Nodding limply, Sylvia’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Okay,” she whispered.
“You got two choices. You take my piece-of-shit brother as he is—you raise his babies and stay the hell away from the club, no questions asked. You do that, and I promise you Joe will be comin’ home most nights, and he won’t be bringing any of his bullshit with him.”
“Preacher—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Preacher spun around and collided with Joe. Shoving Joe up against the wall, he pressed his forearm to his brother’s throat.
“I don’t give a flyin’ fuck what you’ve got to say right now. “You’re my goddamn VP, and you know better than anyone what’s at stake right now! But instead of makin’ sure shit goes smoothly, I’m up here disarming your fuckin’ wife ‘cause you seem to keep forgettin’ you have one!”
Beneath Preacher’s arm, Joe’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “No,” he rasped. “You don’t—”
“Are you thick?” Preacher growled, putting more pressure on Joe’s throat. “Your president just told you to shut the fuck up! Say another fuckin’ word and I will tear that patch off your cut and put you out on your ass.”
Joe’s mouth snapped shut and Preacher released him with a slap upside his head.
“Or you can leave him,” Preacher told Sylvia. “Forget about Joe and go find a man who’s gonna do right by you.”
Sylvia’s bitter laughter rang out through the hall. “Who’s gonna want me now?” Tears rolled down her cheeks as her hands dropped to the swell of her stomach. “You fucked me, Joey. You really fucked me.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Preacher found Joe staring at Sylvia, hopelessness and misery etched in his expression.
Not feeling the least bit sorry for him, Preacher barked, “Get dressed, and get Sylvie outta here. And I don’t want to see your face for at least a week, you got that? Fix your fuckin’ family or don’t come back.”
No one said a word as Preacher turned away and stalked off down the hall. Halfway to the second floor, Frank appeared out of nowhere—just like the apparition he’d been nicknamed after.
“The gun?” Preacher asked.
Frank produced it from inside his cut. Taking it, Preacher tucked it into the back of his jeans.
“The whore?”
“Taken care of. Where you headed?”
“Gonna go grab my girl and take her home. Then I’m gonna fuck her ‘til she sleeps for a week and forgets she’s pissed.” Sighing, Preacher scrubbed a hand down his face. “You got this mess covered?”
“You know I do.”
Preacher clapped his friend on the arm. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, brother.”
The corner of Frank’s mouth lifted in a rare smile.
“You don’t ever gotta worry about that.”
Chapter 29
Debbie’s water broke on a Thursday afternoon, exactly one week before she was due to give birth.
One minute she was standing in the kitchen making a grilled cheese sandwich on the stovetop, and the next she was gripping her stomach as a painful cramp rippled through her abdomen. She didn’t think anything of it at first—she’d been cramping all morning—until she felt a rush of liquid between her legs.
For a moment she just stared down at the puddle at her feet, wide-eyed and unblinking. Then as realization dawned, a chill slid up her spine. Fear curdled in her stomach. She’d been starving just a few minutes ago, but now she felt hot and shaky, and like she might vomit.
No.
Horrified, she slowly backed away and glanced at the calendar on the wall, zeroing in on the circled date.
No, no, no, not yet.
“Tiny!” she called, her voice trembling. “Tiny! Help!”
There was a crash inside the bathroom, followed by shouted curses. Tiny was still zipping up his pants when he came flying into the kitchen. “What? What’s wrong?”
Debbie pointed at the puddle on the floor with the spatula in her hand. Tiny squinted at the mess. “You spill somethin’?”
“My water,” she whispered.
“You spilled your water?”
“Tiny! My water broke! The baby!” She gestured frantically at her belly. “The baby!”
Tiny stared at her. “The baby,” he repeated dumbly. “The baby…” His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “Jesus fuck, the baby?” Panic filled his plump features. “It’s comin’? Like, right now? Jesus!” Hands in his hair, he glanced wildly around the kitchen. “I’ll go get my bike!”
Debbie squeezed her eyes closed, fighting for calm. “I can’t ride on your bike,” she hissed. Tossing the spatula into the sink, she pushed passed him. “You go call Preacher. I’m going to go change.”
Inside the bedroom, Debbie changed out of her nightdress and into one of the many shapeless maternity shifts Sylvia had loaned her. Finished, she glanced around the room, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror.
Her shaking hands went to her stomach. She was nothing but stomach—as if the baby had taken her over completely. She was ridiculously pale, too—her wide eyes looked glaringly dark against her too-white skin. Staring at herself, she shook her head slowly.
She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t ready.
Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she breathed in deeply through her nose. And then out a moment later. Air raced through her lungs, cold and cutting, doing nothing to lessen her fear. Every breath felt like an extra helping of dread until her lungs felt too full and her breathing turned shallow.
Abruptly, Debbie turned away from the mirror and took a seat on the bed. Staring helplessly at the bare, cream-colored wall, she placed her hand on her chest and attempted to breathe normally.
This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t time yet.
Oh God, she needed Preacher.
Covering her face with her hands, she breathed noisily into her palms. She needed Preacher. He should be here with her. She couldn’t do this without him. He wanted this baby—not her.
“Please no,” she mumbled. She dropped her hands and looked helplessly around the room to the wall. “Please God, no. I can’t do this.”
She definitely couldn’t do this with Tiny.
Another cramp rippled through her, worse than before. Pain radiated from her back to her front and she rolled onto her side, clutching her stomach. Once the discomfort subsided, she blinked blearily across the room.
“Debbie?” Tiny appeared in the doorway, scratching at his head. His nervous gaze flicked nervously around the room before landing on her. “Preacher ain’t at the club and Max says he don’t know when he’s gettin’ back. Want me to grab a taxi?”
“No!” Debbie cried, violently shaking her head back and forth. “Call Sylvia!”
She wasn’t going anywhere without Preacher. She would stay right here until he showed up.
Tiny looked as scared as Debbie felt. “But, uh…” He swallowed hard. “Shouldn’t we get you to the hospital?”
“Tiny! Call Sylvia—right now!”
Eyes wide and head bobbing frantically, Tiny disappeared down the hallway.
Minutes passed, maybe hours; time had ceased to exist in Debbie’s current state. Panic continued to worsen her nausea, causing her to periodically dry heave. Her contractions persisted, coming closer together. Several times Tiny poked his head in to ask her if she needed anything, and she’d only managed to groan in response.
“Where is she?” Sylvia demanded.
Debbie jolted at the sound of Sylvia’s voice and cried out. A moment later Sylvia rushed into the bedroom.
“I’m here, I’m here!” Sylvia was breathless as she dropped down on her knees beside the bed. Her hands covered Debbie’s—cold against Debbie’s sweat-drenched skin. The familiar, overly sweet scent of Sylvia’s perfume filled Debbie’s nostrils, causing her stomach to roil.
“My water broke,” Debbie moaned.
Sylvia smoothed a hand over her forehead. “Oh Debbie, that’s the least of it. From the looks of it, you’re in labor.” She glanced around the room. “Now where’s your bag?”