Knuckles whirled on Smokey, his mouth hanging open. “Did you see that chick?” he demanded.
“How could I not?” Smokey’s expression was as dry as his tone. “Hard to watch a movie when I got a goddamn ass bouncin’ in my face.”
Knuckles continued to look horrified. “Fuckin’-A, that was a piece of ass worth lookin’ at!” He mimed smacking a woman’s backside.
“You’ve seen one ass, you’ve seen ‘em all.”
“Man, what happened to you? You’re, like, asexual or somethin’ now?”
Amused, Preacher glanced between the two men. Smokey wasn’t asexual; he was just a man who’d loved his wife and lost her. Growing up, Preacher couldn’t remember a time when Maryanne hadn’t been sick. As a diabetic, she’d slowly grown thinner, frailer, until her body eventually succumbed.
Before Maryanne’s passing, Smokey had been a different man. He’d had a sense of humor, was hardly ever seen without a drink in his hand, and had often indulged in other women. He’d been a lot like Knuckles, actually. It wasn’t until after Maryanne’s death that Smokey had done a one-eighty in the personality department. Full of guilt and grief, the club’s business became his sole focus.
Knuckles didn’t understand this yet, how something could change a man so drastically. Truth be told, just two years earlier, neither had Preacher.
Just then, a police car flew past at top speed, lights blazing, sirens wailing, turning everyone’s attention to the street. The response of the several dozen bikers still milling around was to thrust their fists in the air, shouting slurs and obscenities.
“Something’s goin’ on at the park,” Jim said. “That ain’t the first pig to blow by here.”
Knuckles faked a yawn. “It’s the same old shit every year. Last summer some dumb shit drank himself to death. Bunch of kids found him floatin’ face down in the swimmin’ hole, buck-ass naked, and the cops sent us all packin’. You ask me, they’re just lookin’ for an excuse to kick us out.”
Preacher raised an eyebrow. When you put a large number of out-of-control people in a space together, it wasn’t uncommon for things to get, well, out of control. Tempers flared and fights broke out. People drank too much booze, smoked too much grass, and then some dumbass kid goes and accidentally fucks the wife of a Hercules-sized bastard with a rare knife collection. Not that Preacher knew anything at all about that.
Smokey started his bike, revving his engine. “Whatever it is, it ain’t got shit to do with us.” He looked to Preacher and jerked his chin toward the road. “Come on VP, take your place up front and lead us back.”
Jim revved his engine and Knuckles followed suit—all eyes were on him.
Preacher’s neck muscles stiffened and began to ache, and his chest felt suddenly too tight. Smokey had been appointed temporary vice president while he’d been locked up. Now it appeared as if the man was handing him back his title.
Only he didn’t want it. More, he didn’t deserve it. A man like Smokey was far more qualified, and infinitely more deserving than he would ever be. Unlike Preacher, Smokey was loyal to both the club and The Judge and would never have abandoned either.
As he reached for his neck, Debbie stepped out from under his arm, plucked his helmet from his bike and placed it on her head. Fumbling with the chin strap, she offered him a small, encouraging smile that he found himself returning.
Mounting his motorcycle, Preacher waited for Debbie to climb on behind him before starting the engine. Her hands on his shoulders, she scooted quickly up the seat until her body was flush against his. Wrapping her arms around his middle, she slid her hands over his stomach, her fingertips pressing possessively into his skin.
It was a small, seemingly insignificant thing that Preacher might never have noticed had he not had the misfortune of having had very little human contact for two full years. And what contact he did have had been the glaring opposite of pleasurable.
But this—an unconscious gesture from his pretty-little-pickpocket, laying claim to him, telling him in no uncertain terms that she most definitely wanted him—filled Preacher with something he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. If ever. And almost instantly the pain in his neck began to ease.
Preacher covered her hands with one of his, and Debbie squeezed him tighter. His chest loosened and he blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Five minutes later they were heading down the road, with Preacher riding point.
Chapter 23
“What’s goin’ on?” Preacher asked no one in particular.
An older woman with a head full of curlers scowled around her cigarette. “I look like the fuckin’ news to you? Ain’t nobody tellin’ us nothin!”
The state park was a mob scene. Police cars and fire trucks blocked every entrance, forcing Preacher and the others to leave their bikes on the side of the road and head into the park on foot.
Crowds of rally-goers had amassed inside the picnic area, some spilling out onto the road. Park Rangers appeared to have herded them there and looked to be providing crowd control.
Everyone Preacher spoke to seemed largely confused—no two stories were the same. While one group was convinced a fight had broken out and someone had been injured, another group guessed there’d been a fire. A heavily intoxicated man stumbling about muttered something along the lines of aliens having come to Earth.
“Ain’t that Sylvie?” Knuckles squinted through the darkness, pointing at a picnic table full of people.
“Hey, Sylvie!” Preacher shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth.
A head full of dark hair snapped up. Swiping at her cheeks, Sylvia pushed herself off the picnic bench and shuffled quickly toward them. Preacher jogged ahead, meeting her before the rest of the group.
“Something’s wrong!” she cried, gripping his arms, her long red nails biting his skin. “We tried to get back to camp, but they got it all blocked off! Joey made me wait here, and he hasn’t come back!”
Prying her hands off him, Preacher squeezed them gently. “Breathe, Sylvie. I’m sure everything is fine.” He briefly scanned the crowded area. “Where’s my mom and dad? They here somewhere, too?”
Sylvia shook her head, her eyes wet with tears. “I don’t know! Everyone left me! I don’t know where anyone is!”
“Alright, alright, calm down, okay?” He squeezed her once more before releasing her. Anne took his place beside her and slipped her arm through Sylvia’s.
“I’ll find out what’s goin’ on, Sylvie. You just sit tight.” Preacher glanced around and found that the rest of the group had joined them. “Jim, you stay here with the girls. Knuckles, Smokey, you’re with me.”
He paused when he noticed that Debbie appeared nervous—her eyes were wide, and darting in every direction.
Taking hold of her chin, he lowered his head to hers. “You get asked any questions, give ‘em that fake-ass name of yours and say you’re with me—that you’re my girl.”