As if he’d been punched in the gut, all air fled Preacher’s lungs.
Max rushed down the hall. “Debbie, she had the baby! She’s at the hospital! Sylvie’s with her—Tiny, too!”
“She’s at the hospital,” Preacher repeated dumbly. His heart thudded in his chest. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Is she… okay?”
Max skidded to a stop and gripped Preacher’s shoulders. “She’s fine. They’re both fine.”
Preacher stared at his brother. “Both?”
Max grinned. “Yeah, both. Preacher, you’ve got yourself a daughter.”
Chapter 30
Sandwiched between Max and Smokey on the sofa, Preacher swallowed the last of his beer and got to his feet. On a chair nearby, Crazy-8 held Louisa in his lap and was whispering something in her ear. Preacher winked at her as he passed, and she burst into giggles.
Across the room, Preacher stopped beside the group gathered around the television. A baseball game was on, the New York Yankees vs. the Detroit Tigers, but instead of watching the game they were arguing over which Hendrix album had the better lineup.
“Electric Ladyland tops ‘em all,” Preacher interjected, smacking Bullet upside his head.
Knuckles raised his beer. “You know it, Prez!”
“Fuck you, you crazy white fools!” Bullet shouted. “The Jimi Hendrix Experience, hands down!”
“It don’t count if he was already dead!”
“Dumbass kids,” Jim complained. “What about the greats? What about Sinatra?”
“Here we go again,” Anne muttered. “Sinatra this, Sinatra that.”
Knuckles made a face. “Man, screw Sinatra. The only Frank I’m listenin’ to is Zappa. And you, Ghost.” Knuckles nudged Frank. “If you ever come up with somethin’ useful to say.”
“Nice shirt,” Frank said wryly, eyeing the slogan printed across Knuckles’ chest—MY FACE LEAVES AT 10:00. BE ON IT. “That about sums up your thought processes, huh?”
As more insults were traded, Preacher moved into the hall and turned the corner. He paused briefly as he passed the kitchen, hearing Debbie’s soft laughter over the clanking and clattering of dishes. Preacher started to smile, then frowned as Sylvia’s horse laugh drowned out nearly every other sound.
Up ahead, amid a cloud of smoke, Tiny and Joe were seated at the breakfast table, sharing a joint. A bag of chips and a small handheld radio sat on the table between them, Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way playing.
On the floor nearby, little Frankie was pushing his toy trucks around a very frustrated-looking Trey. Not yet able to walk, Trey was relegated to making mad grabs for the trucks each time Frankie brought them near, only to have Frankie snatch them away at the last second.
Preacher bent down beside the boys and held out his hand. “How’s it hangin’ over here? You two gonna gimme some skin?”
Grinning, Frankie slapped his little hand down on top of Preacher’s. Trey, his face screwed up in concentration, batted furiously at Preacher’s arm.
“Preacher, brother, you look like shit,” Tiny called out.
Feeling like shit, Preacher staggered toward the table and sat down with a thud. Resting his head on the tabletop, he said, “Man, I haven’t slept in days. My kid does nothing but eat, shit, and scream.”
A little over a week had passed since Preacher had brought Debbie home from the hospital. An entire week of feeling overwhelmed, completely out of his element, and borderline delirious from sleep deprivation—even more so than usual.
Joe’s eyes slid to where Frankie Jr. was now running circles around Trey. Trey’s face was quickly turning red, while his bottom lip trembled and his eyes filled with frustrated tears.
Joe snorted. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“And you got another one on the way.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Stop fuckin’ her,” Preacher offered. “No more nookie, no more kids.”
“I stop fuckin’ her,” Joe shot back, “and she starts screamin’. And then I got screamin’ kids and a screamin’ wife.”
“Poor Joey,” Tiny taunted, “who’s got a smokin’ hot wife who likes fuckin’ him.” Tiny rolled his eyes. “Cry me a goddamn river. I can’t even pay a bitch to like fuckin’ me.”
Eye wide and dancing with laughter, Joe looked at Preacher. It was the first hint of a smile Preacher had seen on his brother’s face in… hell, Preacher couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen Joe smile.
“Smokin’ hot?” Joe asked, then laughed. “Tiny, you got a thing for Sylvie… ‘cause I’ll fuckin’ pay you to take her.”
A shrill wail rang out through the apartment, causing all three men to cringe. A moment later Debbie appeared in the kitchen entryway. She moved into the hallway utterly oblivious of Preacher’s presence, her sole focus on the bundle in her arms. If he’d been worried about Debbie coming to terms with being a mother, he wasn’t anymore. Every day he had to beg to hold his own daughter.
Preacher’s eyes roamed her body. Her dark hair hung over her shoulders in loose, messy waves. Wearing his Led Zeppelin tour T-shirt, a pair of loose-fitting track shorts, and a pair of tube socks pulled up to her knees, she looked damn good for a girl who’d just given birth. She hadn’t gained much weight while pregnant—she’d been all stomach. But what she had gained, Preacher was hoping she’d keep. He’d always appreciated a little extra when it came to a woman’s curves.
Slapping his hands down on the table, he pushed himself to his feet. “Speakin’ of smokin’ hot girls…”
Humming Fleetwood Mac, Preacher followed Debbie into the bedroom. Closing the door behind him, he joined her on the bed.
“Remind me to find us a bigger place,” he muttered. Resting his head against Debbie’s shoulder, he glanced down at his daughter and smiled. She was perfect—ten fingers, ten toes, full, fat cheeks and a tuft of dark hair on her head. Her tiny hands were currently curled into itty-bitty fists, one resting on the swell of Debbie’s breast while she suckled. Her eyes—big, expressive eyes framed in dark lashes—were on him.
Looking into her eyes, a lump of emotion swelled in his throat. While the shape and size of his daughter’s eyes were similar to Debbie’s, their color—a deep, smoky gray—belonged to Ginny.
Gently he closed his hand around her bare foot and ran the pad of his thumb over the tops of her toes. “Hi baby girl,” he murmured. “Is it your nap time yet? ‘Cause it damn sure is mine.”
“If you’ll be quiet she’ll fall asleep.”
He glanced up at Debbie and snorted. “If I had your tit in my mouth, I wouldn’t be sleepin’.”
Debbie’s lips twisted adorably. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“I would… if I didn’t have a baby in my lap.”
“Excuses, excuses…” Noticing his daughter’s eyes had drifted closed, Preacher chuckled. “Look at this shit. How the hell do you sleep and eat at the same time?”
“I don’t know… why don’t you ask Tiny?”
“I’m tellin’ him you said that.”