Page 5 of Preacher

Tilting my head under the bathroom light, I leaned closer to the mirror. From a distance, maybe nobody would notice. From a foot away, I looked like I’d lost a fight with a craft store.

I brushed my teeth, careful not to open my mouth too wide. Even that small movement sent a fresh spike up the side of my face. The painkillers I’d swallowed at three in the morning had worn off, and I wasn’t sure I trusted myself to take another without falling asleep while pouring hot coffee.

The linoleum was sticky against my bare feet because Mike believed mopping the kitchen floor was a hobby for other people. The coffee carafe held a swallow of something black and burned at the bottom. I considered it, decided I valued my stomach lining, and dumped it into the sink.

“You look like shit.”

Mike’s voice came from the doorway, and every muscle in my body locked up tight. I turned slowly, gripping the edge of the counter to keep my hands from doing something I’d regret, like wrapping around his throat.

He stood there in boxers and a stained tank top, hair sticking up at angles that defied physics, scratching his stomach like he hadn’t just thrown me to the wolves.

“Whose fault is that?” I asked, my voice flat.

He had the gall to look confused. “What?”

“Hammer.” I watched his face for the flicker of recognition, the dawning oh-shit moment.

It came. His eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before he schooled his face into something that resembled concern, but only if you squinted and ignored the panic underneath.

“He found you?” Mike asked like it was a surprise instead of inevitable. What did he think would happen?

“Found me, dragged me into an alley, put a gun in my face, and then took me on a fun-filled trip to Deluca’s.” I yanked open a cabinet, the door banging against the next one over. “Thanks for that, by the way. Real solid brotherly move.”

“Deluca’s?” His voice cracked on the second syllable. The blood drained from his face so fast I half expected him to keel over right there on the disgusting tile. “You went to Deluca’s? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Am I—” The laugh that ripped out of me hurt my jaw. “Am I out of my mind? I had a gun pressed to my face, Mike. I said the first thing that came to me. That’s on you, not me.”

“Trent.” He stepped forward, and I stepped back, the counter biting into my spine. “Listen to me. You stay away from those people. The Howlers don’t—”

“Oh, now you’re worried about my safety?” I grabbed the bottle of generic ibuprofen from the cabinet and rattled it at him. “That’s rich. Real rich. Where was this concern when you were handing my name out like a business card?”

“I didn’t think he’d actually—”

“You didn’t think. Period.” I shook three pills into my palm and dry-swallowed them, the bitterness coating my tongue. “You never think. That’s the whole problem.”

He had the audacity to look hurt. “I was in a tight spot.”

“And your solution was to throw your kid brother into a tighter one.” I shouldered past him, ignoring the way his hand twitched like he was thinking about grabbing my arm. He thought better of it, probably noticing the bruises already ringing my bicep where Hammer’s fingers had branded me.

“Where are you going?”

“Work.”

“Trent—”

I slammed the bedroom door behind me hard enough to rattle the cheap hollow wood in its frame. My hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs and breathed through my nose until the tremor settled into something I could ignore.

Once I was dressed, I grabbed my keys off the dresser and headed for the front door, ignoring Mike’s voice calling my name from the kitchen. Whatever apology he was working up to, I didn’t want it. I wanted my face back. I wanted to rewind seventy-two hours and have a brother who didn’t treat me like I was disposable.

The walk to Lamar’s Diner took fifteen minutes on a good day. Today it took twenty-five, because every car that rumbled past sent my heart into my throat. Every dark sedan was Hammer. Every motorcycle was Preacher. By the time I pushed through the glass door, I was sweating through my T-shirt and seriously reconsidering my life choices.

Not that I’d had much choice in any of them lately.

“You’re late,” Lamar called from behind the counter without looking up. He was elbow-deep in a stack of receipts, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “And tie your apron before—”

He glanced up. His mouth froze mid-sentence.

“Don’t,” I said quickly, ducking past him toward the back. “I tripped. Stairs.”