“Control freak,” she whispered, wriggling wildly beneath him.
With a growl, he increased his speed. And with it, everything quickened. His mouth on hers. Her breaths. His heartbeat. Her hands roaming his back and ass.
Debbie dragged her nails across his shoulders and moaned his name—a sexy-as-hell something she always did right before she came. Glancing at her face, he found her perfect features tightly drawn, and barely breathing. He watched, rapt, as her breath abruptly punched past her lips and her eyelids fluttered erratically. Gasping, she cried out his name twice more. And as she clenched and pulsed around him, he doubled his speed and finished only moments later.
Preacher collapsed on the bed beside Debbie and spent the next several minutes just catching his breath. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he turned to look at her. Her eyes were already on him, gleaming with satisfaction.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“Yeah?” He started to smile. “That mean you’re gonna take back that shit you said about Hightower?”
Preacher caught Debbie’s hand before she could smack his chest, and quickly gathered her in his arms. Laughing, he buried his face in her neck.
“I can’t believe Tiny slept through all that screamin’,” he murmured, breathing in the salty scent of her sweat-dampened skin.
Debbie huffed. “I wasn’t screaming.”
“You were definitely screamin’.”
“Was not.”
“Was.”
“Was not.”
Eventually they fell silent, and Preacher soon grew drowsy. Untangling himself from Debbie, he rolled over and turned off the light.
“Preacher?”
“Yeah?”
“I know you can’t tell me what you’ve been doing on the road, but… you haven’t been saving girls at truck stops, have you?”
Although he couldn’t see her face in the dark, and her tone was light, Preacher picked up on her underlying unease.
She worried for nothing. Yeah, he had opportunities to be with other women, but he always passed on them. Because he gave a shit about this girl. Loved her, even.
If there was anything losing his parents had taught Preacher, outside of his newfound thirst for revenge, it was not to take the people he loved for granted.
Reaching out blindly, he pulled Debbie to him, tucking her tightly against him.
“Not a chance in hell,” he said. “I learned my damned lesson the first time.”
Chapter 28
“Joey didn’t say nothin’ about a party,” Sylvia hissed.
Seated inside Sylvia’s cherry red Chevy Chevette, Debbie peered up at the looming brownstone. The music coming from inside was loud enough to be heard from the street. Both the street and the alleyway beside the clubhouse were littered with at least a hundred motorcycles.
Looking over the dozen or so people lounging on the stoop and walkway, men and women that Debbie didn’t recognize, one thing in particular caught her eye: the Viking warrior emblem on the men’s denim vests.
The Road Warriors were here.
Debbie bit down on her bottom lip. Was that why Preacher had insisted she stay away from the club?
For weeks neither Debbie nor Sylvia had been allowed at the club. All the women had been ordered to stay away without being given any real reason why. It was club business, they’d been told. Worse, Preacher was always at the club now. When he did come home, he came home late and was usually gone before she woke in the morning.
Debbie looked at Sylvia. “Is this what they’ve been doing this whole time? Partying?”
Sylvia dark eyes flashed angrily. “Joey hasn’t been home in two weeks. His last phone call was four fuckin’ days ago.”
A wave of anxiety rolled through Debbie and her hands flew to her stomach.
She knew she shouldn’t compare her relationship with Preacher to Joe and Sylvia’s unhappy marriage, yet she couldn’t help but suddenly make those comparisons.
Joe resented Sylvia, and to some extent his son, for trapping him in a marriage he clearly never wanted—that was obvious to anyone who knew them. Yet Sylvia seemed oblivious.
Was that what was happening to her and Preacher? Was he sick of her already and slowly shutting her out of his life? Was that why she wasn’t welcome at the clubhouse anymore?
Tears pricked her eyes. Had this god-awful pregnancy ruined everything?
“Move the fuckin’ car outta the street, ya dumb bitch!” A passing taxi driver shook his fist at Sylvia.
Yanking the keys from the ignition, Sylvia shoved them into her purse and kicked the driver’s side door open. “Fuck you, you fuckin’ piece of shit!” she shouted after the taxi.
Debbie hurried to exit the vehicle and catch up to Sylvia as she stormed toward the clubhouse. Partygoers eyed them with amusement as they wove their way through the small crowd gathered outside. Ducking her head, Debbie could only imagine how they must look—both of them pregnant and at a party full of bikers.
“Jesus-fucking-Christ, Mary, mother of fucking God.” Sylvia’s New Jersey accent thickened with each muttered curse word.
The front hallway was dark, dense with smoke, and filled with people. A dozen different smells hung heavily in the cloudy air—cigarettes, marijuana, liquor, and sweat.
Debbie followed Sylvia’s horrified stare into the kitchen and froze.
A blonde woman, utterly naked, lay spread-eagled on the same dining table where they ate their Saturday dinners. A man loomed over her, his hips pumping at breakneck speed between her thighs. Other men were gathered around the table taking turns kissing and groping her. Beyond them, a gathered crowd in the kitchen cheered them on.
“She needs a dick in her mouth!” a man shouted.
“She needs two!” someone else answered.
As cheers went up across the kitchen, bodies surged, converging on the table. A chair was thrown, dishes were shattered. Men toppled over one another as they scrambled to climb onto the table.
A large, burly black man emerged, towering over the crowd. He crossed the kitchen, pushing and shoving other men out of his way as if they weighed nothing. Coming up behind the man still pumping furiously into the woman, the burly man grabbed hold of the other man’s neck, wrenched him off the table, and sent him flying into the nearby wall.
While the fighting continued all around him, he took the other man’s place between the woman’s legs and unzipped his pants. And as he began to thrust, cheers and jeers went up across the rowdy crowd.
Sylvia turned briefly to Debbie. “He’s fucking dead,” she spat and spun away. Before Debbie could respond, Sylvia darted down the hallway.
Taking care not to draw attention to herself, Debbie pressed herself against the wall and followed it down the hall. She slowly approached the living room where the music was playing at near-deafening decibels and peered inside.