Page 4 of Preacher

Reaching behind him, Preacher produced a matte-black pistol, leveling it at Gap’s forehead. “Then get the fuck out of here.”

They scattered like roaches, leaving me sprawled on the concrete as they peeled out, brakes squealing. Not that I wanted to go with them, but having that gun anywhere near me wasn’t exactly comforting. I held perfectly still, not even breathing, praying I’d somehow become invisible.

No such luck.

Those amber eyes locked onto me, studying every inch of my body. I looked away, suddenly finding his tattoos the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen.

The silence was unnerving. “I didn’t—”

“Hush.” Preacher dropped to a crouch, his forearm resting on his thigh. “Face okay?”

My lips parted, but nothing came out. When I finally clamped my mouth shut, I nearly screamed from the lightning bolt of pain that shot through my head.

Calloused fingers caught my chin, surprisingly gentle as Preacher tilted my face left then right. “Ice that. Soon.”

The sheer calm of his voice was disarming, a steady rhythm that whispered confidence without arrogance.

“Okay,” I whispered.

Then he was gone, just like that, rising to his full height and walking away. For several heartbeats I forgot how to breathe, my sole focus on his retreating form.

Wait. That was it? No bullet to the brain? No invitation to join Hammer inside? I forced my body to move, rolling onto all fours. The world tilted dangerously as my stomach lurched in protest. Don’t puke. Don’t you dare puke.

Christ, my skull felt like it was splitting open.

After a deep breath, I staggered to my feet, legs wobbling beneath me. My gaze darted between the garage and the windowless door where Hammer had disappeared. Nobody emerged. Nobody called my name. I stood frozen, waiting for Preacher to reappear.

One minute passed. Two. He didn’t return.

Taking the miracle for what it was, I limped through the gate and down County Road 21 toward town. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I picked up my pace, my pulse throbbing in my temples with each step. What if Preacher changed his mind? What if Hammer somehow survived and came after me?

I rounded the corner and broke into a stumbling jog, not slowing until my front door was locked behind me.

Chapter Two

Trent

“Holy—” I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror the following morning, wondering how I would explain the bruises to my boss. Purple bloomed across my jaw like someone had taken a grape and smeared it into my skin. The swelling had gone down enough that I no longer resembled a chipmunk hoarding acorns, but the coloring? That was a whole new disaster. Yellow edged the outer ring, fading into a sickly green, then deepening to eggplant closer to my mouth.

My fingers tightened on the edge of the sink. Part of me wanted to march into Mike’s room, yank the covers off, and scream until I lost my voice. My brother had handed me over to a drug-dealing sociopath without a second thought. If Mike had kept his mouth shut, I’d be looking at a perfectly unremarkable face right now. Maybe a zit but not this.

And for some reason, my mind decided this was the perfect time to replay the image of Preacher crouched in front of me, calloused fingers tipping my face like I was something worth handling with care.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up. If I’d had a therapist—which I didn’t, because therapy cost money I did not have—they’d have a field day. So, Trent, tell me about this outlaw biker you’re lusting after twelve hours after he watched you get punched into next week.

Now I had to figure out how to walk into work looking like this without Lamar calling an ambulance or, worse, the cops. I yanked open the medicine cabinet and started rummaging through the shelves. Maria kept half a department store’s worth of product crammed in there. Concealer. Foundation. Some tiny sponge thingy that looked like a purple egg.

I had zero clue what most of the stuff was.

My fingers closed around a bottle of foundation. Something called “Warm Honey,” which sounded like a drag queen’s stage name.

Dabbing some onto my finger, I smeared it across the worst of the bruise. The result was less “covered up” and more “clown who’d been mugged.” Streaks of orange-tan sat on top of the purple like wet paint refusing to absorb. I rubbed harder. The makeup smeared into my stubble and made the whole mess look textured, like a topographical map of pain.

“Christ on a cracker.”

I grabbed the purple egg, ran it under the faucet because I’d seen Maria do that once, and started dabbing. Marginally better. The bruise dulled from “fresh injury” to “week-old injury with glitter” because, apparently, the foundation had some kind of shimmer in it.

Wonderful. I’d be sparkling at the register like a vampire in a teenage movie.