“What’s your pleasure today, Debbie darling?” Bullet called out. “We got Queen, we got the Doobie Brothers… we got some Aerosmith…”
“Blondie,” she replied with a smile. “Always Blondie.”
He flashed her a gleaming white grin that accentuated his dark brown skin. “’Course,” he drawled, “What was I thinkin’? I got your Blondie comin’ right up, little mama.”
Debbie headed for the bar and took a much-needed seat on one of the stools. Although her pregnant stomach was still measuring relatively small and had yet to become a bother, she was tired and sore almost all the time.
“Aw, honey,” Anne cooed. “You look exhausted. How’re ya feelin’?”
She shrugged. “I’m okay, I guess. Just wish Preacher was back.”
Sighing, Louisa frowned down at the drink in her hand. “They were supposed to be back days ago.”
“Preacher’ll be back soon, don’t you worry, honey.” Anne wrapped an arm around Louisa’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “Yours too, baby doll.
“I envy you both, though, you know?” Smiling mischievously, Anne tucked her long blonde hair behind her ears and leaned over the bar. “Jim’s gettin’ on in years, so he doesn’t go riding as much. But when he did…” Anne’s smile turned positively wicked. “Oh honey, the welcome home sex was some of the best I’ve ever had.”
Debbie and Louisa glanced to where Jim was still snoring on the sofa and started giggling. “Gross,” Louisa mouthed to Debbie and Debbie nodded vigorously in agreement.
“I saw that!” Anne snapped. “And all I gotta say is don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
“Speaking of gross…” Louisa’s eyes darted suspiciously around the room, and she lowered her voice. “Did Frank leave?”
Debbie nodded. “A few minutes ago.”
Brows up, Louisa looked at Anne. “Did you get a load of Maria wearing that big ol’ neck scarf, lookin’ like Mary Tyler Moore?”
“Mmhmm, sure did.”
“He’s hitting her again. I just know it.”
Anne snorted. “Who are you kidding? He didn’t ever stop.”
“Hitting her?” Debbie repeated dumbly, her gaze darting between the two women. “Frank hits Maria?”
Louisa bobbed her head dramatically up and down. “Oh my God, Debbie, it’s so obvious. This one time last year she wore sunglasses all through dinner. Like we wouldn’t know what she was hiding underneath.”
Anne nudged Louisa. “And remember when I saw the bruises on her arm?” Facing Debbie, Anne said, “I accidentally walked in on her in the bathroom. And I’m talkin’, these weren’t no small bruises. Her whole arm was black and blue.”
Debbie’s hand went to her stomach. Thinking of Maria, how quiet she was, and the way she always shied away from Frank’s touch, made Debbie feel sick. “Does Preacher know?”
Anne shot her a disbelieving look. “Most men are oblivious to things like that. ‘Sides, it ain’t any of our business. It’s their marriage.”
Louisa nodded in agreement, and Debbie gaped at them both.
She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it before—the painful secrets Maria was carrying around. Especially when she knew full well the burden of carrying around painful secrets. Debbie might have left the source of her pain on the other side of the country, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still with her. It would always be with her.
“Someone should tell Preacher,” she insisted.
“Honey, you know those two have been friends since forever, right? You tell Preacher and he says somethin’ to Frank and Frank gets angry, and then who do you think gets the short end of the stick, hmm?” Lips pursed and twisted, Anne regarded Debbie.
Debbie recalled the one and only time she had tried to tell her mother what was happening to her. It hadn’t gone well, and things had only gotten worse for her.
“Frank will take it out on Maria,” Debbie whispered.
Anne nodded gravely. “You see? That’s why we mind our own business. Now hand me the ashtray, will you?”
Sliding off her stool, Debbie reached down the bar and grabbed one of two glass ashtrays residing at the end. She slid one toward Anne, leaving the other where it had remained untouched since her arrival in New York City—with a half smoked clove cigarette still resting inside.
Debbie had hardly known Ginny and Gerald, but after spending half a year with their family and friends, she certainly felt like she’d known them. Ginny most of all.
Debby felt Ginny’s presence almost everywhere in the clubhouse—in the fun styles of the furniture and the colorful décor. Certain rooms even smelled like the clove cigarettes she’d loved.
“Alright, I’m heading home.” Debbie glanced around the room. “Anyone seen Tiny?”
Preacher insisted that Debbie have a round-the-clock bodyguard whenever he couldn’t be with her. Unfortunately for Debbie, her bodyguard was usually Tiny. Although he always meant well, the man was a public nuisance. He was loud, obnoxious, usually stinking to high heaven, and always drawing attention Debbie would rather not receive.
“Last I saw he was chillin’ out front,” Bullet called out. “Probably scammin’ on chicks.”
Anne choked on her laughter. “Unless he’s offerin’ money up front, that ain’t never gonna happen!”
? ? ?
Keys jingling in his hand, Preacher bounded up the poorly lit staircase that led to his fourth-floor apartment—a dinky, dingy one-bedroom. All his furniture were hand-me-downs from his parents, and his decorations were sparse—only the bare necessities.
It had been perfect for him—a minimalist who’d never spent much time at home—but with Debbie here now and a baby on the way, he’d been meaning to find a bigger, nicer place.
He just needed to find the time.
He’d been gone three weeks this time. And three weeks without Debbie was three weeks too long. If she wasn’t pregnant, he’d be taking her with him. Although… not on this last trip.
The Road Warriors had more than lived up to their reputation for sex and violence, and sometimes both at once. He’d watched them pass around their own women to fellow club members without reservation. He’d seen brother pitted against brother in bloody boxing matches that almost always ended in an all-out brawl.
He’d also witnessed something far worse.
While meeting with a group of Road Warriors inside a highway bar in West Virginia, a young woman had been forcefully dragged up onto a pool table, stripped naked, and raped. Nearly every Road Warrior in the place had taken a turn with her, sometimes two at a time.
Almost two weeks had passed since the incident, and Preacher could still hear her screams, could still see her thrashing on the pool table every time he closed his eyes.
The Judge, had he still been alive, would have stripped his patch for that—for standing idly by and allowing a woman to be raped on his watch. Hell, The Judge would have punched his lights out for even associating with men like the Road Warriors.
But The Judge was gone.