Preacher: The East End Boys

by Christopher Harlan

  “Sure,” I say flippantly. “I’m sure I’d panic.” Sarcasm game strong.

  “Oh, you would. You’d wonder what the hell that feeling was in your stomach, and why your whole body felt like it was on fire.”

  Kind of like how I feel right now?

  “And then what?” I ask. I can tell I’ve overplayed my hand with the last question. He catches my mistake and realizes I’m trying to lead him instead of the other way around.

  “Guess you’ll just have to use your imagination until. . .”

  “Until what?” I ask.

  “Until I decide to fuck you for real. Then you won’t have to imagine anymore.”

  I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t racing at the thought, and it’s a thought I’ve had since he walked back into my office, but I can’t have him take this kind of control over my life and my body, even though I know resisting him doesn’t do anything.

  “How long have you been in the city?” I ask.

  “Like I said, a few years.”

  I’m shocked to hear that we’ve been living in the same city for the first time since we were teenagers and I’m just learning about it now. And here I thought I’d left Arkham long ago, but I guess Arkham hasn’t left me.

  “I know your next questions. I’m always a step ahead of you.”

  Prick.

  “I didn’t know among your many talents that you picked up psychic abilities since high school. But go ahead, I’m curious to know what I’m thinking.”

  He makes me wait by taking a bite of his food and chewing it slowly while looking away. I can hear the literal crunch coming from his mouth and now I’m staring at it, wondering what else he can do with it. “You want to know why I’m just now contacting you, right? Am I warm?”

  Scorching hot, actually.

  “Maybe,” I grudgingly agree.

  He takes another bite. He’s not hungry. This isn’t about hunger, it’s about control. It’s always about control with him. I get impatient. “If you’re done chewing so loudly the people in the kitchen can hear, how about answering that question you guessed I was thinking?”

  “Patience is a virtue.”

  “So is not being an asshole.”

  “Have some of your eggs. They’re delicious.”

  I don’t know why I take a bite, I’m not even hungry. My body shut down all normal functions back in the office, but here I am taking a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth instead of him. “There.”

  “Perfect,” he says a little too smugly. “I. . . actually, I should say we moved here after Dad died.”

  “We?” I ask.

  “My brother and I.”

  Jesus. “Pope lives here too?”

  “Sure does. Little shit became a hot shot attorney, you believe that? Now he works for me, even though I let him think he works with me. Tomato-Toe-mah-toe.”

  This whole conversation is blowing my mind. My whole past lives in the same 24-mile island and I’m just now learning of this. But more than that, it’s Preacher who’s impressing me, even though I’d never let him know. Despite my anger at him, I never thought I’d see him in a suit and tie, running a company, being as much of a success as he clearly is.

  “Your father left his business to you?”

  “Not exactly,” he concedes. “That’s a. . . complicated story.”

  “So he didn’t leave it to you but you run it anyhow?”

  “Yup.”

  He doesn’t offer anything past that. I don’t know why I thought he would. I just keep the conversation moving, trying to squeeze whatever information I can out of him. “So, you’re running a huge company with Pope?”

  “That I am, and I needed to be in this city to do it. I wanted to take the hands-on approach. I could have hired a CEO and just been a figure head who collected checks, but that’s not who I am.”

  “No,” I agree, “it isn’t. But that still doesn’t answer why we’re sitting here together.”

  “The big reveal, right? Why did I come see you?” He pauses again. No food this time, it’s like he’s waiting for me to figure it out. I shrug. “Isn’t it obvious?” Nope. Not at all. Not even a little bit. “I want you to work for me.”

  Mic drop.

  Mind blown.

  Nineteen—Lyric

  The Present

  “If bad ideas had their own Olympic Games, this one would take the gold medal in every event, hands down. Did you get a traumatic brain injury since our last lunch?”

  I thought she might react like this, and I can’t say that I blame her.

  Kennedy and I try to meet once a week for food, only instead of Arkham’s mozzarella fries and gravy at the diner, we meet at increasingly fancy places with hipster waitstaff and whatever food fad Kennedy is into on their menu. It’s been Keto for the last three months, so that sandwich I wanted was out the window. It’s okay though. I’ll have my carbs at home, alone, like a non-trendy eater.

  “No,” I answer. “I mean, there was that time I accidentally banged heads with Sophie at the office, but I don’t think there was any permanent damage.” Kennedy doesn’t look jokey at the moment. “What? What’s that face?”

  “You’re smart, Lyric, smarter than I am, plus you’re one of the best psychologists in the city—what do you think this face means?”

  It means I’m an idiot—for allowing Preacher to literally stroll back into my life, for nearly having sex with him after a decade of hating him, for entertaining the idea of working for him, even for a second.

  “I get it, you’re right.”

  “Look, I’m not judging you—Lord knows I’m in no position to do that with my track record. Closest I’ve come to sex in months is Mr. Happy.”

  That’s Kennedy’s vibrator—she’s made it a sentient being in her mind—one named after the feeling it brings her.

  “And how is Mr. Happy?”

  “I think I’m wearing him out. He seems emotionally distant and less hot-and-heavy than when we first started together. I think the honeymoon phase might be over.”

  “I think he might just need batteries,” I joke. “But if you need to break up with him there are more vibrator fish in the sea. You can one-click them. Trust me, you should see my Amazon ‘save for later’ list.” We joke for a few minutes, but we’re definitely not done talking about my situation. “Oh, and I just remembered, Pope lives here also,” I tell her. “And—hold for the punchline—he’s in your line of work.”

  Ken looks more surprised at that little piece of gossip than she did when I told her Preacher was back. She tries to hide it. “Why would I care?”

  Too far, Kennedy, you’re overcompensating now. She always liked Pope, even though she’d never admit it. But I saw the way she used to look at him back when we were kids. And I can’t say blame her—the kid is gorgeous.

  “Now it’s your turn to guess what my face means.”

  “Look, you tell yourself whatever you want, but I never liked Pope. Is he good looking? Yes. Like, really good looking? Okay, sure. Gorgeous past the point of normal men? Obviously. But so what? And wait, you said he’s an attorney?”

  “Attorney,” I laugh. “Only lawyers call themselves attorneys, I swear. And yeah, that’s what Preacher said.”

  “Interesting. Wonder why we’ve never crossed paths. I’ll have to keep my eye out for him.”

  I snicker. I know Kennedy better than she knows herself sometimes. “And by eye you definitely mean vagina, right?”

  She makes a pretend shocked face and throws a piece of food at me. “Stop it, we’re not in the cafeteria at Arkham anymore. We’re. . . what the hell is the name of this place again?”

  “Keto City.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Dumbest name ever.”

  “This place is really popular. You’re just mad that you abandoned your potential fortune in ketogenic themed restaurants to pursue that minimum wage psychology job.”

  She’s not kidding. Right now it feels like that with all the expenses. “You
’re right, I should have gone into law like you. But then it would be me running into Pope one day in court instead of you.”

  “Would you stop it already. I don’t date or fuck guys with fake names. That’s your speed. What kind of stupid name is Preacher anyhow?”

  I haven’t thought of it in so long—the story of how he got his name. It’s been so long.

  “Forget his name, Ken, what am I supposed to do?”

  She takes a bite of her fake burger and makes me wait for the advice I so desperately need right now. “What’s the job exactly?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Okay. . . well what does Preacher actually do?”

  “You know, I’m not entirely sure. Business something or other.”

  “Did you just say ‘business something or other’?”

  “Maybe.” We both laugh. “I’m sorry, he didn’t go through his resumé with me. I only know he’s running a company.”

  “Preacher is running a company?” I get the shock in her voice. In high school he was a wild kid—brash, cocky, loved to fight—but never had the kind of ambition that was drilled into people like Kennedy.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about him, Ken.”

  “Apparently.”

  “So. . . what do I do? He texted me that he wants to have dinner tomorrow night and get my answer. What should I tell him?”

  “Gee, with little to no information, coupled with what I know about Preacher, that’s gonna be a pass for me, Dog.” She does an almost scary impersonations of Randy Jackson from American Idol. “Why do you think he asked you, of all people? No offense, but you’re not the only shrink in Manhattan.”

  Why is right. Why me? Why now? Is this some back-door way for him to try and be with me? Or does he really need me?

  “I wish I knew.”

  Her phone goes off. Her ringtone is the theme from Law & Order. “Shit, sorry I have to take this.”

  “No worries.”

  “Hold on a sec,” she yells into the phone. “Lyric, you’ve always had a better understanding of why people do what they do than anyone I’ve known. Scratch your own itch here. If this were a scenario in one of your classes and the professor asked you why Preacher asked you to work for him, or what you should say, how would you answer that?”

  With that she walks away. This isn’t my first rodeo. I know that when Kennedy gets calls like that, whatever we’re doing is over. It’s fine with me though. I have a patient in about an hour and I need to box out some time to stop at McDonalds to get food on the way to the office. This keto crap isn’t for me.

  Next time I pick the place, Ken.

  But she left me with some good points to think about, and enough time for me to do some deep thinking of my own. And she’s right, I know people as well as anyone. It’s what I do, and why I graduated top of my class.

  Now, I just have to take that knowledge and apply it to my own situation. A few blocks later, the thoughts pop into my head head like they just fell out of the sky.

  He wants my answer at dinner.

  Instead, I’ll have a few questions of my own.

  Twenty—Preacher

  The Present

  Pope knows I hate lateness, but here I am looking at my watch for the third time in just a few minutes, hoping to God that it’s broken, and that he’s not actually twenty minutes late for our working lunch.

  All of my lunches are working lunches, especially now with everything I’m trying to accomplish. But it’s hard to have lunch when the guy bringing the food is late as all fuck.

  Finally, I hear frantic door slamming from my office. That has to be my brother. Pope looks like he just rolled out of bed and dressed himself on his way to the deli. I’m about to big brother him, but he beats me to it.

  “Sorry, man, I know I’m late. Had a rough one this morning.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say sarcastically. “And what was the rough one’s name? Let me guess — tell me if I’m warm. Candy, spelled with a y instead of an ie, like actual candy. No, wait, the last one was Candy, wasn’t it? Mandy? Brittany? They always ends in an “E” sound. And definitely blonde.”

  “Don’t be a dick. Her name was Emmanuela, if you must know.”

  “Bullshit,” I tell him. “That’s the name she uses on stage to get drunk assholes to slip ones in her g-string—if she’s even wearing one, which I doubt. What’s the name on her birth certificate? Or did you tell her your actual name was Pope so you could keep things completely anonymous?”

  Pope makes a face—the one he makes when he knows I’m being more accurate than a sharpshooter, but he doesn’t want to admit it.

  “Pope is better for picking up chicks than Tobias—or even worse, Toby.”

  “Don’t hate on your name. Toby Maguire was Spider-Man, doesn’t get much cooler than that.”

  “Really? Let’s evaluate—Spider-Man is the nerd who lives with his old aunt and can’t get the girl he wants no matter how much he tries. I’ll stick with Pope, thanks. I’m doing just fine with it.”

  He really is. My brother was always ambitious and, unlike me, always trying to live up to our father’s expectations for his sons. He jumped into the pool head first, and always got the best grades so that he could be a success.

  We’re different that way.

  But, for all our differences, the one thing we have in common is that we both have a way with the ladies—even if we go for very different types of women. Getting a woman has always been about as challenging for either of us as it is for LeBron to sink a free throw. I’ve always taken more of the rifle approach, but Pope is a shotgun guy. He knows that he’s a good looking and successful, and he can cast a net like a commercial fisherman.

  Since the Manhattan move a few years ago, he’s been going for a Guinness World Record.

  He hands me my food. “Just don’t let any of your recreational activities keep you from your professional ones. I’d hate to have to fire my own brother.”

  “You’d never fire me. I’m the best—plus you’d never trust anyone to have your back like you trust me.”

  “You are the best,” I tell him. It’s true, he’s great at his job. Seeing him mow people down in court is like watching a UFC fight for free. “But I’ll fire anyone who’s late with my food when I’m this fucking hungry.” After a few bites I’m right back into business mode. “So when’s the next meeting?” I ask.

  “Three days. I think this is going to be harder than we thought.”

  “No shit. Let them bring it, we’ll get it done.”

  “I really wish you hadn’t come in guns blazing like you did the other day. It was already an uphill battle, but now they’ll be looking to put up roadblocks. And they have some good guys on their teams.”

  “So we’ll bring better guys. Put a team together of your best guys at the firm. You lead them into battle, and I’ll be right there with you.”

  I probably shouldn’t have gone half cocked into that meeting and pissed everyone off, but the only way I know how to drive is with my foot flat against the floor. Speaking of cocks. . .

  “Remember before the meeting when I texted you that I saw Lyric and was walking around with a boner fit for a king, and you thought I was joking?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wasn’t,” I tell him. “About any of it.”

  “Wait, you saw her—Lyric? The one from Arkham?”

  “Yes, the one from Arkham. How many women named Lyric do you think are walking around?”

  “About as many men walking around named Pope.”

  Pope puts his drink down. He looks surprised, but that’s only because I haven’t hit him with the punchline yet. “That’s crazy. I didn’t know she lived here. I mean, she talked about moving here back in high school but I didn’t know she actually would.”

  “Lots you don’t know about her,” I point out. And lots you don’t know about the tabs I kept on her either.

  “True,” he says. “But I bet I know one thing.”

  �
��Oh yeah, what’s that?”

  “I bet she looked like she’d seen a ghost when you bumped into her, am I right?”

  Yup, you are. But then again, I was going for shock value. “Pretty much. I asked her to help for this project.”

  Pope looks at me judgmentally. “What? Why? And were you planning on telling me?”

  “I just did. Consider yourself informed.”

  “We need to work on your communion skills. You realize we’re partners, right? That usually means decisions are made together.”

  “Not this one, baby bro. This one there’s no discussion needed. I want Lyric.”

  He snickers. “Yeah I bet you do.”

  We have dinner plans tomorrow night. I told her that I want an answer, and that answer had better be yes.

  I don’t do ‘no’ or ‘maybe’ — soon she’ll find that out.

  Twenty-One—Preacher

  The Past (September of senior year)

  Everyone is pissing me off.

  The head shrinker at Harmony—that poor bastard—used to talk to us teenage scumbags about what he called ‘coping mechanisms’ to deal with our pent-up anger and frustration so that wars didn’t break out over some dumb shit like an accidental shoulder bump on the yard.

  He taught us to breathe, think positive thoughts, all that shit. I think he just read it in one of those self-help books that lined the walls of his office. Ten bucks says that dude had lines of Coke and a flask in his top drawer next to his lunch just to deal with our crazy asses. I wouldn’t have blamed him.

  So far this morning I’ve tried his breathing exercises and they did fuck all. Guess I’m back to being angry. But what is there to be positive about? So far this summer all I’ve experienced is judgmental looks and whispers whenever I went into the other part of town.

  I don’t understand my life right now. I understood my old life before it all came crashing down around me. I even understood Harmony. It had rules, structure. Sure, that structure was knowing how to act so you didn’t get hurt, but at least there was a playbook. I don’t know the rules of Arkham yet.