Preacher Man (Renegade Souls MC Romance Saga Book 2)

by V. Theia

  “I’m a changed man.” His smirk wicked, promising more than cake and orgasms that was for sure.

  “Mmhm, of course, you are. A pervert doesn’t change his kinky spots.”

  “Beautiful, that little darling you have between your legs, probably not encased in underwear and I don’t even want to know right now or it’ll drive me fucking nuts, is all the sweetness I want. You sick of me already?”

  She chewed on her lip, met his gaze head on. He loved when she did that, no avoiding the emotions on her face, clear as day. “I think you have a few more turns in you, old man. I mean, Preacher man.”

  Sassy girl. He bit gently into her palm, her gasp was his green light to flick his tongue after it. He wanted to be licking more than her hand.

  Something sweeter he was damn addicted to swallowing, feeling it bloom and swell against his tongue until she gushed her pleasure down his throat. She did wonders for taking his mind off the bad and focusing the good.

  He was doing the same as he used to when his PTSD was at its worst, he could feel it in his gut, in his head, he was hiding behind any good thing he could get his hands on; sex and booze. Never drugs, but he’d thought about it on dark lonely days when he couldn’t see the end in sight, he’d sat and thought about it.

  Ruby was more dangerous than any hard narcotic.

  For a while sitting there recounting good stories about Shane he forgot his buried anger and allowed himself to feel what he was feeling; missing his brother.

  He was no hero, but sometimes it was good to pretend. Ruby made it easy as she stayed at his side, holding his hand, laughing at the right things, asking him for another story, he felt like the hero.

  He understood better than most the desire for anonymity, he’d found it in the Renegade Souls. No one cared who he was before, just who he was to his club brothers now.

  He was an outlaw. Not a nice one either.

  He was doing shady shit even before Rider recruited him into the club. He didn’t mind getting his hands dirty, the only thing he refused to do anymore was to use his military sharpshooter skill. He'd bluntly told Rider before patching in that was off the table. He had no interest in being an enforcer, just as well the club had two on staff with Hawk and Lawless, those two crazy fucks would toss a coin to see who got to do the murdering.

  Rider needed a guy beat down; Preacher could do that. They needed someone leaned on for info, Preacher stepped in. He had contacts all over the country for their shady dealings that came in useful. He could easily give his road captain position to another member more suited, but he enjoyed it, the organizing rides for the brothers, the freedom, being the man in front when they went out in force together. An adrenaline rush no drug could touch. Same as his military days.

  Fuck. he was a dick for leaving his team in the wind. No man left behind. And he’d walked away without a backward glance. Shane. O’Mara. Denby. All lost their lives that day. And Preacher had walked the fuck away from those who survived. Cunt move.

  His chest felt lighter somehow. An hour ago, he would have thought it impossible to ever feel that way again. A smile cracked up one side of his face as he coasted his free hand over the shaved part of his skull, it felt a little long, he needed it clipping again. It flashed a memory that made him grin. “Did I ever tell you, baby, about the time Shane said he’d give me a cool as fuck haircut and I ended up with a sideways mohawk? I was the most badass five-year-old at kindergarten.”

  Ruby’s giggle was a goddamn balm.

  Preacher talked for another hour.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “I wish I knew why he asked me every time if I was good. I wish I knew why he looked at me in that way that made me hot and shy and ... I couldn't breathe." – Paige

  He’d volunteered to come meet Grigori with his Russian circus. Rider was too busy clucking over his old lady, Preacher was gonna win that bet for sure.

  The Russian he'd been waiting twenty minutes for, dickhead was late, finally climbed out of the back-passenger side door of a black Jaguar, he wore a three-piece slate gray suit with a thick wool overcoat. He didn’t get the memo it was June almost July and hot as Hell even with the gusts of wind coming from the mountains, Preacher’s balls were sweating so this guy had to have been like a faucet in his jockeys.

  Dimly cognizant of the rhythmic slap-slap of the guy’s patent leather shoes on the asphalt, Preacher let the guy and his minder come all the way over to him before he shifted off the wall, stepped forward and unlike most of the Renegade Souls boys, he played nice.

  Plastering a nice wide smile on his face he offered a hand that was grasped in a sweaty palm.

  “Good to see ya, Grigori. Rider sends his apologies he had something else he needed to attend to, but I can see to whatever you boys got a need for.”

  Lie. lie. Lie. He was here as the Renegade Souls representative, only Rider or Hawk had the power to agree to any deals going down concerning the club. The Russians had nothing the Souls wanted right now, not if they continued to try to muscle in on the Souls territory as they were doing, but as he said, giving them a courtesy, better to start off on the right lying foot than an animosity tussle. See what cards were dealt first. For all they knew the Russians wanted to bring them a pound cake and a bottle of Vodka and wish them a happy fucking spring time.

  “Preacher, is it not?” The voice condescending. Asshole knew him alright. Playing the ‘who are you again’ game was for punks who liked the upper hand, if he needed to measure his dick that way go for it, ruski. The Russian underboss to their Pakhan Alexei, smiled. A pasty sickly fake smile that didn’t reach his malevolent eyes. Preacher flicked his gaze to the stocky dude at his side who had seen prettier days, what with the smashed nose angled off to the right side and the wicked scar along one-half of his ugly mug, this Russian had a face only his blind mom could love.

  “Where is that crazy-fuck second in command if the president is busy?” The Russian inquired, pulling out a white handkerchief, the man dabbed his upper lip and forehead. The crazy-fuck would be Hawk and currently hiding out, also Rider would have never sent Hawk for this meet, he was too unpredictable, the last time he put a world of hurt on some of Alexei’s Russians.

  Preacher rolled his shoulder.

  “He had summit to do. So, you got me.” Turns out, as meetings go this wasn’t such a bad one, in comparison, Preacher, had seen some doozies over the years, ones in which guns were drawn, blood was shed and lives lost. You never knew how a meeting would turn out in these situations until it was all over and done with and you counted the chips you left the table with.

  He'd be going back to the clubhouse intact. Grigori made a noise of wanting a piece of Armado. Preacher had to question why Alexei, who held New York, and was all accounts a mafia don to rival most, would even want a part of Colorado, the Russian member of the bratva had looked him in the eye and told him in a cocky smirking tone ‘that’s for us to know, comrade.’

  As meetings go it wasn’t bad, but there was nothing good in it either. The Russians left as quick as they’d arrived having done what they set out to do, to let the Renegade Souls know they were going to be a presence in Colorado, one way or another, the bad taste in Preacher’s mouth was foreboding for whatever they intended to come next.

  The last Rider had heard The Apollo Kings MC wanted nothing to do with the Bratva either, it was only the Raging Rebels who had climbed into bed with the cold front, they ran everything in New York, talk was they were moving in on the Chicago turf against the Italian mob, good luck with that, those mafia were more possessive of their shit than a magpie was of his shinies, but that was their own war, he didn’t care one way or another, other than the underground talk that filtered out this way from time to time. Renegade Souls had their fingers in a lot of pies, none of those pies were run by the different strings of the mafia, Rider liked his bed and wouldn’t climb into anyone else’s. Preacher was in accord with his president.

  Taking the stroll through the midday
sun back to his bike, he switched from potential worry for the club, to his lady. He’d been seeing a lot of Ruby lately, not that it was every day, but they spoke every day, she was fucking bewitching him, had him wrapped around her little witchy finger, and the minx knew it. Maybe tonight he’d break into her apartment and fuck her awake, show her who was in charge.

  Preacher, on a run with Lawless last night and with not knowing when he’d get finished with his slightly illegal activities he hadn’t ended up at her place between her thighs as he’d wanted, instead they’d done a little bit of phone sex, jacking off into his own hand until her cries had him deaf for the sweetest minute. Damn, when his lady came she really came hard. He’d made her tell him all her dirty little secrets in her post-orgasmic euphoria, imagining her lying in her soft warm bed with her eyes fluttered closed, breath labored coming down slowly, fingers still sticky and her legs shaking.

  There was no quitting Ruby.

  She had climbed into his turmoil and made herself at home, fixing him one brick at a time from the inside, powerless to stop her, she touched his pain and made it a little better each time.

  Oh, he was going to give it to the tiny dancer the next time he saw her. She was changing him in a way he couldn’t ever fathom would happen, not for a woman, anyway, but then no woman was like Ruby. He’d put her on a pedestal and that’s where she’d stay.

  His lady. Remembered sensation stroked up his spine as he’d listened to her pleasure last night, he wanted to unlock all her fantasies for her, hear more of her breathy cries. And he could do that, he wasn’t only distracting himself with sex, it wasn’t about that now, Ruby was complex, he wanted her in and out of bed, he wanted her in between stormy orgasms, he craved her voice in his ear late at night when she was more than half asleep and deliriously giggling because he’d called her baby. He wanted her across the table while they shared a meal. None of which had anything to do with sex or how he coped with his PTSD.

  She was different up there on the pedestal he’d erected for her. Preacher had the need to worship her, show her the kind of love that she’d been neglected for so long. Who in their right mind would have a woman like Ruby in their life and treat her badly? For fuck's sake were people that stupid? She was made to be treated like uncut diamonds.

  Their loss. His gain. He was a pervert and she seemed to not mind at all that he was, who the fuck would take that for granted?

  So, lost in his Ruby thoughts, his feet had carried him back to his bike, gripping the back of his neck working out a kink there, he caught a flash of recognizable red and black across the street, detouring, he jaywalked the quiet main street, a few people milled along the row of storefronts. His brother didn’t notice him until Preacher was almost on top of Reaper, the silent man turning a brow on him before he reached up and tugged the beanie hat drawing it further down over his ears and eyebrows.

  “What’s got you loitering on a street corner, Jud, taking up a new career? You’re gonna need higher stilettos, ya dig?” He joked with a grin. The quiet man didn’t even twitch a smile but answered as he tugged on the ring through the corner of his lip. “Was gonna grab some eats.” His New Zealand accent rough around the edges like it wasn’t used to talking, and that was the literal truth of it. Preacher couldn’t say he understood the man much at all or what was going on in his head.

  “You heading into the diner?”

  “Was thinking about it.” His cryptic reply.

  Preacher noticed how he watched the diner on the opposite corner like he expected it to sprout legs and run away. Right then, a white Ford two-door car pulled into the parking space next to his Harley, out stepped a leggy blonde with hair swinging freely down to her waist, stripes of pink throughout the strands. A time ago Preacher would have appreciated that kinda woman with a dirty glance sweeping up and down, but now he only smiled and called out when she walked near. “Hey, Paige. Hope the specials are good today.” Blondie worked at the diner and had turned their profits around in the last year or so according to the diner owner. Biscuits to die for, Preacher didn’t mind admitting his belly growled, he might have to call in later, pick food up for him and Ruby.

  The woman smiled back shyly and replied. “They always are. Hello, Preacher … Reaper.” Lavender gaze darted to his club-brother before skidding away just as fast. Preacher cocked his head and caught the look Reaper was giving the woman as she continued down the street in her little peach uniform and a purse swung over her shoulder, all that hair swishing in time to her hips. The same shapely hips it looked like Reaper was noticing real damn closely.

  Preacher chuckled. Maybe his mute friend had a normal brain in that beanie hat somewhere if he was taking note of a good-looking woman. For all the time he’d known Ju he’d never once seen him with a club groupie or any other woman for that matter, Preacher assumed he batted for the other team.

  “Hey, Paige?” That rusty voice called out.

  Oh, this would be good.

  The woman stopped in her tracks, her face blank as she turned and looked directly at Reaper, who when he looked closer, Preacher saw he was using his finger to twirl that mysterious wedding band around his finger, eyes pensive locked on the diner girl.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you good?”

  Huh. Not bad asking a woman how she was, but it was not gonna get him laid. Preacher almost wanted to whisper for the silent bastard to smile a little, show the teeth, a hint of friendliness if he was hoping to get into diner girl’s panties.

  “Oh.” Her blush went nuclear as did her smile. The kind of smile that amped up her natural beauty. “I am good, thanks for asking.” Waving her fingers, she carried on.

  He heard Reaper suck in a breath before his shoulders ranged down again from up by his ears and he stopped that manic ring twirling.

  Reaper had the kind of ogling going on that could penetrate through that diner girl’s work uniform and down to her skin. Damn, brother. Preacher was impressed.

  “She’s cute.” Preacher prodded, hands slipped into his pockets, he wanted a smoke badly and was trying to keep busy. Maybe he should swing by the bar, pay a visit to his lady.

  He remembered the break room damn well.

  Reaper grunted and began walking off in the opposite direction to the diner. Preacher caught up in three easy strides. “Thought you were gonna grab some grub?” The way Reaper was glancing down the street long after the diner girl had walked inside, Preacher didn’t think he had food in mind to sink his teeth into. That look was pure sex.

  “Changed my mind.”

  And that was all the conversation Preacher got out of him. They each climbed onto their bikes and rode side by side back to the compound.

  Later, over manly gossip and coffee Preacher filled his boss in on the day's events with the Russians, but then told him about the weird as fuck exchange with Reaper, only because it had been the first normal thing he’d seen the brother do.

  "Do you realize the misfits you've collected, Rider?"

  His president smirked a dark knowing smile and shook his head. Preacher went on. "You got Hawk who would kill a man for brushing against his shoulder, then there's Tex who was outcast by his own family for reasons even we don't really know, then Capone who runs from his demons and sometimes falls in a bottle, not to mention that music he listens to, fuck. Then we have Lawless, that twisted motherfucker could have Professor tenure at MIT if not for the small detail of him enjoying cutting people up. Snake..." he smirked amused, "who knows with that deviant, too many to list, but he's fucked up somewhere, gotta be."

  "And you, Preach?"

  "You know me and my shit already. But you still collected us all, patched us in. Anyone would think we were more trouble than we were worth, dig?”

  “Sometimes, bro, it’s the bad, the wicked and the downright fuckin’ strange that makes the most loyal people. I can’t say I knew any of you would work out at the time, but we made it through, didn’t we? It’s not all bad, Preach. And looks like you
got someone good in your corner now?” He was talking about Ruby.

  Preacher smiled a little, dropping his head he rubbed the back of it. Ruby was something damn good, he agreed.

  “Is it selfish of me to want to keep her? You’ve seen me at my worst, Rider. Who the fuck would want that?”

  Rider’s face was thoughtful as he answered. “It’s not always going to be that bad, you know that, right? It’s been a long time between your attacks. Don’t let the fear of what ifs drag you under, my brother. You see somethin’ good, you hold on with both hands like it’s the last thing you will ever do. It’s all any of us can do. Even shitheads like us deserve that.” He laughed lightly. “Least, that’s what I tell myself when I look at my sweet Icy. She calls me bad biker man because she knows exactly who I am and accepts me. Show Ruby exactly who you are and let her decide if she wants to keep your ugly mug around.”

  Hold on with both hands. A small statement and yet it made perfect sense. Why hadn’t he thought of it?

  Show Ruby, exactly who I am? Tell her what I do for the club? And if she walked away ... he’d fucking chase her down, pin her to the floor and fuck her into agreeing to keep him.

  He kept that racy thought to himself as he discreetly adjusted his jeans under the table. Thoughts of her and getting into her only ever had one result.

  Hold on with both hands. That though, he could do.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  "I will not jerk off. I will not jerk off. Oh, screw that..." - Slider.

  How grand life would be if everything serious could just be swept under the carpet and never seen again. If only, yes, please and thank you with a bow on top for good measure. It had been a poor couple of days for Preacher, oh, not crazy-bad, he still had all his faculties about him, he wasn’t dribbling on the floor and choking invisible boogeymen, no more freak-outs, but now he’d opened the Shane box he was being battered in memories, it had him surly, moody, fucking sad, it didn’t help he’d gone to see his folks at the weekend and walked face first into the Shane shrine his mom had going on in the living room, a collection of photos ranging from high school up until the day he went off to the army in his uniform, a couple with his then girlfriend all loved up and happy. Shit, that shrine killed him, a razor-sharp knife to his guts spilling out. He’d forced himself to stand and look at it, his mom came up to his side, putting her arm around his waist, just standing silently with him like she knew not to say a word, then she’d just patted his chest and told him dinner was ready.