“Sylvie’s here?” Frowning, Preacher looked at Debbie. Biting down on her bottom lip, she nodded.
“Preacher, man, she’s got a gun!” Panic-stricken, Knuckles was hopping from foot to foot, while both nodding and shaking his head back and forth. “She’s really gonna kill him!”
“A gun?” Again, Preacher looked at Debbie.
Mouth hanging open, she only shook her head.
Preacher looked instantly ten years older and markedly more exhausted than she’d ever seen him before. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Jesus. Fucking. Christ.”
“Knuckles, you stay with her.” Preacher pointed at Debbie. “And lock this fuckin’ door behind me. None of the trash out there gets anywhere near my girl, you got that?”
Knuckles nodded. “I got it, boss.”
Locking the door behind Preacher, Knuckles turned to Debbie, a strained smile on his face. “You ain’t got no gun, right Debbie darling?”
He pointed to the words on his T-shirt—PEACE, LOVE, AND PUSSY.
“’Cause, I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
? ? ?
Preacher found Frank waiting for him at the bottom of the first-floor stairwell. In sharp contrast to the others, Preacher could always count on Frank to be sober and ready for anything that came their way. The man had zero distractions—he didn’t drink, didn’t use drugs, and didn’t mess with women outside of his marriage. Back when they were kids, Preacher used to rag on him for his inability to let loose and run wild. Now though, as a grown man with the responsibility of the entire club resting solely on his shoulders, he was glad for Frank’s steadfastness and reliability—even if it was sometimes to the point of neurosis.
“All clear?” he asked.
Frank gestured to a small cluster of half-dressed people being ushered down the stairs by Whiskey Jim. “That’s the last of ‘em.”
“It’s only the three of them still up there,” Jim called out, shooting Preacher an irritated look. He’d been doing that a lot lately—irritated looks, exasperated sighs, and eye rolls. All blatant signs of disrespect that Jim would never have dared with The Judge.
Preacher was aware that Jim wasn’t happy about the changes being made to the club, mainly the addition of the Road Warriors. But that decision wasn’t up to Jim or anyone else.
Having had enough of Jim’s blatant disregard for his authority, Preacher held Jim’s stare, silently conveying his displeasure until Jim had the good sense to look away. Satisfied, he turned back to Frank.
“Did he say three? Who else is up there?”
“Sylvie won’t let the whore leave.”
Preacher cursed the entire way up three flights of stairs. He expected this shit from Max—eighteen years old and newly patched in, he was a ticking time bomb, ready to blow his load over every pair of tits that so much as jiggled in his direction. But Joe? With a wife and kid at home and another kid on the way, Joe should be spending less time at the club, not more.
To make matters worse, Joe rarely put the bottle down these days. More often than not, Preacher would find him passed out somewhere in the clubhouse, sans clothes and with no memory of what had happened the night before. With the arrival of the Road Warriors, Joe had only gotten worse.
Maybe it was time to start rethinking Joe as his vice president. Maybe he should have told tradition to go fuck itself and given the job to someone better suited. If things continued on this way, if Joe couldn’t get his shit together, eventually Preacher was going to have to give the position to someone else—someone up to the task.
They climbed higher up the stairs, and soon Sylvia’s hysterical ranting filled Preacher’s ears. Frank flicked his gaze down the empty hallway. “They’re in Joe’s room. You want my help, or you want me standin’ guard?”
“Wait here. Make sure no one else comes up.”
Leaving Frank at the end of the hall, Preacher crept cautiously toward Joe’s room. Keeping against the wall, he peeked inside.
Sylvia stood just inside the doorway clutching a small revolver—a .38 special that Preacher recognized as one of several guns he’d given specifically to Joe. Preacher ground his teeth. His brother wasn’t just careless, he was a bona fide moron.
“Where’d you get the gun, Sylvie?” Preacher called out.
She spared a quick glance over her shoulder, long enough for Preacher to see that her face was streaked with makeup and tears. “Mind your own damn business, Preacher!”
“This is my business,” he replied. “That’s my little brother you’re pointin’ a gun at.”
Sylvia let out a strangled sob. “Your little brother is a rotten two-timin’ whore!”
Preacher sighed. If Sylvia didn’t shoot Joe, he just might do it himself. “Yep, Sylvie, he sure is. But that don’t mean you can shoot him.”
“He never comes home!” she cried. “I can’t come to the club anymore, and he never comes home! And then I find him with this—this whore!”
“I didn’t know he was married!” a new voice cried out.
“What did you say?” Sylvia turned toward the voice, and the gun in her hand began to quake.
“Sylvie, no!” Joe shouted. “Point the fuckin’ gun at me!”
Preacher quickly shifted to the opposite side of the doorway, allowing him a better view of the room. A young woman with messy brown hair and red lipstick smeared across her cheek was sitting up in Joe’s bed, clutching a blanket to her chest.
A few feet away Joe stood naked, cupping his crotch with both hands.
The gun swung back to Joe and Sylvia exploded. “What? You care about this whore? You can’t make time for your own son, but you care about her?”
“Please, Sylvie,” Joe pleaded. “You’ve got to calm down. That ain’t what I meant!”
Preacher’s eyes were on the gun wobbling precariously in Sylvia’s unsteady grip. One wrong twitch on the trigger and Joe was going to end up with a hole in his chest.
Out of time and options, Preacher lunged, grabbing Sylvia from behind. Quickly gripping her wrists, he squeezed until she cried out in pain, and the gun clattered to the floor.
“No!” Sylvia thrashed in his arms, twisting her body and flailing her legs. Wrapping his arms around her middle, Preacher dragged her into the hallway.
“Frank! The gun, the girl!” he roared needlessly. Frank was already there, rushing past him into the room.
“Listen to me, Sylvie!” Preacher had to shout to hear himself over Sylvia’s hysterical screaming. “Joe doesn’t love you! You hear me? He does not fuckin’ love you!”
Sylvia went still and silent.
“He didn’t want to marry you, either.” Preacher lowered his voice and softened his tone. “He did it ‘cause our old man told him he had to.”
Sylvia heaved brokenly. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “No…”
“You know it’s true. You know I’m right, Sylvie.”
“I thought he was gonna change. I thought he could love me… oh God, I’m a fool…” Shoulders shaking, she began to sob. Preacher held her until she quieted and then he turned her in his arms and set her back against the wall.