Beside Debbie, Preacher had gone stiff. His arm resting on her shoulders grew rigid. All around them, the campsite fell quiet, and Debbie didn’t need to look to know that all eyes were now on them.
“Gerry,” Ginny snapped quietly, “please. He just got here.”
Gerald’s hard stare remained fixed on Preacher. “Still doesn’t change the fact that he just up and took off on us, been gone for months now with no word.”
Debbie looked to Preacher, a dozen questions brewing. If Preacher noticed her eyes on him, he’d didn’t show it. His attention remained on his father.
“Well?” Gerald growled. “What have you got to say for yourself, boy?”
Preacher’s arm fell away from Debbie’s shoulders, his angry expression turning downright murderous.
“This ain’t the army.” Preacher’s voice quivered with rage. “And I ain’t your fuckin’ soldier.”
Gerald’s thick salt-and-pepper brows drew together, deep grooves appearing between them. His nostrils continued to flare, faster and faster like tiny hummingbird wings. His suntanned skin appeared to darken, reddening with anger. And just when Debbie thought Gerald was going to quite literally explode, he spun away and stalked off across the campsite. There were several slams as he disappeared inside the trailer, followed by a worrisome crash and several shouted curses.
Also cursing, Preacher marched away in the opposite direction. Biting down on her bottom lip, Debbie stared blankly after him. What was she supposed to do?
“Damon!” Ginny called. She gestured wildly with her hands. “Dammit, someone follow him!”
“I got this!” Tiny declared, waving at Ginny as he hurried out of camp.
Debbie eyed the rest of the group. Knowing glances were being exchanged. Others shook their heads and rolled their eyes. It seemed this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence where Preacher and Gerald were concerned.
“Lord help me with fathers and sons,” Ginny muttered. Pulling a leather pouch from her dress pocket, she flicked it open, revealing the dark brown cigarettes inside. Long and slim, they smelled both spicy and sweet once lit.
Sighing, Ginny gave Debbie a small, strained smile. “You must be hungry.” She gestured to the picnic tables. “Let me make you a plate.”
Chapter 17
“Wait up, will you?” Tiny called out breathlessly.
Preacher picked up his pace, weaving in and around campsites without looking where he was going and barreled straight into a young couple holding hands, forcing them apart. Muttering apologies, he made a quick right and ended up clipping a leather-clad man on the arm. He plowed through another few campsites before finally finding the dirt path that would lead him to the swimming hole.
“Five fuckin’ minutes,” he hissed under his breath. Five minutes was all it had taken for The Judge to start in on him. He hadn’t seen the man in months—he could have at least said hello before laying into him. But no. The Judge was all business, all the fucking time. Nothing else ever seemed to matter.
Jesus Christ. Why had he come here? Had he really missed any of this? Shaking his head, he let out a derisive snort. The Judge would never be capable of seeing anything other than his own obscured judgment.
“Preacher, man! I said, wait the fuck up!”
Fists clenched, jaw locked, Preacher forced himself to stop. Seconds later Tiny reached him, sweat dripping down his forehead and both his cheeks. Leaning forward, hands on his knees, Tiny wheezed through his next several breaths.
Preacher glared down at him. “You need to mind your own business.”
Still bent over, Tiny nodded jerkily. “Yeah…brother,” he rasped. “I know…it. Just couldn’t…let you...run off…again.”
Preacher instantly felt bad. He hadn’t been thinking clearly when he’d taken off, hadn’t given much thought to how his sudden disappearance would affect the others. Looking at his friend now, he realized how incredibly selfish he’d been.
But then again… if memory served him correctly, everyone had seemed to think his release from prison had been just another goddamn Tuesday, and business as usual. Tiny included.
Straightening, Tiny placed his hand on Preacher’s shoulder. “You know The Judge won’t ever admit to it, but he’s been worried sick about you. He’s been makin’ calls, checkin’ in with everyone, tryin’ to find you.”
Rolling his eyes, Preacher turned away and stared off across the park. He didn’t doubt The Judge had been looking for him, but he doubted his reasons. If The Judge had been worried, it was only worry for his club and Preacher’s role in it.
Moving off the pathway, Preacher dropped down beside a cluster of trees. The jagged backdrop of the Appalachians loomed in the distance. The sun was barely visible now, a quickly fading haze of oranges and reds.
Tiny sat down beside him, breathing hard and smelling strongly of body odor.
“You fuckin’ stink.”
“Yeah? You look like a caveman with that beard.”
“Man, you’re as wet as they are.” Preacher gestured to Tiny’s T-shirt, soaked through at the collar with sweat, before jerking his chin toward a group of bikini-clad young women heading down the path. Hair wet, wrapped in towels, they’d clearly been swimming.
“Not as wet as they’re gonna be once I get my hands on ‘em.”
Preacher started to laugh, and so did Tiny. And shit, even with Tiny stinking to high heaven, Preacher realized how much he really had missed his friend.
“Get a couple a’ drinks in ‘em and we’ll be in like Flynn,” Tiny suggested, waggling his eyebrows.
Preacher spared the group of women another quick, dismissive glance. Shrugging, he turned back to the sunset and lit a cigarette. Minutes passed in silence.
“He really was worried,” Tiny said eventually.
Preacher didn’t answer him.
“You stupid or something?” Tiny asked irritably. “He blamed himself the entire time you were locked up! And then you come home and you ain’t actin’ right! Next, you up and take off in the middle of the night and nobody knows where the fuck you are! And now you’ve showed up here outta nowhere? Man, you can’t blame him for wonderin’ what the fuck you’re gonna do next. Hell, brother, I’m wonderin’ the same damn thing and I can guarantee you so is everyone else.”
Sighing, Preacher flicked his cigarette away. He didn’t want to talk about this shit, not with Tiny, not with anyone. He didn’t like the way it made him feel—guilty and pissed off, and angry with everyone, himself most of all.
His frustration mounting, feeling suddenly uncomfortably warm, he shrugged out of the pack on his back and started removing layers. Once he felt cooler and less like punching someone in the face, he glanced down at the bag in front of him and froze.
Shit.
He’d been so pissed off, he’d left Debbie alone with his family. She was probably cursing him to hell and back.
“You gonna tell me where you been all this time?”
Preacher glanced at Tiny and shrugged. “Nowhere. Just… on the road.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Nothin’.”
“Okay, fine. Who’s the broad?”
“Just some chick.”
“She ain’t exactly your type.”
“I don’t have a fuckin’ type,” Preacher muttered, despite knowing full well that he most definitely had a type. And Debbie was so far removed from the loud, flashy women Preacher had always preferred. But even as he pictured them—the well-built blondes he’d once thought he’d never get enough of—his thoughts immediately veered back to Debbie.
Tiny snickered. “Brother, you’ve got a type, and she is the exact opposite of it!”
“It ain’t like that,” Preacher snapped. “I’m just helping her out, is all.”
“Is that what you’re callin’ it now?”
“Dumbass, I’m not fuckin’ her.” Preacher punctuated each word with every ounce of irritation he was feeling regarding Debbie. Irritation because all he could seem to think about was how he wasn’t fucking her.