Page 16 of Preacher

“I’m not a dog you can command.” But I didn’t move, enjoying the feel of his fingers gliding through my electrified hair.

“Didn’t say you were.” Dropping his hand, Preacher moved to the door and waited. “Asked you nicely.”

“That wasn’t an actual question.”

“It was as close as you’re getting.”

I should’ve argued. The smart thing, the self-respecting thing, was to plant my socked feet on his hardwood floor and demand a list of the rules, the timeline, the exit strategy, and any small print I’d unknowingly agreed to by sleeping in his bed.

Instead, my stomach clenched, my mouth watered, and my feet carried me past him onto the patio like he’d put a leash on me made of charcoal smoke.

The back patio was bigger than I’d expected. It was a long wood deck with mismatched chairs and a picnic table that was longer than any normal one. Two grills were going, one with ribs, one with what looked like a mountain of burgers. String lights crisscrossed overhead, not lit yet, waiting for the sun to finish its slow drop behind the trees that pressed up against the back fence. Beyond the fence, the woods stretched on for what looked like forever, dense and dark and lightweight scary.

Crowbar lifted his beer in salute the second he saw me. “He lives.”

“Barely.” I tugged at the hem of my T-shirt, suddenly aware of every wrinkle. “Sorry about the fainting.”

“Princess fainted right into Prez’s arms,” Crowbar announced to nobody and everybody. “Should’ve seen it. Carried you in like a damn bride.”

“I will end you,” I told him, with all the menace of a wet kitten.

Crowbar grinned around his toothpick. “You can try.”

A man at the grill, broad-shouldered with a beard you could lose a fork in, glanced up and lifted a pair of tongs in greeting. “You eat ribs, kid?”

“I eat anything not currently breathing.”

“Good answer.” He pointed the tongs at the picnic table. “Sit. Plate’s coming.”

I sat. The bench creaked under me, which was insulting, since I weighed approximately as much as a damp paper towel. Preacher slid onto the bench across from me, close enough that our knees almost knocked under the table, and set his bottle down between us. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched me with those amber eyes like he was waiting for me to notice something I hadn’t before.

I noticed plenty. None of it was helpful.

A plate landed in front of me with a clatter. Ribs, a pile of coleslaw, a hunk of cornbread the size of my fist, and a baked potato that had been split and loaded with enough butter to clog a horse’s arteries. My eyes prickled, and I made the mistake of looking up.

“Thank you.” Don’t you dare cry.

The bearded guy shrugged like it was nothing. “Drift,” he said, tapping his chest. “Nice to officially meet you, Trent.”

He knew my name. Every single one of these men probably knew my name, address, social security number, and what brand of coffee I drank.

“Eat,” Preacher said quietly and slid a fork across the table to me. “Slow. You’re gonna make yourself sick if you go at it like you want to.”

“I don’t want to.” I picked up the fork.

His eyebrow arched but didn’t bother calling out the lie.

I tried to eat like a civilized human being, with cutlery, pacing, and dignity. The attempt lasted exactly one bite. The rib hit my tongue, and my brain whited out. I made a sound between a sigh and a whimper.

Across the table, Preacher went very still.

Ignoring him, I focused on my plate like it held the meaning of life, because if I lifted my eyes and caught whatever expression he was wearing, I was going to combust in front of his entire pack of leather-clad mechanics.

“Drift,” Preacher said, voice rougher than it had been a second ago. “More cornbread.”

“On it, Prez.”

I chewed, swallowed, then reached for the cornbread before Drift had even placed the basket.