Smoothing her hands down the front of her wrinkled white tunic, she produced a clove cigarette from her pocket and lit it. “Where is everyone?” she asked around a mouthful of spice-scented smoke.
He shrugged. “Swimming.”
“Debbie too?”
Preacher nodded.
“And why aren’t you swimming?”
Another shrug.
Puffing on her clove, Ginny’s tipped her head to one side and studied him. “Damon, talk to me. What’s the problem? Is it your father or the girl? Are you sleeping with her?”
Preacher internally groaned. Even doped up, his mother missed nothing.
Ginny Fox was most definitely prettier than her husband, nearly a decade younger too, and a hell of a lot nicer. But she had at least one thing in common with The Judge—neither of them beat around the bush. They were both as straightforward as they came.
Brows up, he gave his mother a look—the same look he’d given her every time she’d try to bring up his sex life. It was a look that said there was not a chance in hell he was going to answer her.
Talking sex with his father was one thing. His mother? Preacher would rather be strung up by his toes on a clothesline and gutted with a dull blade.
Knowing he wasn’t going to answer her, Ginny snorted out a small laugh and shook her head. Leaning forward, she placed her hand over his and squeezed. “Don’t make that face at me. I’m your mother. I have a right to know what’s going on in my baby boy’s life.”
“Not a baby,” he muttered.
She laughed again. “Oh yes you are. You are my baby and always will be.” She tapped the ash from her clove cigarette. “Furthermore,” she whispered, her eyes darting around the campsite, “you’re my favorite. Your firstborn is always your favorite.”
A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. Ginny had been telling Preacher he was her favorite for as long as he could remember. He was also fairly certain she fed both Joe and Max the same line of bullshit.
“Yeah? I thought the youngest was always the favorite.”
Ginny’s upper lip curled. “That little pervert has got the whole block in an uproar. He’s chasin’ everything in a skirt these days, even that homely little thing next door. You remember Cecelia? Alfonso’s girl?”
“The butcher’s daughter? What the hell? She’s a little kid!”
Ginny smiled. “No baby. You weren’t home long enough to get the lay of the land. She’s the same age as Max. Terribly ugly, though. Looks just like her daddy.” She paused to tap her clove again. “Anyway, these girls are just falling all over one another fighting for his attention, and I’m afraid he’s getting a big head because of it. Not to mention all the angry fathers poor Gerry is having to deal with. Alfonso showed up at the club with a shotgun!
“Your father is furious with Max over it, too. Lord help us all if he ends up like Joe. But the little devil doesn’t seem to care. Just a few weeks ago Gerry caught him on the roof with a pretty little blonde thing, both of them nearly naked. And well, he dragged Max inside and gave him a good talking-to.”
Shrugging, Ginny took another puff from her clove before stubbing it out on the tabletop and flicking it away. “Didn’t do a lick of good. A week later I caught him in his bedroom with Sean Boyle’s daughter bouncing away on top of him. And she’s a little vixen if I ever saw one. Red curls as far as the eye can see and is she ever freckled! Even her ass has freckles! Tits, too!”
“So whaddya do?” Preacher asked, fighting laughter.
Ginny shrugged. “What could I do? I told her to get her freckled backside off my son and put some clothes on. Then I took her to the kitchen, gave her a slice of Bienenstich, and told her that if she didn’t start keeping her knees together, her five minutes of fun with my Max was going to land her at Sister Agnes’ home for troubled girls.”
His shoulders quaking, Preacher dropped his face into his hands. His poor mother, having to go through this with each of her sons.
“You know I’ve been making Bienenstich every week? And I’m going to keep making it until you come home.”
His laughter dying in his throat, Preacher looked up from his hands and into his mother’s eyes. Bienenstich was his favorite dessert. Hearing that she’d been making it every week, hoping that would be the week he’d come home, felt like a fist to the face.
“Now don’t go and look at me like that, Damon,” Ginny said tenderly, her slate-colored eyes misting over, shining like liquid silver. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I only want you to know you’re missed, and you’re loved. And that’s never going to change.”
Preacher drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, but his mother stopped him with a wagging finger. “No, no,” she said, “enough about that. Tell me about this girl—Debbie. What’s her story? I couldn’t get more than two words out of her.”
Preacher blew out his breath. “Your guess is as good as mine. She won’t talk about herself.”
“And you like her?”
“… She’s okay.”
“And you’re sleeping with her?”
Preacher glared at his mother, who smirked in return.
“Ahhh,” Ginny mused. “So you’re not sleeping with her. That’s your tell, you know? I ask and ask, and if you get embarrassed, that’s a yes. If you get angry, that’s a no.”
“Mo-om,” he groaned, dropping his face back into his hands. “Please, for the love of fuckin’ God, stop! I’m not talkin’ to you about this!”
“But you like her,” Ginny continued, unbothered. “And she’s halfway in love with you. So what’s the problem? Why are you sitting around here moping instead of spending time with her?”
Preacher glanced up. “She’s what?”
“Oh Lord,” Ginny sighed. “Don’t tell me you don’t see the way she looks at you, Damon. That girl is head over heels. Even your father noticed, and you know your father. If it isn’t business, he’d be hard pressed to notice a falling anvil until he was buried beneath it.”
He shook his head slowly. No. Well, yeah… he’d seen the way she looked at him and he’d thought it was lust, same as him. But love? No way. They hardly knew each other.
“It ain’t like that,” he said quickly. “She’s too young for me… and I’m just givin’ her a ride.”
“Then why’d you bring her here?” she asked. Several moments passed in silence while Ginny eyed him shrewdly. “You brought her to me, didn’t you?”
Unwilling to admit to anything, Preacher only stared at his mother.
Ginny laughed softly. “You care about her, Damon. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have brought her here—to me.”
“Mom,” he finally said, “I don’t know, I really don’t. I wasn’t thinkin’, haven’t been thinkin’ clearly for a long time now. My head’s a mess, and I was just out there ridin’, and I meet this chick and… I don’t know. She’s been on her own a while now, makin’ a go of it on the road. But I just had this feeling that if I didn’t help her out, something might happen to her.”
Reaching across the table, Ginny placed her hand over his. “And?” she prompted.
“And what?”
“And you didn’t want anything to happen to her because…?”
Blank-faced, Preacher stared at his mother. “Because… that would suck for her?”
Ginny slapped his head. “Because you like her, you dolt!”
Exasperated, Preacher rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Ma. You got me. I like her. So fuckin’ what?”
A self-satisfied smile on her face, Ginny got to her feet. “Nothing,” she shrugged, turning away. “Just wanted to hear you say it.
“By the way, you remind me of him,” she called over her shoulder.
Preacher’s eyes narrowed. “Who?” he growled.
Ginny’s smile was downright wicked as she strode through camp. “Nobody,” she replied in a sing-song voice.