Page 9 of Preacher

Preacher leaned forward, just enough that I could smell tobacco and engine grease and something cleaner under it, like soap and cold air. “I’m saying you’re done being everyone’s fall guy.”

A laugh tried to climb out of my throat as I glanced away. “I wasn’t exactly volunteering.”

“Trent.” The way he said my name landed different the second time. Quieter. “Look at me.”

I looked. I’d been looking. I couldn’t seem to do anything else.

“I’m not asking you to do anything,” he said. “I’m telling you how it’s going to be. Your shift ends at four. Crowbar’ll be parked across the street at three forty-five.” He slid out of the booth in one smooth motion, dropped a folded bill onto the table that was way too big for a coffee he hadn’t ordered. “You walk out that door, you walk to his truck. Not home. Not anywhere else.”

Crowbar shifted on his stool at the counter, not turning, just adjusting, like a tuning fork picking up a frequency.

“You can’t just hijack me!” I scrambled out of the booth, glaring up at six-something of him, and briefly forgot there was a whole room of people watching.

He didn’t repeat himself. Preacher Deluca, I was already learning, didn’t seem like the kind of man who repeated himself. He just looked at me like he’d said something perfectly reasonable and was waiting for me to catch up.

My eyes narrowed. The order felt like a trap with the spring already triggered. “You planned this.”

“I planned part of it.” Preacher gave a single nod, and god help me, I became lost in those amber eyes. Something was definitely wrong with me.

“Which part?”

“The part where you stop being other people’s problem,” he said, “and start being mine.”

Preacher paused, and the diner suddenly felt smaller, like the walls had taken a step in. He looked down at me, and my pulse was a complete mess.

“Eat something,” he said quietly. “You’re pale and trembling.”

Then he was gone, Crowbar right behind him. I sat back down, forcing myself to breathe. This could not be happening. For a split second, I considered ignoring Preacher’s demands, but knew I would get into Crowbar’s truck. Because a part of me knew home was no longer safe.

Lamar appeared in the seat across from me before the door had finished swinging shut.

“Trent.”

“I know.”

“That was Preacher Deluca.”

“I know, Lamar.” Worse, Preacher had felt like the only solid thing right now.

He picked up the money, looked at it, then set it back down. “He didn’t order anything.”

“I think it’s a tip.” For sitting across from me and rearranging my entire life.

“I think it’s a down payment.” He folded his arms on the table, and for the first time since I’d started working for him, I saw something like fear move across his face. Not for himself. For me. Which was somehow worse. “What does he want with you, son?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I didn’t know.

It would’ve been a lie, and we both would’ve heard it.

“My brother screwed up.” The words ran like a current all the way down my body. “And I think I’m the one who has to pay for it.”

Lamar was quiet for a long time. Then he reached across the table, took the hundred, and pressed it into my palm.

“Couch pulls out,” he said. “Shotgun’s loaded. You remember that.”

I nodded, because my throat had closed up again, and folded the bill into my pocket before getting back to work.

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