The following surge in his jeans was a visceral reaction, but it was more than just that. Preacher felt invigorated, and much younger than he had only a week ago. He wanted something again. He was looking forward to something instead of dreading it.
It had grown dark during the movie, the only remaining light emanating from the streetlamps, the brightly lit storefronts, and the full moon hanging low and fat in the distance. A short ways down the street, Preacher spotted half of their group congregated around their motorcycles. The van was gone, meaning the others had already left.
“How’d you like the movie, Wheels?” he asked, glancing down at her. Still biting down on her lip, Debbie fought to contain a smile.
Laughing, Preacher released her hand and slung his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “It was good, right?” he teased. “My favorite part was when that guy did that thing. You know what I’m talkin’ about, right? That thing?”
Truth be told, Preacher had very little idea what the movie had been about. He’d only managed to catch bits and pieces here and there when he hadn’t been preoccupied with Debbie—which hadn’t been all that often.
Debbie’s blush deepened.
“What?” he asked, “you didn’t like that part? Wheels, come on! That was the best fuckin’ part!”
Bursting into giggles, Debbie turned and buried her face in his chest. Laughing loudly, Preacher squeezed her even tighter.
“Bunch of fuckin’ slowpokes!” Knuckles called out. “Whaddya do—stick around for the cleanin’ crew or somethin’?” Leaning against his motorcycle, Knuckles twirled a pair of women’s pink panties on his finger.
Eyes wide and mocking, Preacher pointed. “Man, you forgot to put your underwear on!”
Seated on their bikes close by, Smokey and Jim began to snicker.
Knuckles stopped twirling and grinned. “Brother, I’m just workin’ out my pussy finger for the next lucky lady.”
Draped over Jim’s back, Anne rolled her eyes and groaned. “Only one finger, huh? I’m guessin’ you’ve left a lot of ladies feeling pretty unlucky.”
“I only need one.” Waggling his eyebrows, Knuckles flipped Anne off. “I got fat fingers, baby.”
“And I’ll break every single last one of ‘em, if you ever talk to my ol’ lady like that again,” Jim growled.
Behind Jim, wearing a self-satisfied smirk, Anne stuck her tongue out at Knuckles.
His expression contrite, Knuckles folded his arms across his chest and muttered, “She fuckin’ started it.”
Smokey released a world-weary sigh. “Christ, kid. You sound like a broken record. Tits and pussy. Tits and pussy. You know there’s more to life, right?”
Knuckles whirled on Smokey, his mouth hanging open. “Did you see that chick?” he demanded.
“How could I not?” Smokey’s expression was as dry as his tone. “Hard to watch a movie when I got a goddamn ass bouncin’ in my face.”
Knuckles continued to look horrified. “Fuckin’-A, that was a piece of ass worth lookin’ at!” He mimed smacking a woman’s backside.
“You’ve seen one ass, you’ve seen ‘em all.”
“Man, what happened to you? You’re, like, asexual or somethin’ now?”
Amused, Preacher glanced between the two men. Smokey wasn’t asexual; he was just a man who’d loved his wife and lost her. Growing up, Preacher couldn’t remember a time when Maryanne hadn’t been sick. As a diabetic, she’d slowly grown thinner, frailer, until her body eventually succumbed.
Before Maryanne’s passing, Smokey had been a different man. He’d had a sense of humor, was hardly ever seen without a drink in his hand, and had often indulged in other women. He’d been a lot like Knuckles, actually. It wasn’t until after Maryanne’s death that Smokey had done a one-eighty in the personality department. Full of guilt and grief, the club’s business became his sole focus.
Knuckles didn’t understand this yet, how something could change a man so drastically. Truth be told, just two years earlier, neither had Preacher.
Just then, a police car flew past at top speed, lights blazing, sirens wailing, turning everyone’s attention to the street. The response of the several dozen bikers still milling around was to thrust their fists in the air, shouting slurs and obscenities.
“Something’s goin’ on at the park,” Jim said. “That ain’t the first pig to blow by here.”
Knuckles faked a yawn. “It’s the same old shit every year. Last summer some dumb shit drank himself to death. Bunch of kids found him floatin’ face down in the swimmin’ hole, buck-ass naked, and the cops sent us all packin’. You ask me, they’re just lookin’ for an excuse to kick us out.”
Preacher raised an eyebrow. When you put a large number of out-of-control people in a space together, it wasn’t uncommon for things to get, well, out of control. Tempers flared and fights broke out. People drank too much booze, smoked too much grass, and then some dumbass kid goes and accidentally fucks the wife of a Hercules-sized bastard with a rare knife collection. Not that Preacher knew anything at all about that.
Smokey started his bike, revving his engine. “Whatever it is, it ain’t got shit to do with us.” He looked to Preacher and jerked his chin toward the road. “Come on VP, take your place up front and lead us back.”
Jim revved his engine and Knuckles followed suit—all eyes were on him.
Preacher’s neck muscles stiffened and began to ache, and his chest felt suddenly too tight. Smokey had been appointed temporary vice president while he’d been locked up. Now it appeared as if the man was handing him back his title.
Only he didn’t want it. More, he didn’t deserve it. A man like Smokey was far more qualified, and infinitely more deserving than he would ever be. Unlike Preacher, Smokey was loyal to both the club and The Judge and would never have abandoned either.
As he reached for his neck, Debbie stepped out from under his arm, plucked his helmet from his bike and placed it on her head. Fumbling with the chin strap, she offered him a small, encouraging smile that he found himself returning.
Mounting his motorcycle, Preacher waited for Debbie to climb on behind him before starting the engine. Her hands on his shoulders, she scooted quickly up the seat until her body was flush against his. Wrapping her arms around his middle, she slid her hands over his stomach, her fingertips pressing possessively into his skin.
It was a small, seemingly insignificant thing that Preacher might never have noticed had he not had the misfortune of having had very little human contact for two full years. And what contact he did have had been the glaring opposite of pleasurable.
But this—an unconscious gesture from his pretty-little-pickpocket, laying claim to him, telling him in no uncertain terms that she most definitely wanted him—filled Preacher with something he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. If ever. And almost instantly the pain in his neck began to ease.
Preacher covered her hands with one of his, and Debbie squeezed him tighter. His chest loosened and he blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Five minutes later they were heading down the road, with Preacher riding point.
Chapter 23
“What’s goin’ on?” Preacher asked no one in particular.
An older woman with a head full of curlers scowled around her cigarette. “I look like the fuckin’ news to you? Ain’t nobody tellin’ us nothin!”
The state park was a mob scene. Police cars and fire trucks blocked every entrance, forcing Preacher and the others to leave their bikes on the side of the road and head into the park on foot.
Crowds of rally-goers had amassed inside the picnic area, some spilling out onto the road. Park Rangers appeared to have herded them there and looked to be providing crowd control.
Everyone Preacher spoke to seemed largely confused—no two stories were the same. While one group was convinced a fight had broken out and someone had been injured, another group guessed there’d been a fire. A heavily intoxicated man stumbling about muttered something along the lines of aliens having come to Earth.