I gave Nick a grateful look. He was sort of genteel, I realized. In a kick ass and take no names kind of way.
“You are very fucking lucky you didn’t.”
“You’re in no condition to whoop anybody’s ass, old man.”
“I can still take you down, even with a hole in my side,” I growled. “And anyway, if I couldn’t,” I added, “my woman would whoop your ass for me.”
That had them all laughing their asses off. They all liked Cynthia. I mean, how could they not? All night, I’d been taking an inordinate amount of sass about how young and pretty she was.
Hell, they’d been giving me shit since that first day.
‘Cradle robber’ was the PG version of the names they’d called me. ‘Pussy hound’ was another.
Reformed pussy hound, I’d told them. And I was.
“That’s it. Get it out of your systems, you fuckers.”
“Next round, I’m betting for pushups,” Drake said, flexing a thick muscle so that the anchor on it jumped up and down.
“And I’m betting for you fuckers to do an extra neighborhood patrol.”
Vice scratched his chin.
“I’m betting for pussy. If I lose, you set me up with some hot chica around here.”
“There is no easy ass around here, my friend. You have to work for it. The ladies around here are tough as nails and not easily impressed.”
“I don’t know. I think I impressed a few,” Nick said in that relaxed twang of his. I burst out laughing and slapped his back. Figures he was the one getting laid.
“You could get laid at a funeral parlor,” Vice groused.
“I got laid too,” Drake said with a grin. “Candy striper.”
Hunter said nothing. I knew he wasn’t the sort to fuck just anybody. A man got more selective as he got older. He was getting on in years, too.
Just like my old ass.
Vice, on the other hand, was a total fucking manwhore. Just a manwhore without any takers at the moment. I started laughing again.
“I’ll ask Cynthia, but I seriously fucking doubt she would subject any of her girlfriends to you.”
“Ask me what?”
We all turned in unison. I was on my feet in an instant, staring at the vision in front of me. She was perfect, as always. Tight-fitting jean skirt that hit just above the knee. Worn-in old plaid shirt with little embroidered flowers all over it, neatly tucked in. White cowboy boots showing off the golden color of her gorgeous legs.
“I like those boots,” I heard Nick say. I reminded myself to smack him later. Gentleman or not, he was a little too fond of my woman.
“Back off,” I hissed under my breath. “I like you, Nick. I’d hate to mess up that pretty face of yours.”
Cynthia was frowning at me, her arms crossed over her glorious chest.
“How long have you been sitting there? You are supposed to stay horizontal.”
I couldn’t help myself. I knew it was a bad idea but I just could not stop the words. Probably because I was drunk as a goddamn skunk.
“I’ll get horizontal anytime you want.”
She made a scoffing noise and clucked her tongue.
“You know what I mean. You need to rest. You have a doctor’s appointment in two days.”
“Aren’t they taking the stitches out?” Drake asked, making me give him a surprised look. “What? I pay attention. I’ve pulled more than a few bullets out of guys. I know my field dressings.”
“In the war?” I asked.
“Yeah, and in the parking lot at the clubhouse.” He cackled. I rolled my eyes, realizing he was not impressing my lady. I glanced back and my stomach sank. Cynthia looked pissed.
Uh-oh. Cynthia had that look on her face. The look that said I was in the doghouse. I hated making her mad.
Worse yet, there was no pussy in the doghouse.
I stared, distantly hearing the guys call the hand and flip their cards over. They must have flipped my cards over too.
“Preacher, you said a hundred pushups if you lost. We’re waiting.”
“If you even think about doing a pushup right now, you will not see one inch of this for a month,” Cynthia said, gesturing to her body. “Maybe longer.”
Gulp.
“I owe you, Hunter,” I said, not tearing my eyes away from my woman. “As soon as the doc gives the go ahead.”
“Those pushups had better be the first thing you do,” Hunter groused. “Or I’ll double them.”
“Well, maybe not the first,” Nick added. I glanced at him to see him leering at my woman again. I growled and he shrugged.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, her eyes looking worried.
“Okay,” I said, still staring at her.
“Alone.”
I nodded and followed her into the living room. I shut the kitchen door, though the truth was that they could probably hear us if they wanted to.
She sat on the couch, her hands primly folded in her lap.
“Maybe this isn’t the right time . . .”
“Talk to me, sweetheart.”
She chewed her lip, clearly deciding something. Then she sighed and shrugged.
“Okay. It’s about Marcus.”
“He’s a special kid.”
“He is,” she said, then took a deep breath. “And he’s in trouble.”
“What’s up?” I said, a sense of unease starting to settle in my gut.
“He told me that he came to talk to you. He told me what it was about.”
“Right. Someone close to him was breaking the law. I told him to sit tight and let me know if I needed to intervene.”
She frowned, staring at me.
“You are slurring your words, Preacher.”
“I may have drunk a bit more than I intended to,” I admitted. “I’m out of practice.”
She shook her head.
“Maybe we should discus this tomorrow.”
“Tell me,” I said. “Now I’m worried about the kid.”
And I was. The little guy had wiggled his way into my heart. A lot of the local kids had, but especially him. When Marcus looked at me, I felt like I mattered. Like I could do something to help him.
I was praying to God that I hadn’t fucked all that up.
“He came to talk to you. He wanted to confess to you.”
“Confess? What could he have to confess? I hope you told him I wasn’t a Catholic, anyway.”
“No, not like that. He . . . he wanted to tell you that it was his cousin who shot you. He was the one he came to you about.”
I stared at her. The irony was not lost on me. I wouldn’t have been shot if I had told the kid to go to the cops, or better yet, handled it myself with a firm talk and a little Spiritual Intimidation, as I liked to call it.
But it might not have worked. And Marcus himself could have gotten hurt for ratting the little thug out. I realized I would take a bullet for the kid again, if I had to.
“That’s not his fault.”
“I know, and I told him that. But that’s not the only problem. This cousin, he runs with a bad crowd. I don’t see that changing.”
“We don’t give up on kids,” I said gruffly. Even if the little shit had called Clarice names and shot me. I believed in redemption, especially since the little turd didn’t know better.
Ignorance can be cured. Racism, bigotry, it was all learned. It could be unlearned.
I’d seen it happen.
“Paul and I have tried with him. And I’m not saying that we stop. But that’s not the issue. Marcus lives in the same house with him. And his mom’s not much better.”
“Drugs?”
She nodded, rubbing her hands nervously on her legs.
“I think . . . I think we might need to get him out of there, Preacher.”
“What, like call CPS?”
“That might be a first step.”
“I thought you didn’t take drastic measures.”
“We don’t unless someone is in danger.
And I . . . I think he is in danger, Preacher. It’s eating me up inside.”
I nodded. It was eating me up inside too.
“At the same time, if he knows it’s us, we could lose him. Push him in the other direction.”
“That won’t happen,” I growled. “We won’t let it.”
I stood, clumsily reaching for her. I wanted to hold my woman, dammit. I pulled her up and into my arms.
“We’ll figure it out. Maybe we call CPS, maybe we don’t. I want the kid to be okay.”
But she pulled back.
“You smell like a bar,” she said, wrinkling up her cute little nose. It was almost funny, but her voice was serious. I felt myself sinking in her estimation. “I don’t like that, Preacher.”
I stared down at her. I knew I should apologize. But I didn’t think she would listen.
“Let’s talk about this tomorrow,” I said instead.
She nodded coldly.
“I think that’s a good idea. Not tomorrow, though. Maybe we should take a few days without talking . . .” She trailed off, turning toward the door. I followed her outside and grabbed her arm, making her turn and face me.
“A few days? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I need time to think. It means . . . you need to decide what your priorities are.”
“My priorities?” I said, my voice colder than I meant it to be.
“I don’t know what it means, all right?”
I stared in horror as her eyes filled with tears. She looked like her heart was breaking. Had I been so much of a drunk ass that I had done that?
“Goodnight, Preacher,” she said softly, gently pulling away. I wanted to roar. Instead, I just followed her. I stayed ten paces behind. When we got to her place, she turned and saw me. She actually looked surprised.
That pissed me right the fuck off.
Did she really think I would have let her walk away from me? That I would ever let her walk home alone again? She was mine, dammit. And I would protect her, whether she wanted me to or not.
I waited until she was inside and I could see her in the window of her apartment. I waited to see if she would wave or open the window. She didn’t. I turned and stumbled back toward the parsonage.
As I walked, I realized how truly shitfaced I was. I felt like a damned jackass! I wasn’t used to drinking so much straight stuff anymore. It still didn’t explain why Cynthia was so upset. The girl I knew would shake her head or scold me. But this felt different. I had this terrible feeling she was trying to end things with me.
I ground my teeth as I passed a group of hood rats congregating on the corner. My gait was steadier now that I had some righteous anger to sober me up. They were probably packing heat, but they still moved right the fuck out of my way.
Cynthia couldn’t end things with me. She could not. I didn’t have a damned clue why she wanted to, if that was what was happening. But it didn’t matter, anyway.
It would be a very foolish mistake on her part.
It would be like unleashing a dragon. A dragon that would chase her down and hunt her to the ends of the earth. A dragon that would take her back to the dragon’s lair where he would keep her under lock and key for the rest of her life.
I’d been watching lots of Game of Thrones and those Peter Jackson Hobbit movies, but the analogy was perfect. I was Smaug, big and mean and willing to die to protect what was mine.
Because there was no way in hell I was ever letting her go.
Chapter Thirty
Cynthia
My phone buzzed, making me flinch. I was curled up with a textbook that I was definitely not reading, alternating between nausea, tears, and paradoxically, a mild sense of euphoria. I rolled over grudgingly, not caring who was texting me.
Not that I expected it to be anyone other than Preacher.
The man might be brighter than he looked, but he was also an idiot. A drunk idiot who was about to be a daddy. Well, in seven and a half months or so. I sighed, figuring that gave him some time to get his act together.
I tried to imagine him changing diapers and smiled. He would do it. Just seeing the way he protected and cared about those he chose as friends . . . the way he took care of me after making love, cooking for me and feeding me . . . he was going to be a good father if he could curb his wild ways.
The crazy part was that he didn’t even know it yet.
I moaned as a wave of nausea rolled through me again. It turned out I was not one of those cute, once-a-day, barely knows she’s pregnant kind of morning sickness ladies. I was apparently an all day and all night, lying in bed moaning and weeping kind of morning sickness lady.
On the bright side, I was almost halfway through the first trimester, and according to Google, most women only had morning sickness in the beginning.
Hopefully, it would go away sooner rather than later because I was not enjoying this. I felt like I was on a tilt-a-wheel all the time. Of course, having a happy, healthy baby at the end would be worth it, but at the moment, I was wishing Preacher was the one who wanted to upchuck all over the place and not me.
The phone buzzed again, and I groaned, finally rolling over to pick it up. I stared at the phone in surprise. I’d forgotten all about the person on the other side of the text.
It was . . . not Preacher.
It was Zach.
And for the first time in years, I hadn’t thought about him in a while. Weeks, maybe. Not even once.
Can you talk?
I sighed and was about to tell him, once again, that we had nothing to talk about. I wished him well, honestly, but I didn’t see the need to rehash old wounds. Especially since I finally felt like I was well and truly over him.
It’s about the church. I’m in town for a few days to see Ma. I want to make a donation. Do something to give back.
I sat up and closed my eyes at the dizziness the sudden movement caused. Visions of me telling Zach to go to hell popped up, but so did visions of Marcus and my dance crew wearing spiffy new uniforms. Security cameras, flowers, benches . . . all that would change the whole neighborhood for Clarice, Aunt Julia, and all the other people who deserved a better place to live.
The people here who deserved to be safe and happy, not scurrying home before dark and kicking rusted cans out of their way to get in their front doors.
I swallowed and forced myself to be mature. I’d seen on the news that he got a massive contract with the NFL while Preacher was in the hospital. That was the last time I’d thought of him, I realized, chewing my bottom lip. I was genuinely happy for him and his family. He was a prodigy when it came to sports. It was well deserved. If he wanted to do something for the church, I really shouldn’t say no.
It might be annoying that it was an ex-boyfriend helping us out, but it would be selfish to turn it down just because I didn’t want to deal with the man. If he wanted to throw a couple of thousand dollars our way, it would be a huge help.
My phone buzzed again. This time, it was Preacher.
I don’t claim to be a saint, but I don’t drink much around you. I like a drink in the evening, but I don’t plan to get drunk again anytime soon.
I had to answer. Both of them. I sighed. It was ironic that I was hearing from the only two men who had ever been in my life, romantically speaking. Especially right now, when I was pretty sure I was an unattractive shade of green.
Not that it mattered. Preacher seemed like me no matter what I did, and I didn’t care what Zach thought of me. Not anymore.
It was hard to describe how freeing that realization was.
I texted Zach to meet me at the church garden and told Preacher we would talk soon. I’d made him wait a couple of days. Hopefully, he’d sobered up and had some time to think. I had to tell him he was going to be a father.
I hoped . . . it would be a happy reunion. He seemed to want a child. I prayed it was enough to get him to curb his wild ways, just a little.
I splashed cold water on my face and brushed my teet
h. Twice.
It was a sweatpants and T-shirt kind of day for sure. I really didn’t care what I looked like, but I did make sure there was no vomit in my hair as I pulled it back into a ponytail and tugged on a floral printed baseball cap. I grabbed a denim jacket to cover the fact that I was not, and would not be, wearing a bra.
My boobs ached too much and I just didn’t care.
Sunglasses and lip balm completed the ‘zero fucks to give’ look. I made a cup of ginger tea and poured it into a thermos before heading out. Ginger was the only thing that seemed to help, and Clarice had brought over a box of organic teabags the day before, bless her technicolor heart.
I squinted as I stepped outside. I hadn’t left the house in a few days, emailing in homework and checking church emails on my neighbor’s Wi-Fi. I felt like a hermit emerging from a cave. It was bright out. There was no hiding the pasty shade of my olive-toned skin out here.
Ugh.
The sun was so bright today, and I hated it. I was cranky and wanted to be back in bed, watching Netflix on my ancient laptop—but only if the Wi-Fi held. I walked slowly, not feeling any rush to get where I was going. I took a deep breath as I turned the corner across from the church.
My feet felt like they were made of lead as I exhaled and pushed open the garden gate. No one was working in here today, thank goodness. But I was pretty sure people had already noticed Zach, standing in the back and considering a patch of petunias as if he were a horticulturist.
He turned, and I felt a faint remnant of the thrill I used to get when I saw him. Faint, but still there. His familiar face was older but still achingly handsome. More so without the baby fat, I decided.
But butterflies? No. For the first time, those butterflies were gone.
The look on his face was surprisingly humble for someone who had just won one of the biggest contracts for a new recruit in the history of the NFL.
He looked almost . . . nervous.
“Wow,” he said. “You look . . .”
“Exhausted?” I joked.
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