Page 12 of Preacher

Even so, I kept my mouth shut the rest of our drive. I didn’t need to make enemies with the men who…were going to do what? I still had no clue what Preacher had meant when he’d said I was his problem now or why he’d left a hundred bucks on my table. But I would soon find out.

Chapter Four

Preacher

My pack was hanging in the lot once the garage shut down, shooting the shit and drinking while I went through the day’s paperwork inside. Every few minutes I glanced past the large window, wondering what was taking Crowbar so long. If he’d run into trouble, he would’ve called. So either he was getting a kick out of dragging out the human’s nerves or something had gone sideways between Lamar’s Diner and my lot.

Unable to concentrate, I tossed the pen onto the desk and rubbed the back of my neck. My eyes flicked to the security feed bolted to the wall above the filing cabinet. Front gate. Side bay. Back lot. Everything was good, Drift and Riot passing a bottle back and forth on the picnic table I’d built two summers ago.

I’d spent the better part of last night running it through my head. The way Trent had hit the concrete and just laid there, staring at the sky like he was waiting for the next blow. The way his pulse had been jumping under my fingers when I tipped his chin up. I’d watched him limp out of my lot yesterday and told myself to leave it alone. Told myself the smart play was to deal with Hammer, send a message to Royce, and let the human sort his own family mess out.

I’d made it about four hours before my wolf started pacing and I’d put Ghost on the human. Four hours before I’d had Riot pull every piece of paper that existed with the name Trent Holloway on it. Four hours before I’d known about Mike’s debt, Maria’s job at the salon two towns over, the dead mother, the father doing fifteen at Statesville for armed robbery.

Four hours before my wolf had decided Trent wasn’t walking out of this on his own.

Pretending this was strictly business was useless. I’d been running this club long enough to know the difference between a problem I was solving and a thing my wolf was claiming. Trent was the second one. I’d known it the moment he’d looked up at me from the concrete with that bruise blooming on his jaw and those sea-glass-colored eyes that still managed to throw a glare in there somewhere.

Mine. Simple as that. The how and the when of telling him were details I’d work out as they came.

My head lifted when Crowbar’s truck rolled through the open gate, and I was on my feet before I’d consciously decided to move, paperwork forgotten on the desk.

I stepped out onto the concrete pad, lit a cigarette, and leaned a shoulder against the frame like I’d been standing there the whole time.

Crowbar killed the engine. Through the windshield I could see Trent sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat, eyes locked on the row of bikes along the fence like he was doing math on how many men were here and how fast he could run. He was still trying to operate like this was solvable.

Drift let out a low whistle from the picnic table. “That the one?”

“That’s the one.” I didn’t look at him. “Anybody so much as breathes wrong in his direction, you answer to my wolf.”

“Copy, Prez.”

Riot snorted into his bottle. “Possessive already. That’s a record, even for you.”

I took a drag, ignoring him. Crowbar swung out of the driver’s side, came around the hood, and pulled the passenger door open. He said something I couldn’t catch from where I stood, and Trent shook his head, then nodded, then unbuckled the seat belt with fingers that were visibly trembling from twenty feet away.

His nervousness would’ve been adorable under different circumstances. Under these? It cut through me like a blade I hadn’t seen coming.

Finally, Trent climbed down, legs wobbling slightly, then caught himself on the doorframe. He straightened with a kind of stubborn little jerk of his chin that made my wolf growl in appreciation.

The human looked smaller in daylight than he had yesterday, drowning in a diner T-shirt a size too big. The bruise on his jaw was the color of a thunderhead. The orange paint he’d tried to cover it with had faded. Hammer had hit him in the face and tried to make Trent feel ashamed of the mark.

Yesterday, he’d strutted into my clubhouse like he owned the place. He’d been tossed at the emergency room doors, ownership revoked. I hadn’t lied when I’d said Hammer was with friends of mine. I knew a lot of the staff at Temptation Memorial.

Trent’s eyes found me across the lot. His step faltered. I watched the swallow move down his throat, watched his hand curl tighter around the jacket draped over one arm.

I couldn’t deny I’d wanted to see him since I’d left the diner. Hadn’t been easy keeping my hands to myself, because if I’d let them move, they would’ve found their way to that bruise on his jaw, to the orange smear of makeup he’d tried to hide it with, like anyone couldn’t see exactly what’d been done to him.

Pushing off the doorframe, I slowly crossed the concrete lot.

“You made it.” I pulled the cigarette from the corner of my mouth, keeping my hands loose at my sides. “Crowbar give you trouble?”

Trent glanced sideways at Crowbar then back at me. “He fed me caramels.”

“That right?” I shifted my eyes to Crowbar over the top of the Trent’s head.

Crowbar shrugged, toothpick flicking up. “He was crashin’. Gun in the glovebox spooked him.”

A muscle in my jaw ticked. I’d told him a hundred times to keep Betsy holstered and not loose in some random place, but I’d deal with him later. Right now I had something more important standing in front of me, looking like he was about three breaths away from passing out.