Page 7 of Preacher

“They keep looking at you like the answer’s yes.”

I swallowed. “Lamar—”

“Go take their order, Trent.” His heavy hand settled briefly on my shoulder, grounding me. “And if anything goes sideways, you walk straight back to that kitchen. Understood?”

With a lump in my throat, I gave a single nod.

The walk to that booth was the longest fifteen feet of my life. By the time I got there, I’d convinced myself my legs were going to fold under me, that I was going to face-plant into Crowbar’s lap, that I was going to throw up my single sip of coffee all over Preacher’s boots.

None of that happened. What happened was worse.

Preacher looked up at me, his gaze slow-walking from the bruise on my jaw down to the apron strings knotted at my waist and back up again. Then he tipped his chin toward the empty seat across from him.

“Sit down, Trent.”

My name in his mouth did something to my insides I didn’t have time to examine.

“I’m—I’m working,” I managed, lifting the order pad like it was a shield.

“You’re on break.”

“I just got here.”

“You’re on break,” he repeated, and this time, it wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t mean, either. Just a fact, delivered in that same disarmingly calm voice from yesterday. The one that made my knees want to give for entirely different reasons than Hammer’s gun had.

Crowbar slid out of the booth without being asked, settling onto a stool at the counter with his back to us, like he was giving us privacy in the loosest possible definition of the word.

I sat. My legs basically made the decision without me.

Preacher’s eyes never left my face. Up close, in the diner’s fluorescent light, they were even worse than I remembered. Or better. I couldn’t tell which.

“You ice it?” he asked.

“What?”

He tapped his own jaw. “Your face.”

“Oh. Yeah. Some.” I’d held a bag of frozen peas to it for ten minutes before I got bored and gave up. Close enough to ice.

“Hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced. He folded his hands on the table, silver rings catching the light, and I realized I was staring at them and forced my eyes back up. “We need to talk.”

Four words. I’d never wanted to bolt out of a diner so badly in my entire life.

“About what?” I croaked.

His mouth did that almost-smile thing again.

“About your brother.”

Chapter Three

Trent

“Mike?” My voice rose three octaves.

Preacher didn’t blink at the squeak. He just tilted his head a fraction, studying me the way a man might study a card he hadn’t decided whether to play yet.

“Mike,” he confirmed.