“Yes,” she whispered, shrugging. “You said to follow your lead.”
“You wanna smoke? It’s my own blend.” The proud declaration came from a raven-haired girl shaking a silver cigarette case at Preacher. Flicking the case open, she revealed several neatly rolled joints.
Holding up a hand, Preacher shook his head. Things might seem amicable at the moment, but the Road Warriors had still coerced him into a meeting. A head full of drugs was the last thing he needed while among men he didn’t trust.
The girl glanced at Debbie. “Wheels seemed to like it.”
Brows up, Preacher looked to Debbie, who quickly turned away. Her cheeks had gone pink and her bottom lip had disappeared beneath her teeth.
Chuckling, he sat down beside her and nudged her shoulder with his. “Wheels, huh?” he whispered, and Debbie ducked her head, burying her face in her hands.
“We’ve got whiskey and moonshine.” Rocky stepped forward, a bottle in each hand. He shook one of them. “Right outta the backwoods of West Virginia.”
Knowing better than to put himself in a moonshine coma, Preacher gestured for the whiskey.
“Turn some music on!” someone demanded. Someone else complied, and a country song filled the space between idle chatter.
Some of the Road Warriors headed back to the fair while others found seats around the fire. One Road Warrior cozied up beside a woman with her face buried in a magazine. Another, gripping a large hunting knife, was sharpening the blade on a nearby rock. Several yards away Rocky had tugged the black-haired girl onto his lap, and his hands were all over her.
Preacher took a swig of whiskey, grimacing at the bitter taste.
“So you’re the vice president of a motorcycle club?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Preacher noticed Debbie studying his leather cut. He grimaced through another swallow of whiskey before answering. “That’s what they tell me.”
“What does the vice president of a motorcycle club do?”
“Whatever the president tells him to do.”
“What does the president tell you to do?”
“You should have left,” he said, veering her away from questions he couldn’t answer.
Debbie blinked. Confusion flickered across her features as she glanced around the campsite. “But… I thought I was supposed to wait here for you?”
“I’m talkin’ about earlier. You shouldn’t have gotten involved.”
“I thought they were going to hurt you,” she whispered. “I only wanted to help.”
As ridiculous as it was—this slip of a girl thinking she could somehow protect him from the Road Warriors—Preacher also found it admirable.
“I took on all those guys at the truck stop. You don’t gotta worry about me.”
She shook her head. “This was different.” Her eyes slid to the Road Warrior sharpening his blade. “They’re different.”
Preacher paused, unable to dispute her reasoning. The men from the truck stop weren’t good men by any stretch of the imagination, but he doubted they were killers. Preacher didn’t doubt for a single second that a man like Rocky had a body count.
“I’m blamin’ it all on you, you know,” he said eventually. Facing the fire, he lifted the whiskey to his mouth. “You’re a whole lot of bad luck. Got me slapped with a baseball bat, stole my wallet and my goddamn jacket—”
Before he was able to drink, Debbie grabbed hold of the whiskey bottle, threw her head back, and took a stunningly long swallow. Amused, Preacher watched as she began to sputter and cough.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, thrusting the bottle back into his hand. “That was horrible!”
A drop of whiskey slipped down Debbie’s chin, and before Preacher could think twice about it, he wiped it away. Her eyes shot to his, and his thoughts took a tire-squealing turn back to earlier—back to their kiss. A claiming kiss he’d given her only to ensure the Road Warriors would keep their hands to themselves.
He hadn’t expected her to kiss him back like she had. If anything, he’d expected her to be mostly unreceptive. And she had been… at first. A little shaky, too. But then, out of nowhere, she’d been on fire, kissing him with a wild eagerness he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager. Back when Preacher had been about girls, girls, and more girls. Any girl he could get his hands on, he most definitely put his hands on. He’d been all too eager and therefore messy, lacking in the skill and finesse that would come later, with time and experience.
He’d forgotten what that felt like. To be so enthusiastic about something or someone that you temporarily lost yourself and just… lived in the moment. Just thinking about kissing Debbie again, experiencing her energy and enthusiasm again, had his dick twitching.
It certainly didn’t help that he’d already seen the beautiful body beneath her clothing. Visions of her back at the motel—dropping her towel and offering him sex—suddenly consumed his thoughts.
“Are you going to kiss me again?” Debbie whispered, gazing up at him unabashedly. Eyes shining expectantly, cheeks flushed innocently.
He stared down at her, marveling at the way she could hide nothing, not one single thing she was thinking or feeling, while also feeling a bit dumbfounded by his reaction to her.
“How old are you?” he asked quietly.
“Seventeen,” she said quickly, averting her eyes.
He snorted softly. “Lie.”
Her eyes found his again, dark brown and full of frustration.
“It isn’t,” she insisted. “I’ll be seventeen soon. My birthday’s in a few weeks… I think.” She glanced down at her hands, her fingers ticking a silent countdown.
He stared at her.
Sixteen. Six-fucking-teen. He supposed it could be worse. But still… sixteen.
Preacher hadn’t been with a woman since he’d left New York City and hadn’t given them all that much thought. Yet here he was, suddenly giving all sorts of thoughts to a thieving teenager. How fitting, he thought, rolling his eyes. It was just his fucking luck, that the woman to drag him out of his dry spell… wasn’t even a woman yet.
And it wasn’t just her age that bothered him. He had only to look at her to know that the last thing this girl needed was his hands on her. She needed a warm bed to sleep in, three square meals a day. Someone to look after her.
Preacher gave his head a small shake and started pouring whiskey down his throat.
Yep. It was definitely going to be a long night.
• • •
It was the headache that woke her.
Head pounding, mouth uncomfortably dry, Debbie cracked one eye open. A pile of embers glowed a brilliant orange several feet away, still hot enough that she could feel the heat warming her arms and legs. There were noises—crackling embers, muffled sounds of movement, the low hum of a radio, someone snoring.
Opening both eyes, she peered into the semidarkness, scanning the bodies lying around the fire pit. There was a weight on her back—comforting confirmation that her backpack was still exactly where it was supposed to be. Beneath her cheek was something firm. She blinked several times, finally registering the outstretched leg in front of her, and then stiffened as she realized she was sleeping on someone. Alarmed, she shot upright, wincing as a spot above her left eye began to throb. Grimacing, she clutched her head.
It all came back to her in a confused and cluttered rush. The fair. The Ferris wheel. Preacher. The Road Warriors. The Kiss. Angel. But when had she’d fallen asleep? She couldn’t remember anything else.
“Here. This’ll help.”
Scrambling to her knees, Debbie whirled around. Finding Preacher, she blew out a relieved breath and sank down on her heels.
Eyebrows arched, Preacher shook the whiskey bottle in his hand, and the remaining liquid sloshed back and forth. “For the headache. Hair of the dog.”
As she took the bottle, Debbie was startled to realize that Preacher hadn’t left her alone with the Road Warriors. He’d remained by her side, watching over her while she’d slept.
“Th-thanks,” she whispered and sipped. The liquor burned a hot path down her dry throat, waking her further. She took a second swallow, and a third, and eventually the sharp pain in her forehead was no more than a dull ache.