Debbie angled her head toward Preacher. Firelight and shadows danced across his handsome face.
“How’d you get the name Preacher?” she asked.
“Same way you got the name Wheels.” His lips twitched; humor glinted in his eyes. “Some asshole thought it was funny.”
Giggling, Debbie sank down against Preacher’s side and turned back to the fire. His fingers started up again, sliding back and forth across her clavicle before dipping down low. Preacher slowly outlined the swells of her breasts, sending jolts of sensation tearing straight to her core.
Feeling flustered and fevered, Debbie gulped down her next several breaths, then gripped the neck of the whiskey bottle propped between her legs and took a lengthy swig.
As if Preacher somehow realized the fiery thoughts running amok in her mind, he chuckled quietly, his warm breath tickling her neck and sending a heated shiver down her spine.
All day long, since the encounter at the bathhouse, Debbie had been able to think of little else. She hadn’t wanted to stop. It had been Preacher who’d eventually pulled away, who’d said “not here” in a heavy, hoarse tone that belied his words. Who’d then taken her hand and led her back to the swimming hole.
And though he hadn’t kissed her again, Debbie couldn’t think of a single moment since that he hadn’t been touching her. An arm around her shoulders. His fingers brushing against hers. A hand at her waist, sinking slowly down her hip. And in doing so, he’d kept her in this strange state of being, lost in a haze, teetering on the edge between reality and sensation.
“I’m the asshole who coined him Preacher.”
Debbie’s haze cleared. The gruffly spoken statement had come from Gerald. Leaning forward in his chair, hands steepled beneath his chin, his eternal grimace was focused on Debbie.
Feeling the weight of Gerald’s scrutiny as if it were a crushing boulder, she attempted to straighten, but Preacher’s arm across her chest only tightened.
“Like a goddamn preacher, he never did know when to shut his mouth,” Gerald continued. “Had a damn opinion ‘bout everything. Always buttin’ his nose in my business, always thinkin’ he was right and tellin’ me how to do my job.”
Gerald let out a low chuckle and his eyes slid to Preacher. “Ain’t that right? Couldn’t wait to get your hands on that gavel, could ya?”
Preacher’s chin came down on Debbie’s shoulder, refusing to even look at his father. Gerald’s smile slowly flattened and he turned back to the bonfire, frowning.
“Don’t know what happened, though,” he muttered. “Don’t even know my own boy anymore.
“I went to war, you know.” Nodding, Gerald continued to frown at the fire. “Doc and Jim here, they went to war, too. And we’ve seen some shit, haven’t we? Now that kinda shit… that can change a man.” Gerald paused as if carefully considering his next words. “But prison…”
Preacher’s head jerked up, and Debbie didn’t have to see his face to know that his expression was murderous. She could feel it in the suddenly rigid lines of his body—every part of him that was touching a part of her had turned to stone.
“Gerry, no,” Ginny whispered, her expression pleading.
“In prison,” Gerald continued loudly, ignoring his wife, “you get a roof over your head, three square meals a day, clean clothes, and a nice warm bed to sleep in every night.” Gerald glanced around the bonfire. “Sounds like a goddamned vacation if you ask me.”
Ginny’s eyes squeezed closed.
Though Janis Joplin still played and the fire continued to crackle and hiss, the campsite had fallen quiet. All eyes were on either Preacher or Gerald.
And Preacher, he was shaking. Not visibly, just a slight shudder with every breath he expelled, as if he were full to the brim with ugly things that he could no longer contain.
Debbie covered the arm banded across her chest with her own. Slipping her fingers between his, she squeezed his hand and waited for the explosion. The entire campsite waited.
Instead, Preacher reached around her, seizing the whiskey from between her thighs. Lifting the bottle to his mouth, he chugged the amber liquid. Having soon finished what was left, he tossed the empty bottle aside and gestured to Tiny. “Gimme that,” he growled.
Tiny glanced down at the joint cinched between his fingers, and then quickly handed it over to Preacher. Puffing on the joint, thick smoke poured from Preacher’s mouth, billowing around Debbie. Eventually, the arm around her chest began to loosen.
“So, uh, they’re playin’ Taxi Driver at the theater in town.” Smokey glanced around the bonfire, a strained smile on his face.
“We should go,” Max offered meekly. “Ain’t nothin’ else to do around here.”
“Haven’t you seen that already, Maxwell?” Ginny asked tentatively, her eyes on Gerald. “Back home?”
Knuckles, who seemed to have forgotten the tension entirely, gaped at her. “Are you kiddin’, Little Ginny? You could see that movie a hundred times and never get sick of it!”
At that, Max perked up. Grinning, he turned to Knuckles and drew a finger-gun from his pocket. “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?”
Knuckles mimed drawing a gun from an invisible holster and pointed his own finger-gun at Max. “Don’t try it, you fuck,” he shot back, laughing.
“I’m in,” Tiny announced.
“Count me and Anne in, too,” Whiskey Jim added.
“I wanna go,” Sylvia said, looking at Joe.
“You?” Joe snorted and shook his head. “No way. You’d hate it.”
“God forbid I would wanna get outta this park for a couple hours!” she hissed. “The bike fumes are makin’ me queasy!”
Joe’s teeth clenched. “You shoulda stayed home. I told you not to—”
“We should all go,” June hurriedly interrupted, “Make a day of it. I’ve been wanting to head into town. And Ginny, you probably want to go to the farmers’ market?”
Ginny glanced at Gerald before turning to June. “No, no, you all go.” She waved her hand and smiled. “Take the van and go into town and make a day of it. Give… Gerry and me some peace and quiet.”
“Wheels.” Preacher’s breath, smelling strongly of whiskey and marijuana, fanned her cheek.
Debbie turned, finding Preacher’s face only inches from hers. His arm fell away from her chest, his hand cupped her cheek. Taking a drag off the joint, he closed the remaining gap between their lips and exhaled into her mouth.
Debbie drew in a hard breath and earthy-tasting smoke billowed inside her mouth, pouring down her throat. Preacher’s tongue came next, sweeping through her mouth, while his hand slid into her hair, cupping her head. Smoke trickled out from between their lips as they kissed slowly, deeply. Debbie’s thoughts grew fuzzy and muddled from either the drugs, or the man, or both.
“I haven’t seen a movie since before I got tossed in the joint,” Preacher whispered, after releasing her mouth.
“What movie was it?” she murmured.
He glanced away, considering. “Jaws,” he finally said. “I think. Wait, no… coulda been Death Race. Don’t remember which. What about you?”
Once upon a time Debbie had treasured going to the movies. Before her mother had remarried, she’d worked odd jobs and strange hours, and with Debbie’s school schedule they’d rarely seen one another, with the exception of Sundays. Every Sunday they’d go to their local theater for classic movie night.
Unlike most mothers and daughters, Debbie and her mother had never been close. But every Sunday it had felt as if she’d almost had a mother—at least for a couple of hours. The tradition had continued until her mother had remarried, and then Sunday movie nights were no more.
The only movie theaters she’d been inside recently had been ones she’d snuck into for warmth and to catch a few hours of sleep.
She shrugged. “I can’t remember.”
“You wanna go, then?” He watched her through lazy, half-lidded eyes, his pupils noticeably larger. He appeared relaxed, the only remaining sign of stress was the subtle tightening around his eyes. At some point he’d lain his hand on her thigh and was now toying with the hem of her shorts. His fingers started up again, dancing a drunken path up and down her leg.