Everywhere she looked she found more of the same—more Road Warriors and more women in various stages of undress, and almost all of them engaged sexually.
Her wide-eyed stare paused on a familiar shock of blond hair. Knuckles was sagging against the far wall, his eyes screwed shut, his mouth agape. In one hand he held a beer and in the other a fistful of corkscrew curls. Debbie’s eyes dropped to the dark-skinned woman on her knees before him, whose head was bobbing steadily in his lap.
Heat exploded in Debbie’s cheeks, and she quickly looked away, only to immediately spot another familiar face.
On a couch crawling with naked and half-dressed bodies, Crazy-8 was snorting white powder off a topless woman’s breasts. Finished, he used his tongue to lick off anything that remained. When they started kissing, Debbie forced herself to turn away from the hurtful scene. She didn’t understand how he could do that to Louisa—a woman he claimed to love.
Taking a quick, shaky breath, Debbie dragged her sweaty palms down the sides of her dress and then fretfully continued her search through the room. Afraid of finding Preacher in a similar situation, she began frantically twisting her butterfly ring.
Debbie’s search ground to a halt. Leaning back against the bar, Preacher stood alone, surveying the room with an impassive expression. As if there weren’t drunken orgies happening all around him. As if there weren’t two naked women dancing on the bar directly behind him.
Her heart pounding furiously inside her chest, Debbie quivered through her next breath. Now that she’d found him, she had no idea what on earth she was going to say to him. In her current state, shocked and disgusted, she wondered if returning to Sylvia’s car would be better than confronting him.
She was still undecided when one of the women dancing on the bar dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Preacher’s neck. Laughing drunkenly, the woman slumped forward, forcing Preacher to catch her.
When the woman moved in for a kiss, Debbie’s breath turned to ice in her lungs.
He wouldn’t.
Oh God, he couldn’t.
Relief came quickly when Preacher all but dropped her. Grabbing her arm, he hauled her across the room and handed her off to a cluster of men.
Then Preacher returned to the bar and lit up a cigarette. Brow heavy, mouth grim, he continued to inventory his surroundings.
For all intents and purposes, he looked like the Preacher Debbie loved. His long brown hair was tied back in a knot at his nape and his short beard was in need of a trim. He was wearing his usual attire—a pair of black jeans, a Led Zeppelin concert tee, his black leather vest, and his riding boots.
But there was something startlingly different about him. An eerie stillness to him. A strange deadness in his eyes.
This man was harder and colder than she knew Preacher to be, and more detached than she’d ever seen him before. And she’d thought she’d seen him at his worst—grief-stricken, full of rage, and feeling helpless.
“I remember you.” Hot breath, smelling strongly of whiskey tickled Debbie’s ear and cheek. Jerking away, she whirled around.
Flat, dark, dispassionate eyes met her gaze. An oily smile full of malevolence twisted beneath a thick black mustache. If she hadn’t already been flush against the wall, she would have taken several steps back.
“Rocky,” she said, quickly finding her voice. “Hi.”
Rocky’s unnerving stare cruised her figure, halting on her protruding belly. “Well fuck.” He laughed horribly, his black eyes flicking to hers. “That Preacher’s bastard in there?”
Feeling an unexpected flare of protectiveness, Debbie’s hands went to her stomach. “It’s Preacher’s baby,” she countered.
Another cruel smile split his lips. “Yeah? He marry you?”
When Debbie didn’t respond, Rocky’s smile grew. “Didn’t think so.”
He pressed a hand on the wall beside her and bent his head to hers. He captured a lock of her hair and tugged hard.
“You know, me and my boys, we got a rule. Don’t matter which one of us she’s fuckin’. If she ain’t married, she’s fair game.” Again the dry, woody stench of whiskey engulfed her.
“You’re a little fatter than I like, but you sure look sweet.” He stepped back a fraction to look at her, and inside his vile gaze, Debbie saw all the sick and twisted things he wanted to do to her.
“Wh-where’s Angel?” She stammered. Wishing for her pocketknife, Debbie cursed herself for no longer carrying it.
“Who?” he asked and laughed again. His hand dropped from her hair to her chest, just above her breasts. His fingers dipped between her cleavage and cold panic lodged in her throat, freezing her in place.
Then Rocky was suddenly gone. Wrenched away from her and shoved up against the opposite wall. Preacher quickly advanced on Rocky and gripped him by his shirt collar.
“Don’t you ever touch her!” he shouted, his voice quaking with rage. “Not fuckin’ ever!”
“Get your fuckin’ hands off me,” Rocky growled.
Dark eyes stared into dark eyes, and both men’s features tightened further. The tension between the two was tangible, rolling off them in menacing waves.
“You don’t touch her,” Preacher repeated coldly. “Ever.”
All around them Road Warriors had paused in their debauchery and were watching the exchange with wary expressions. Crazy-8 and Knuckles had also joined the fray. Fists clenched, bodies taut with aggression, they met the wary gazes of the surrounding Road Warriors with hard, unyielding stares.
It was Rocky who relented first. Smirking, he put his hands in the air. “Whatever you say, Prez…”
Preacher took a halting breath and released Rocky with a shove. Quickly straightening, Rocky turned and stalked off down the hall, but not before winking in Debbie’s direction.
Then Preacher turned his blistering gaze on Debbie. His eyes were on fire. The tendons in his neck and arms were bulging, straining beneath his skin.
She shrunk back against the wall as he advanced on her, but made no move to stop him as he grabbed her arm. Holding tightly to her, Preacher marched her down the hallway. As pregnant as she was, she had to practically run to keep up with his long-legged stride.
He brought her to a sudden stop outside of the room he always kept locked, and after fumbling with his keys, threw open the door. One look at the lethal expression still marring his handsome features and Debbie hurried inside. Preacher slammed the door shut behind them, pitching the room into near darkness.
A light flickered on, brightening the room and highlighting the thick layer of dust coating nearly everything inside it—a desk and chair, numerous family photos, and a long, rectangular table with enough chairs around it to seat every member of the club.
While the rest of the clubhouse smelled lived in, this room smelled stale and unused. Debbie’s stared briefly at the desk in the corner and the framed photograph resting on top—a black and white snapshot of a young Gerald and Ginny, a swaddled baby in Ginny’s arms, and the clubhouse towering behind them.