A little over a week had passed since Preacher had brought Debbie home from the hospital. An entire week of feeling overwhelmed, completely out of his element, and borderline delirious from sleep deprivation—even more so than usual.
Joe’s eyes slid to where Frankie Jr. was now running circles around Trey. Trey’s face was quickly turning red, while his bottom lip trembled and his eyes filled with frustrated tears.
Joe snorted. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“And you got another one on the way.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Stop fuckin’ her,” Preacher offered. “No more nookie, no more kids.”
“I stop fuckin’ her,” Joe shot back, “and she starts screamin’. And then I got screamin’ kids and a screamin’ wife.”
“Poor Joey,” Tiny taunted, “who’s got a smokin’ hot wife who likes fuckin’ him.” Tiny rolled his eyes. “Cry me a goddamn river. I can’t even pay a bitch to like fuckin’ me.”
Eye wide and dancing with laughter, Joe looked at Preacher. It was the first hint of a smile Preacher had seen on his brother’s face in… hell, Preacher couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen Joe smile.
“Smokin’ hot?” Joe asked, then laughed. “Tiny, you got a thing for Sylvie… ‘cause I’ll fuckin’ pay you to take her.”
A shrill wail rang out through the apartment, causing all three men to cringe. A moment later Debbie appeared in the kitchen entryway. She moved into the hallway utterly oblivious of Preacher’s presence, her sole focus on the bundle in her arms. If he’d been worried about Debbie coming to terms with being a mother, he wasn’t anymore. Every day he had to beg to hold his own daughter.
Preacher’s eyes roamed her body. Her dark hair hung over her shoulders in loose, messy waves. Wearing his Led Zeppelin tour T-shirt, a pair of loose-fitting track shorts, and a pair of tube socks pulled up to her knees, she looked damn good for a girl who’d just given birth. She hadn’t gained much weight while pregnant—she’d been all stomach. But what she had gained, Preacher was hoping she’d keep. He’d always appreciated a little extra when it came to a woman’s curves.
Slapping his hands down on the table, he pushed himself to his feet. “Speakin’ of smokin’ hot girls…”
Humming Fleetwood Mac, Preacher followed Debbie into the bedroom. Closing the door behind him, he joined her on the bed.
“Remind me to find us a bigger place,” he muttered. Resting his head against Debbie’s shoulder, he glanced down at his daughter and smiled. She was perfect—ten fingers, ten toes, full, fat cheeks and a tuft of dark hair on her head. Her tiny hands were currently curled into itty-bitty fists, one resting on the swell of Debbie’s breast while she suckled. Her eyes—big, expressive eyes framed in dark lashes—were on him.
Looking into her eyes, a lump of emotion swelled in his throat. While the shape and size of his daughter’s eyes were similar to Debbie’s, their color—a deep, smoky gray—belonged to Ginny.
Gently he closed his hand around her bare foot and ran the pad of his thumb over the tops of her toes. “Hi baby girl,” he murmured. “Is it your nap time yet? ‘Cause it damn sure is mine.”
“If you’ll be quiet she’ll fall asleep.”
He glanced up at Debbie and snorted. “If I had your tit in my mouth, I wouldn’t be sleepin’.”
Debbie’s lips twisted adorably. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“I would… if I didn’t have a baby in my lap.”
“Excuses, excuses…” Noticing his daughter’s eyes had drifted closed, Preacher chuckled. “Look at this shit. How the hell do you sleep and eat at the same time?”
“I don’t know… why don’t you ask Tiny?”
“I’m tellin’ him you said that.”
Debbie shrugged. “Go ahead. He ate more than I did these last nine months. I can’t believe how much ketchup he eats. Did you know he eats it right out of the bottle? Do you know how many bottles of ketchup we’ve gone through?”
Shoulders shaking, Preacher buried his face against Debbie’s arm to muffle his laughter.
“Preacher?”
He looked up. “Hmm?”
Peering down at him, Debbie’s eyes were shining with emotion. “I’m glad you’ve been home,” she whispered.
Guilt swamped him. He knew full well he’d been neglecting her these last few months—that she’d been spending more time with Tiny than with him. But as much as he wanted to apologize, to tell her things were going to be different from here on out, he knew he couldn’t. Especially now, with the added responsibilities of the Road Warriors and the acquisition of the Columbian imports, the club would have to continue to come first.
“You think of a name yet?” he asked, changing the subject. “We can’t call her baby girl forever.”
They’d left the hospital with a nameless baby. Debbie had spent her entire pregnancy unwilling to discuss anything baby-related, and Preacher had been so busy with the club that when it had come time to name their daughter, neither of them had known what to say.
Debbie looked down—sound asleep, their daughter was nuzzled between her breasts, mouth agape and snoring softly. “I still like Ginny,” she said, glancing sideways at Preacher.
His lungs constricted. Every muscle in his body involuntarily tightened and twitched.
Debbie hadn’t been the only one to suggest naming the baby after Ginny. Nearly everyone had suggested it, and each time they did, Preacher had the same gut-churning reaction.
Suddenly awash with uninvited images and feeling restless, Preacher shoved himself upright and scrubbed a hand down his face. The surprise birth of his daughter had been enough of a distraction to keep his darker thoughts at bay, but they were slowly, surely creeping back in.
He’d killed a man—albeit a man who’d killed countless others, his own parents included. But no matter which way he spun it or justified it, he’d still killed a man.
And because of it, Preacher couldn’t think of his mother without seeing the blood on the trailer door, a coffin being lowered into the ground, and the gasping, dying face of Salvatore Rossi.
He didn’t want any of that ugliness associated with his daughter.
Hell, he didn’t want any of that ugliness associated with him. But he’d made a choice—as if there’d been any other option for him—and now he had to learn to live with that choice. There was no room for men with regrets in his world.
Debbie slipped her hand beneath the hem of his T-shirt and up his spine. Her palm paused on the space between his shoulder blades—a comforting reminder that he still had something good and pure—and Preacher eventually found his breath.
“We don’t have to name her Ginny. We could name her Evangeline instead? Or maybe just… Eva?”
Preacher shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Debbie continued to rub his back. “Sylvie wants to name her Marie.” She laughed softly. “And Anne is convinced that Anne is the perfect name.”
Preacher wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. What about you? Is there anyone you wanna name her after? A grandma? A great aunt? A friend?”
His questions were met with silence. Glancing over his shoulder, Preacher found Debbie staring out across the room, her bottom lip tucked beneath her teeth. “Wheels?”
“No,” she said, looking at him. “I don’t have anyone.”
Preacher turned around and faced her. “You don’t have anyone? What the fuck are we?” He pointed between him and their daughter. “Chopped liver?”
Debbie rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant I don’t have any family.”
“Yeah you do. You got me and her. And you’ve got all them assholes, too.” He nodded at the bedroom door. “We’re your family now.”
Debbie’s chin began to wobble, and her eyes filled with tears. Cursing, Preacher leaned in and kissed her lips. “No cryin’,” he said, and kissed her again. “Can’t have both my girls cryin’ all the damn time.” Another kiss. “Gonna drive me crazy.”