The pain in Preacher’s neck doubled. He shrugged. “Maybe… haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there.” Dickie waggled his thick, salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “… after I check in on a couple of my dollies up in Buffalo.”
Preacher snorted. “A couple of ‘em, huh? Still breakin’ hearts across the country, Darvis?”
Winking, Dickie reached out and gave Preacher another hearty clap on the arm. “Is there any other way to live?”
Another grin, another slap on the arm, and Dickie was striding across the parking lot. Several minutes later, still standing in the same spot, Preacher watched as his friend’s glowing taillight disappeared into the darkness.
That’s when he felt it: an unnatural shift in the air around him; the presence of someone else. One of the many things prison had taught him was the necessity of awareness—awareness of the space around you—so that no one could catch you off guard.
Preacher spun and grabbed, snatching hold of a slender arm. Slim fingers, nails bitten to the quick—they held his wallet captive.
The girl let out a small, surprised squeak and tried to wrench her hand from his grip, but Preacher easily held her in place. In her other hand, a small blade flicked free from its sheath, glinting as it caught the light from the diner. Preacher took a moment to eye the weapon: a flimsy, rusted little thing he’d bet his bike wasn’t sharp enough to do more than clean his nails.
“What’s that you got there? A toothpick?” He smirked at her.
Long, limp hair framed a face smudged with dirt. A pair of tired brown eyes, flashing fear and resentment, met his. Her juicy-looking lips twisted bitterly.
A sense of familiarity slithered through Preacher—he knew a street rat when he saw one. Life on the road curses everyone, young and old, male and female, with the same expression—one part weary, one part bitter, two parts desperate.
But for a road-weary thief, she sure was cute.
He slid his gaze down her figure, taking in her flannel shirt and dirty jeans, worn straight through at the knees. The baggy clothes mostly hid her, but not so much that he couldn’t see the outline of feminine curves beneath. An army-issued sack, bulging with her belongings, was slung smartly across her back.
“That’s mine,” he said. Plucking his wallet from her grasp, he released her wrist.
She jumped backward and stepped to the side, keeping her gaze locked with his. He remained where he stood, making a show of tucking his wallet inside his jacket’s inner breast pocket. Still smirking, he gave his pocket a firm pat.
The fear in her gaze was nearly gone now. Through narrowed eyes she assessed him, her expression conveying that she didn’t quite know what to make of the situation. Thoroughly amused now, Preacher was contemplating giving her a few dollars when a gruff shout interrupted his thoughts.
“Found her! Over here, boys, over here!” A broad-shouldered, heavyset man was storming toward them. His red face bulging with fury, he was making a big show of waving around a baseball bat.
Unimpressed, Preacher eyed him beneath furrowed brows. “Friend of yours?” he asked the girl.
“I saw you, you little bitch!” the man growled, pointing his bat at the girl. “Hand over the bag!” He angled the bat in Preacher’s direction. “You too!”
“Hey now,” Preacher started to say, “I didn’t…”
“Gimme the bags, you thieving shits!” the man bellowed.
There was no way in hell Preacher was going to hand his bag over, and judging by the look on the girl’s face, she wasn’t going to be giving hers up either. Not without a fight.
Preacher rolled his shoulders. Fine. A fight was just fine with him. Growing up with brothers had left him well acquainted with solving problems with his fists. And if things got really out of hand, he had a blade in his boot big enough to send Red here crying back to whatever rig he’d crawled out of.
Jaw locked, fists clenched, Preacher was ready to step forward when he heard the clatter of footsteps approaching. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him two more men had joined their group, one brandishing a tire iron.
Cursing under his breath, Preacher glanced briefly up at the sky. First the rain and now this shit? Someone up there must really have it out for him.
“We’ll be takin’ the bags,” the man holding the tire iron spat. “Make it easy on yourselves and hand ‘em over.” All three men were slowly advancing, creating a triangle formation around him and the girl.
“You need to run,” Preacher breathed.
Panic-stricken eyes met Preacher’s. “What?”
Red lunged and swung, and Preacher barely had enough time to duck. Grabbing the girl’s arm, he thrust her forward just in time to duck another swing of the bat.
“Run!” he shouted. He ducked again, spinning around, and exploded back upright. His fist cracked the face of the man now closest to him—the one without a weapon. Propelled by Preacher’s punch, he staggered backward as Preacher turned his attention to the man holding the tire iron. With a shout, Preacher barreled into him, sending them both sprawling on the wet cement. They hit the ground hard, the man beneath him taking the brunt of the fall while Preacher wrenched the iron from his grip.
He’d managed to bring himself to his knees when pain suddenly exploded in his shoulder.
“You scum-sucking lowlifes!” Red shouted, readying his bat.
His arm burning, fighting to keep hold of the iron, Preacher dropped to the ground and rolled away, narrowly avoiding the next swing of the bat. Wood met concrete and Red let loose a string of curses.
Preacher jumped to his feet. “Back off,” he growled, raising the iron, poised to swing. The two men glanced at one another and neither moved.
Realizing they were one man short, Preacher halted. As if on cue, a shrill cry sliced through the dark lot, and Preacher’s eyes swung toward the noise. Sandwiched between two 18-wheelers, some sort of struggle was occurring.
Son of a bitch. Apparently he hadn’t punched the asshole hard enough.
Seconds ticked by while Preacher wondered how wise it would be to just barrel straight into Red and his friend, hopefully knocking them both flat, allowing him to take off running.
“I called the police!” a woman shouted. A waitress poked her head out the door, and half the diner’s occupants were congregated around the window.
Preacher released a string of muttered curses. The cops were the very last people he wanted to deal with right now. Once the local law got wind of him having served time, there was no doubt in his mind that they’d pin the full blame for this debacle on him. He’d just barely gotten out of prison, and he wasn’t inclined to go back anytime soon.