister Agnes’ home for troubled girls.”
His shoulders quaking, Preacher dropped his face into his hands. His poor mother, having to go through this with each of her sons.
“You know I’ve been making Bienenstich every week? And I’m going to keep making it until you come home.”