His sunken features contorted. Pain blazed in his eyes. “Everything, baby girl. Every goddamn thing.”
• • •
The click-click of footsteps across the floor startled Preacher awake. He’d fallen asleep slumped forward in one of the two uncomfortable chairs in Frank’s hospital room. Pushing upright, he peered at the newcomer in the room through blurry eyes. Petite, with long blonde hair, the young nurse gave Preacher a sympathetic smile.
Approaching Frank, she began systematically checking the machines surrounding his hospital bed. Muted red and green lights flashed from one; a soft, steady beeping came from another. And in the center of it all lay Frank—heavily sedated, an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, he lay utterly still save for the slight rise and fall of his chest.
It had been three days since Preacher had gotten the call—Frank had been involved in an accident on the Long Island Expressway. The pileup had sent a Mack truck skidding straight into Frank’s bike, dragging him across three lanes of traffic and crashing through the median before dislodging him.
Glancing at the empty chair beside him, Preacher wondered where Tiny had disappeared to. He looked to the window—at the black sky beyond the brightly lit skyline. Then at the clock on the wall—it was nearly midnight.
Scratching idly at his stubbled jaw, Preacher got to his feet and approached the bed. “How’s he doin’?” he asked.
“It’s too soon to tell,” the nurse replied. “He’s suffered so many injuries. His body needs time to heal.”
He glanced down at his friend’s unrecognizable face—bruised and swollen and missing skin on his left cheek. Most of the skin on the left side of his body was in similar condition—mangled and shredded. Frank had also broken his left arm, both of his legs, and nearly all his ribs. There was internal damage, too—some brain swelling and a punctured lung that he’d since had surgery to repair.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve seen people recover from far worse.”
Eyes flicking up, Preacher nodded slowly. He knew Frank would recover. He and the rest of the club would see to that.
Finished checking on Frank, she started across the room. Pausing at the door, she glanced over her shoulder and flashed Preacher a smile—an interested, flirtatious smile.
“You should go home and go to bed,” she said.
Fully awake now, Preacher took a moment to look her over. She was cute, but nothing special. There was nothing remotely interesting about her face or body, nothing that stood out and made him take notice. Still…she’d do.
“Yeah?” He raised his brows. “You gonna join me?”
Her answering blush was contrived—an attempt to look innocent when her body language told him she was anything but. Head tilted to one side, neck exposed, her slim fingers tapped along the side of her white dress uniform, purposely drawing his attention to her tilted hip.
Not in the mood for games, Preacher regarded her plainly. “What time do you get off?”
A breezy shrug. “Two.”
“My place or yours?”
Her smile turned coy. “We’ll see,” she said, and then slipped into the hallway.
Smirking, Preacher turned back to Frank. “It’s the leather, brother. Gets ‘em every time.”
Staring down at his disfigured friend, his humor quickly faded. Preacher hated hospitals. The dead and dying aside, he hated the smell of them—a god-awful mixture of urine and cleaning solution. He hated the feel of them, too—so suffocating, and restricting. It wasn’t all that long ago that he’d finished up his second stint in prison, and tiny rooms such as this one never failed to make him feel like he was right back inside.
But he wouldn’t leave, at least not until Tiny returned. He’d promised Frankie Jr. as much—the poor kid had already lost his mother to cancer a few years back. And if something should happen to Frank during the night, Preacher didn’t want Frank to be alone. He’d made that crystal clear when the hospital staff had demanded he leave and return during visiting hours. Fuck their rules. He had a duty to his road chief, as his president and as his friend, to stand by his side.
Sighing, Preacher shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and began meandering around the room, stopping every few minutes to glance out the window at the illuminated city below. Always awake, that was New York. Wide awake and ever changing.
The city reminded him of Eva—astoundingly adaptable, and with a solid foundation regardless of the fast-moving, always-changing world around her. Despite her young age, his baby girl had handled his time in prison like a champ and his homecoming just as well. She was well suited to this life, he thought proudly, even as the very same thought caused a sinking sensation in his gut.
Shaking his head to clear it, Preacher turned away from the window and his gaze snagged on a large plastic bag—a patient belongings bag shoved into a corner.
Picking up the bag, he pulled it open, grimacing as the acrid scent of blood and body odor filled his nostrils. What remained of the clothes Frank had been wearing during the accident had been stuffed inside—two mangled boots and what was left of his leather cut.
Preacher set the destroyed leather aside. He would have someone salvage the patches and sew them onto a new vest.
Pulling the boots from the bag, he found Frank’s wallet tucked inside one, while something shiny glinted from inside the other. Preacher’s hand disappeared inside the boot, closing around something hard.
“What the fuck,” he muttered, pulling free a heavy metal key ring.
Squinting in the dimly lit room, he held up the throng of, not just keys, but jewelry. Mostly rings, but also charms and the occasional earring or bracelet. He turned the key ring in his hand, his eyes roaming the odd mix when he suddenly stopped.
The boot in his other hand fell to the floor with a hard ‘thwap’.
He moved quickly across the room and flipped on the light—the overhead fluorescents flickered on, brightening the room.
His heart pounding in his chest, Preacher stared down at the ring squeezed between his thumb and forefinger—a World War II United States Marine Corps ring, its ruby center glinting brilliantly. Slowly he rolled the ring between his fingers, exposing the inscription inside: THE JUDGE.
Preacher’s heart hammered wildly inside his chest. He’d forgotten about this ring until this very moment, forgotten that his father had almost never taken it off. It had been a permanent fixture on his right ring finger.
How had Frank—
Why did Frank—
Releasing the ring, Preacher began searching frantically through the rest of the jewelry, pausing briefly to study each piece. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, only that he was thinking of his mother.
Piece by piece, he stared down at the unfamiliar scraps of metal. For all he knew, any number of them could have belonged to Ginny.
It had to be a fluke. There had to be an explanation. For whatever reason, Frank had The Judge’s ring, and Frank would have a reason. A damn good reason for having this—this key ring full of things that so clearly didn’t belong to him. And Frank’s reason would make perfect sense, and Preacher’s world would stop spinning and—
Preacher froze.
He stopped moving, stopped breathing.
Everything stopped.
His heart, his breath, the whole fucking world went skidding off the road, headed straight for the unforgiving wall of what was to become his new reality and shattering everything he thought he’d known.
“No…” he whispered hoarsely. “No, no, no, no, no.”
Staggering backward, his back found the wall.
He shook his head, refusing to believe his own eyes. Maybe it wasn’t hers. Maybe it was just a coincidence.
With a shaking finger, he touched the tiny silver butterfly—spotted and tarnished.
A strangled noise slipped past his lips. “Wheels,” he rasped.
Preacher hopped out of bed and dropped down on one knee. Then he gestured for Debbie’s hand. Looking adorably bewildered, she gave it. Twisting her butterfly ring off her index finger, he pushed it onto her ring finger.
“I promise I’ll get you somethin’ better,” he told her. “A big, fat rock or somethin’. Whatever the fuck you want.”