Shaking his head, Preacher picked up his knife and resumed twisting the tip into the picnic table. He wasn’t anything like his father. The Judge wouldn’t know a good time if it bit him in the ass. He was all business, all the time. The man lived by a strict code of laughable ethics and deprived himself of every fun thing the world had to offer.
Only Preacher couldn’t recall the last time he’d been able to let loose, either. And hadn’t Max accused him of acting just like Dad?
Scowling, Preacher continued mutilating the picnic table, trying to think about something else—anything else. He thought of Bienenstich, and then of Max being chased down the block by a gang of angry fathers wielding shotguns. He started to smile… and then froze.
Max. Max was at the swimming hole.
Debbie was at the swimming hole.
Max, that little fucking gigolo, was with Debbie.
Preacher shot up out of his seat, slipped his blade into his boot, and headed out of camp.
• • •
The heat had brought half the camp to the swimming hole. Overflowing with people, it took Preacher a good ten minutes searching the small space before finding a familiar face.
He spotted Sylvia first, easy to identify by her bulging belly and brightly colored sundress. Wearing a dark blue bikini top and white shorts, Louisa was sunbathing beside Sylvia, her nose in a book. Whiskey Jim and Joe were seated nearby, a pack of beer and Debbie’s backpack wedged between them.
Preacher glanced around. But no Debbie.
Dropping down beside his brother, he snagged a beer for himself. “Where’s everyone else?” he asked, scanning the area again.
Scowling, Joe shrugged. “Not bein’ forced to sit here. Probably havin’ fun.”
Sylvia lifted her sunglasses only long enough to shoot Joe what Preacher assumed was the look Joe had referred to earlier, but thankfully she didn’t say anything. Chuckling, Jim shook his head and pointed toward the swimming hole. “They’re swimmin’,” he said.
Preacher followed his finger across the water to the far end, where the waterfall flowed thick and heavy over the rocky outcropping. He spotted Anne first, wading through waist-high water in a skimpy red bikini top—just a tiny scrap of fabric that barely covered her. He saw Knuckles next, splashing and chasing two young women around. He followed their movements until he spied Max… but still no Debbie.
Just then a body broke through the water surface. Water droplets flying in all directions, Debbie shoved her sopping hair out of her face and smiled at Max.
Smiled.
At Max.
She fucking smiled at Max—his dirty dog of a little brother.
Frowning, Preacher straightened and shielded his eyes with his hand. Max was gesturing to Debbie, talking animatedly about something, and Debbie was… laughing?
Preacher stiffened, irritation prickling along his skin. Getting Debbie to talk was like pulling teeth, but making her smile was ten times more difficult. And yet here she was, smiling at and laughing with Max.
Preacher’s frown continued to deepen as Max drew closer to Debbie. Max pointed at something off in the distance, and when Debbie turned to look, Max casually slid his arm over her shoulders.
Preacher shot to his feet. He was two seconds away from jumping into the water, jeans, boots, and leather vest be damned, and dragging Max out by the scruff of his neck. And he would have if Debbie hadn’t immediately shrugged out from beneath Max’s arm and swam away.
“What’s it gonna be?” Joe asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with Preacher, peering out across the water. “Wedgie? Swirly? Purple nurple?”
“I’m gonna smash his fuckin’ face in.”
“Damn. You’re really diggin’ this chick, huh?”
Preacher shook his head, about to tell Joe that it wasn’t like that when Debbie appeared on the grass, and his words died in his throat.
She’d gone swimming in her T-shirt and shorts, but she might as well have been topless. Preacher could see everything through the thin material—the outline of her full, firm breasts, the shape and size of her rock-hard nipples.
And he wasn’t the only one noticing, either. For a girl who thought no one noticed her, she sure was catching a lot of looks.
“Nice,” Joe muttered under his breath.
Growling, Preacher elbowed Joe in the ribs. “Shut the fuck up, asshole.”
Debbie approached them, wringing out her wet hair, drops of water cascading down her sun-kissed skin, utterly oblivious to the half dozen erections she’d just caused.
“Are you going swimming?” she asked.
Beside him, Joe snorted. “He can’t swim.”
Preacher slowly faced his brother. “This ain’t exactly the ocean. I think I can handle myself.”
Joe smirked at him. “Don’t change the fact that you can’t fuckin’ swim.”
“And you wet the fuckin’ bed until you were twelve, either,” Preacher shot back. “But who’s askin’, right?”
Someone giggled, a high-pitched girly squeak, and Preacher jerked his gaze away from Joe to find Debbie with her hand over her mouth, a tiny dimple indenting her left cheek.
• • •
Taking a swig of warm beer, Debbie glanced over at Preacher. Seated beside her on the sun-warmed grass, he was alternating between scowling at Joe and outright glaring at Max. He’d been agitated all day, it felt like, but now he seemed even more so, leaving her wondering if he’d gotten into another argument with his father.
She nudged him with her elbow, and he turned his scowl on her.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
His expression didn’t change. “What was so funny?” he asked.
Confused, Debbie shook her head. “What was so funny… when?”
Preacher jerked his chin toward the swimming hole. “You were laughin’. With Max.”
“Uh…” Debbie looked to the water, trying to recall what Max had said. “I don’t remember,” she eventually replied. “He made a joke about something, but I can’t remember what.” She turned back to Preacher. “So, you really can’t swim?”
It was the wrong thing to say. Preacher’s brows drew together, his already tense expression tightening further.
“My parents tried to teach me when I was little, but I was scared shitless. Didn’t like the feeling of bein’ underwater.” He rolled his eyes. “Still don’t.”
Debbie couldn’t stop her smile. After watching Preacher take on those men at the truck stop, and stand up to the Road Warriors and that terrifying man from this morning, the notion that he was afraid of something as harmless as water was laughable.
“Somethin’ funny?” he growled.
Biting down on her bottom lip, squelching her smile, Debbie shook her head. “I just didn’t picture you as being afraid of anything.”
That had been the right thing to say. Preacher’s mouth quirked and his strained expression began to ease.
“Not afraid anymore, Wheels,” he said dryly, “Just don’t like it.”
She shrugged. “Well, I love swimming.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “I used to live near the beach, and every day after school I’d stop there.”
She paused to sip her beer. “I went to a private school and we wore these awful uniforms.” Recalling the button-down shirt that had reached clear up to her chin and the heavy plaid skirt, Debbie made a face. “The socks were the worst. So itchy. My favorite part of the day was taking them off and walking in the water.”
It had also been her least favorite part of the day because it had meant she was that much closer to having to head home. And home was hell—complete with Satan himself.
Feeling her stomach tighten, Debbie shuddered through her next breath and wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Even her happy memories always turned dark.
“Private school, huh?” Preacher laughed. “I fuckin’ knew it.” He tapped two fingers to his temple. “Smart.”
Despite her roiling insides, Debbie forced a smile. But the smile didn’t last and she began shifting uncomfortably, suddenly acutely aware of her wet clothes, the way they were sticking to her body, chafing her skin. And the way the prickly weeds beneath her were poking sharply against her. And the way the sun was suddenly too hot, shining too brightly overhead, leaving her feeling as if she was under a spotlight.