Pain flared hot in Preacher’s neck, and his temples began to throb. He shoved Joe away. “Shit,” he breathed, running his hand over his mouth and beard. “Fucking shit.” He swallowed hard. “What about the others?”
Joe shook his head. “The other two guys got away. They made a beeline for Rocky, and now he’s movin’ all his boys outta the city as we speak.”
“No, idiot, the other warehouses. Did the Feds find ‘em?”
“No, man, no. Everything else is solid. But… Rocky’s pissed. He wants to move the—” Joe’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes flicking to something past Preacher.
Glancing over his shoulder, Preacher found Debbie standing just outside the living room. Wide-eyed and pale-faced, she was bouncing Eva gently in her arms.
“They can’t trace the warehouses to us,” he muttered quietly, turning back to Joe. “We made sure of it.”
“They can trace the fuckin’ Road Warriors to us!” Joe hissed.
His headache worsening, Preacher grabbed Joe by his shirt collar and brought them nose to nose.
“Do you ever pay attention? The Road Warriors ain’t patched in. All the Feds found was a couple nomads inside a warehouse. Owning a motorcycle and wearing a cut doesn’t automatically make those men mine, does it? Greenpoint is gonna lead them to the Rossi family, and dead men don’t tell tales. Worst case scenario, the Feds raid the clubhouse on a hunch, hoping to find a connection, and you know the worst thing they’re gonna find? Tiny’s fuckin’ stash of special brownies.”
Joe’s shoulders slumped. “Jesus, Preacher… I thought we were up shit creek for sure.”
Gritting his teeth, Preacher released Joe with a shove. They were still up shit creek. Never mind the Feds, Preacher’s concerns lay with the Columbians. With the loss of the Greenpoint warehouse, the Silver Demons had just lost a great deal of product they’d been entrusted to move.
“Man, I don’t get it.” Joe kept his voice low. “We had that shit locked up tight. There’s no way the Feds coulda found Greenpoint on their own… unless we can’t trust Rocky, or fuck, what if it was one of our boys?”
Preacher’s head all but exploded with pain. While massaging his temples, he wracked his brain, trying to think of when, or with whom, he might have screwed up.
“Preacher.”
He turned to Debbie. Still holding Eva, she’d plastered herself against the wall. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I’m s-sorry.” Her lips trembled and her words shook. “I’m so sorry.”
Preacher stared at her.
“I should have told you the truth.” She continued to cry.
“Preacher?” Joe moved to stand beside him.
“Go downstairs.” Preacher’s tone was clipped and hard. “Wait for me there.”
“But—”
“Now, Joe. Right fuckin’ now.”
Preacher stayed quiet until he heard the door close.
“What did you do?” he bit out, and when Debbie didn’t respond immediately, he shouted, “What did you fuckin’ do?”
Startled, Eva began to cry. Blanching, Debbie shrunk against the wall. “There were two agents!” she blurted out. “And they told me—”
“I don’t give a shit what they told you!” he raged, advancing on her.
“They knew who I was!” she cried. “Preacher, they said they were going to send me home! They said they’d take Eva away! They—”
“Stop!” he roared. “Fuck!” Running his hands agitatedly through his hair, he turned away.
His eyes darted in every direction—he didn’t know what to do, where to look, what to think. How had this happened? His girl had betrayed the club—shit, his girl had betrayed him. Adrenaline-fueled anger took root inside of him. His hands clenched into fists, and he spun around to face her.
“Whatever they said, whatever they threatened, you should have come to me first! Now two men are dead because of you, and if I can’t somehow make back the money for everything the club just lost, I’m gonna be next!”
Debbie’s tear-stained face crumpled, and she sank to her knees on the floor. “I didn’t know,” she gasped. “Please, I didn’t even know what Greenpoint was. I was scared—I didn’t know—”
“What else did you tell them?” he demanded tersely through clenched teeth.
“Nothing! I swear it, Preacher, nothing! I don’t know anything!”
Jaw locked and twitching, muscles coiled and ready to spring, Preacher lost the battle he was waging with his temper and sent his fist hurtling into the wall, smashing through the plaster. Twice more he punched the wall, the action doing nothing to soothe the waves of aggression rolling through him.
Worse, Debbie was still crying, and Eva had progressed to wailing. And Preacher needed to get the fuck out of there.
He moved quickly to the door, snatching his wallet and keys from the table as he passed.
“Preacher—wait!”
Whirling around, Preacher pinned Debbie with the full weight of his fury. “I have to go,” he bit out. His chest heaved with angry breaths. “I have to fix what you did.”
Shaking, Debbie got to her feet. Clutching a still-crying Eva to her chest, she took a tentative step forward. “Please,” she whispered brokenly. “Please don’t let them send me back home. I can’t go—”
“Stop!” he shouted, “just stop! I can’t—fuck, I can’t deal with you right now!”
Turning away, he shoved into his boots, wrenched open the door, then slammed it shut behind him.
Debbie’s sobs followed him down two flights of stairs before fading away.
? ? ?
It took Debbie over half an hour to settle Eva down, and then nearly another hour to calm herself to the point where she could think clearly—if a panicked stream of consciousness could be considered thinking clearly.
She moved around the apartment feeling jittery and itchy, alternating between wringing her hands and scrubbing mindlessly at her cheeks and arms. Occasionally she’d sit, only to end up fidgeting, growing frustrated and jumping up again.
“Oh God,” she whispered as she wandered. Two men had been killed, and all because of her. Preacher was right; she should have gone to him first. No, she should have told him the truth from the beginning. If only she wouldn’t have lied, maybe this could have all been avoided.
Her heart began to pound, and her tears spilled over. What good was wondering what might have been when she’d already ruined everything?
Finding herself in the bedroom, Debbie glanced around blindly. What would Preacher do when he returned? She’d never seen him so angry—all of his anger directed at her. Would he throw her out? Force her to leave?
Hot tears slid down her cheeks as she stared at their bed, unable to conceive of never sleeping beside him again.
Could he forgive her for this? And if he did, would he ever look at her the same way again—as if the mere sight of her made his day better?