Humming Van Morrison’s Brown-Eyed Girl, Preacher cradled Eva in his arms, softly swaying her. Sucking on a pacifier, she stared up at him from beneath heavy, fluttering eyelids. Looking at her angelic features, one would never know just how truly diabolical she was.
Death by insomnia was his baby girl’s superpower, as Preacher was fairly certain he hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep since her birth.
He was so exhausted he was daydreaming about sleep. So goddamn exhausted that he’d chosen to stay home today rather than head to the club. Although considering the sort of bullshit that awaited him at the club, choosing to stay home hadn’t been a hard decision to make.
With the gaping absence of the Rossi family, the Columbo family was now the reigning mafia in New York. Typically Preacher wouldn’t have given them a second thought—they were just a school of sharks in a vast sea filled with predators. Only these particular sharks had recently severed what little business relationship the Silver Demons had with them and gone radio silent—an aggressive move he translated to mean that a storm was brewing off in the distance. Another storm that Preacher didn’t want to have to face just yet.
Still humming, Preacher moved into the living room. Dancing past the windows, he grimaced as the bright sunlight streaming in through the slatted blinds temporarily blinded him. His feet made quick work of the floor, eating up the distance between him and the crib in the corner.
“You need your own room, baby girl,” he whispered. “Can’t be sleepin’ in the living room forever, can you?” Preacher had meant to have found a bigger place by now, at the very least an apartment with two bedrooms. He just hadn’t yet found the time.
Glancing down at Eva, he found her eyes closed and her pacifier dangling precariously from the side of her mouth. Shoulders sagging with relief, he slowly lowered her into the crib.
Don’t wake up, don’t wake up, he chanted silently, half expecting her eyes to flip open at any moment and the ear-splitting yowling to begin again. When she remained sleeping, he blew out the breath he’d been holding.
“You need to sleep for at least five hours,” he scolded quietly. “Shit, I’ll even settle for three. You gimme three hours of sleep, and I’ll buy you whatever the hell you want—a car, a pony, a goddamn golden diaper. You name it, baby girl, and it’s yours.”
Turning away, he’d managed only a few steps when the phone rang. Horrified, Preacher darted into the kitchen, yanked the phone off the wall and the cord out of the jack, and tossed the entire contraption into the sink. Cursing, he closed his eyes and waited for the crying to begin.
Seconds passed without a sound, and Preacher cracked one eye open. Still nothing.
Relief flooded him. “Crisis averted,” he muttered.
Heading down the hall toward the bedroom, Preacher’s only plan was collapsing into bed and getting as much shut-eye as possible before Eva woke up. Instead, he found himself leaning against the doorjamb, admiring the girl in his bed.
Debbie was laying on her side, her back to him. The windows were open, and muted sounds of the city below filled the room. A warm breeze caused the hem of her T-shirt to billow, giving Preacher a nice glimpse of her backside. His eyes slowly traced the curve of her hip down to the seam where ass meets thigh. Then lower, admiring the full length of her legs.
Moving into the room, Preacher took a seat beside her on the bed. She twitched as he palmed her calf, and then shivered as he ran his hand up the length of her leg, pausing on her hip.
Smiling, he leaned over her, and was startled to find her eyes red and her cheeks wet. The moment their gazes collided, she hurriedly swiped at her cheeks and attempted a smile.
Preacher shifted onto his stomach beside her. “Wheels, what the hell?”
She only stared back at him, her bottom lip trembling, looking for all the world like the sky was going to come crashing down around them at any moment.
“I have to tell you something,” she eventually whispered. Swallowing thickly, she cast her eyes aside. “You’re going to be angry.”
“Why? You steal my wallet again?” He winked at her. Only his joke didn’t have the intended effect, and instead of laughing, Debbie’s eyes filled with fresh tears.
“Hey,” he said gently, grabbing her and swiftly tucking her partially beneath him. Situating his leg between hers, he lowered his head, bringing them nose to nose. “Whatever it is, whatever’s wrong, I’ll fix it, okay? I’ll fuckin’ fix it.”
She made a noise—a choking sob, and her eyes squeezed shut. She attempted turning away, and Preacher quickly rolled over top of her, caging her beneath him. “Wheels,” he growled, growing frustrated. “Baby, talk to me.”
Her eyes opened tentatively. Worry lines creased her brow. Breath shuddered from her lungs.
“Please don’t get mad,” she whispered.
Eyes narrowed with concern, he shook his head. “I promise.”
Another breath shuddered free and then, “My name isn’t Debbie,” she whispered in a rush.
He blinked, and then pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. Brows lifted, he murmured, “You don’t say…”
“It’s Elizabeth,” she continued. “My real name is Elizabeth.”
Debbie held his gaze, and surprise rippled through Preacher. She was telling the truth. After all this time, she finally trusted him.
“Elizabeth Taylor?” he asked—an attempt to lighten the mood.
She choked on her laughter, laughter that quickly turned to a sob. “Preacher,” she whispered frantically. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I should have told you the truth from the beginning. I should have—”
Moving off her, he helped her to sit and pulled her into his arms.
“Wheels, I don’t give a shit what your name is. Never did, still don’t. You think names matter to me, then you don’t know me at all.” He shook his head and shrugged. “Far as I’m concerned, I’m Preacher, you’re Wheels, and everything else can go—”
There was a knock at the front door—a heavy, frantic pounding. Debbie jumped and Preacher rolled quickly out of bed, cursing.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, stalking down the hallway. “I’m gonna kill whoever that is if they—”
Eva’s cry rang through the apartment.
Still cursing, Preacher flipped the locks on the door and flung it open.
“Preacher!” Joe burst inside and grabbed Preacher’s arms. His one eye was wild, and a light sheen of sweat covered his face.
“Why the fuck aren’t you answering the phone?” he demanded. “We’re in the middle of a fucking shitstorm! The Feds found the house in Greenpoint! Preacher, man, they raided it this morning! Killed two of Rocky’s guys when they stormed the place!”