by Zahra Girard
“They’re all pieces of shit. You get what you pay for.”
“You seem like a pretty honest guy. I like your style,” I say, extending my hand. “Name’s Preacher.”
“Frank,” he says, shaking my hand. “And Preacher, if you want to do some work for me, take some shit off my plate, I’ll give you all the damn tools you want. What do you need?”
“A pipe wrench, any kind of sealant you got, pipe cutters, and any spare piping you have handy,” I say, and I rattle off the names of a few other tools.
Frank nods the whole time, then leaves me in his doorway for a second to waddle back into his apartment. He’s gone for a few minutes before he comes back carrying a tool chest. The damn thing is heavy, and I grunt just taking it’s weight from him.
This repair work isn’t going to be easy, but it feels good just having some solid tools in my hands and something to do.
“Got everything you need in there, plus a few extras. Get it back to me whenever,” he says, with a careless wave of his hand. “Take it easy, Preacher.”
I nod and he closes the door abruptly in my face.
With a grunt, I heave up the tool chest and start the long walk upstairs to Jessica’s apartment.
This is going to hurt, but it’s something I need to do. If I sit around feeling useless, thinking about my brothers out there possibly dying, odds are I’d get into more trouble than doing some unexpected plumbing.
Hours fly by while I’m on my back underneath that damn sink, taking breaks every ten minutes because I’m still a wreck. My grip is weak, my forearms strain under the weight of the wrench, and my brow drips sweat after only half an hour struggling away underneath the god damn sink.
I keep laboring away. I need to get my mind off my situation.
But I can only fight it for so long.
My family is out there fighting for their lives.
I shut my eyes and take myself elsewhere. I’m back in the bathroom of a couple nights ago. There’s blood on my hands, blood dripping down my side, and fire in my veins as I crash my knuckles into the face of the son of a bitch who thought he could kill me.
Fuck him.
Gunfire — that gunfire, the bullets fired by those dickless motherfuckers who thought a bar full of innocent people was the perfect place for a hit — rings in my ears with startling clarity.
I live that whole violent scene.
But clearest of all, I see that bastard’s face as I crack knuckles against his skull. I’ll never forget it.
If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see the light go out in his eyes.
Nobody fucks with the Kings.
Then I see her face and the look in her eyes as she yells for me to stop. Something like guilt twinges in my chest.
My eyes snap open and I hurl the wrench across the room. The tool buries itself head-first into the piece-of-shit wall.
I climb to my feet, drenched in sweat and my body crying out for rest. I have to get my strength back. And I have to get out of here, not just for my MC’s sake, but for Jessica’s. The longer I’m around, the more she’s in danger. And I will not allow a good woman like that to get hurt if I can help it.
I need to eat something.
I throw open the fridge.
Looking in there brings home just how poor Jessica is. There’s two cans of beer, a nearly-empty bottle of zinfandel, a salad pack, and an open can of tuna.
This woman is struggling to get on her feet, and she’s out there buying me steaks. She really does care.
But she’s not here right now and I need to eat. Every part of me aches, my vision is blurry with exhaustion, and my stomach is roaring like a caged lion.
I close the fridge and catch sight of the thing I’ve been trying to ignore this whole time. The fucking lentils. Sitting right out on the counter is a green can with my name on it. Literally. There’s a fucking sticky note and everything, with my name and the words “Eat” and a smiley face on it.
Maybe I can hold out until she gets home with the steaks, I start to think.
Then my stomach roars and a wave of dizziness hits me hard enough that I nearly fall over.
Part of me would rather starve than eat that mushy, flavorless slop from a can, but the greater part of me doesn’t want to disappoint her.
She’s too damn good for a man like me.
That first bite is hell. And the last one isn’t any better. Every bite in between fucking sucks, too. But I choke that tasteless green slop down until exhaustion takes hold of me and I pass out on the couch.
Chapter Nine
Jessica
There’s a wrench buried in the wall of my kitchen and Preacher is passed out on my living room couch with smashed lentils in the scruff of his facial hair. He’s wearing some horribly ugly clothes that remind me of my creepy neighbor, Stephen. He’s snoring, his hair’s a mess, and he smells like he desperately needs a shower.
I forget about the groceries in my hand. The fall to the floor in a mess.
“What the fuck is going on?” I blurt out.
He springs up to his feet so quick it’s alarming; just as alarming is how much he sways. It’ll be a while longer before he’s got his strength back.
“I fixed your sink. You’re welcome,” he says.
“And the wrench in the wall?”
“Shit happens.”
“Care to tell me what the wall did, so I can know not to do that myself?”
His eyes flash angrily. “I’ll fix your fucking wall tomorrow. What does it matter?”
“Aside from the fact that maybe it shows you have some anger issues? You really shouldn’t be doing anything for another day at least.”
“Do you even know what you’re asking me?”
“Yes. I’m asking you to let yourself heal. It’s a simple thing to do. You sit on your butt and watch Netflix or whatever the heck you have to do to keep still for a couple days.”
“I’m not going to just sit on my ass. I can’t — I’m not wired like that. And even if I fucking was, I can’t just sit around while my friends — my family — are out there and in danger.”
I know I’m not going to get anywhere with him. It’s pointless. Besides, I can kind of understand where he’s coming from, being forced to sit still in some stranger’s apartment can’t be easy. And a man like him feeling helpless and trapped has to be maddening. I decide to let it lie.
“Well, thank you for fixing my sink,” I say, carrying the groceries into the kitchen. There are other tools strewn about and the place smells like some kind o industrial sealant or glue. I wrinkle my nose. “I bought some New York Strip steaks. The butcher said they were good. I’ve got thick cut bacon — two pounds — and some other stuff.”
All in all, it’s enough groceries to put a dangerous dent in my budget. I grimace as I start putting this stuff away.
He follows, standing so close behind me that I can almost feel the heat from his body and a confusing thrill runs through me. I shake my head and focus on sorting the groceries while he stands there, looking over the groceries I’m setting out on the counter.
“And more lentils,” he says, glaring at the several cans I set out on the counter.
“More lentils, yeah.”
“Fuck lentils,” he says. “Little green pellets of poison.”
“You know you have some in your beard,” I say, grinning at him. “They can’t have been that bad.”
“If I knew they’d be the price I’d have to pay to get well, I would’ve preferred you left me on that bathroom floor back at Joker’s Wild.”
“You don’t mean that,” I say. It’s unnerving about how easily he talks about something like that — killing or being killed. Especially since I can’t tell if he’s joking. I decide to change the subject again. “Where’d you get those clothes? And the tools?”
“Found the clothes in the laundry room. I got tired of having my ass hanging out of that gown, and I figured your building super wouldn’t appreciate me showing up at
his door practically naked.”
“So, you stole one of my neighbor’s clothes and then went and talked to the guy in charge of my building?”
“Yeah. Frank. Seems like a pretty good guy. Didn’t give a shit that I stole Stephen’s clothes. Seemed kind of glad about it, actually. Why does everyone hate this Stephen guy?”
I make a grossed-out face. “Did you wash those clothes after you took them?”
“No. Why? Guy’s got shit taste in music and loves dragons a little too much, but the clothes feel OK other than they don’t fit right.”
“Stephen’s a little different. Weirdly different,” I say. “He’s the reason I bought my own washer and dryer.”
He blinks, then his hands knot into fists. “What do you mean?”
This is going all wrong. Change the subject, Jess.
“How about you take a beer, go sit down, and I’ll cook you a steak?”
His fists un-knot just a little bit, he breathes a sigh and sways a little on his feet. “How long is one of your shifts?”
“About twelve hours, give or take.”
“How about you sit down, take a beer, and I’ll cook the steaks? You work all damn day, save my fucking life, the least I can do is make you a meal.”
We’ve known each other for just a couple days, and already he’s feeling protective over me and wants to take care of me. Some of it’s scary — I know if I told him exactly what I caught Stephen doing with some of my clothes he’d probably beat the crap out of him — but it’s still kind of sweet.
“Fine,” I say, popping the top on a bottle of bear. “I’ll be on the couch.”
I head to the living room and prop my feet up while sipping on my beer. It’s probably not a good idea to have him cooking, he really should be resting, but I know he needs to feel useful, and if that means I have to let him cook me a steak dinner, I’ll happily put up with it.
It seems like I’ve just sit down and then he’s standing in front of me with a perfectly-seared steak, sizzling and juicy. I have to swallow, my mouth is watering so much I’m close to drooling all over myself.
“I didn’t think you could cook.”
“Any real man can cook a steak,” he says, setting the plate on the coffee table in front of me and then lowering himself, slowly, onto the couch next to me. He clinks his beer to mine. “I worked for years on the oil fields out in North Dakota and Montana, and, shit, sometimes even up in Alberta. The kind of guys I worked with will give you hell if you at least can’t cook a proper steak.”
I cut into my steak with my knife and the meat gives way like butter. Inside, it’s a perfect, juicy bit of pink. It tastes divine.
“Out in the oil fields, huh?” I say. It’s not hard to picture it, he’s certainly got the build for that kind of work. His arms are muscular in the kind of way you can only get through years of hard labor, and his hands look strong and calloused from years working machines. He’s got the attitude, too — rough around the edges, gruff and hard. But there’s something about him, still, that’s surprisingly warm.
“I had this house by a lake, out in this little small town in North Dakota. It was remote, you could go days without seeing another soul, but it had everything you need. When my crew and I weren’t out on a job, I’d be there. It was everything I ever wanted,” he says, smiling as he recalls sweet memories. His voice is warm and deep, resonant with contentment. It’s like he’s peeled back this other layer, showing me a side of him deep beneath the surface.
“It sounds like you had a nice life out there. How’d you end up here?”
He frowns and focuses on cutting his steak. His voice changes, getting sharper and darker and he tenses like I’ve hit a pressure point, though he tries to hide it. “Shit happens. And you move on.”
“You’re right,” I say.
He looks at me sideways. “Excuse me? Aren’t you going to prod or nag me about whatever the hell you think my problem is?”
“How would doing that help anything?”
“It doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean I can’t think of at least a dozen women that haven’t tried. It didn’t work out too well for them.”
“My mom has the same problem. My dad was murdered on the job fifteen years ago. He was Reno PD. They never caught who did it. After he was gone, my mom moved us to Los Angeles. She couldn’t be anywhere near anything that reminded her of him because it hurt her that much,” I say. “Sometimes I really resent her for that.”
My voice cuts out for a second. I love my mom, she did so much raising me on her own, but talking about this one facet of our relationship is something that still frustrates me.
“People cope in their own way,” Preacher says. His voice is deep, warm. “You can’t blame her too much for that.”
“Can’t I?” I clear my throat. “She did her best to give us a good life, but I can’t tell you the number of times that she would startle at a knock on our front door, expecting it to be dad coming home. And as much as he was still on her mind, she hardly talked about him. Sometimes I feel like she was denying me the chance to know more about my dad. Like she was selfishly keeping him to herself.”
“I’ll bet she didn’t mean it that way,” he says. His hand comes to rest on my leg near my knee and he gives it a slight squeeze. “How’d you end up here? In Reno, nursing and all that.”
I know he’s trying to take my focus off of my mom. I smile at him.
“I was eight when my dad died. I have all these memories of him, like if you look out my window I can show the mountains where we went hiking every father’s day — he loved being outdoors, absolutely loved it — but I never got to know him as an adult. Everything I remember about him is the way a little girl remembers her dad… I want to move on, and I feel like, to do that, I need to get a full idea of the man he really was. If I ever have kids, and they ask me about their grandpa, I want to be able to tell them what he was really like.”
“Be careful with that,” he says, looking down at his beer.
“Why?”
“You might find out something you don’t like. You might learn something that changes your opinion of the man you thought your father was,” he says. His voice isn’t harsh; there’s a depth to it, almost like understanding. But still, what he’s suggesting upsets me. I’ve spent years thinking and reflecting on the best way to get to know my dad so that I can really move on, and it feels like he’s trying to tell me to back off.
It hurts.
“So?” I say, sitting up straighter. “I don’t want my understanding of my dad to just be based on some fifteen-year-old, faded, childhood memories. Right now, all I know about my dad is that he was my hero and he could give piggy-back rides like nobody else and he had this really long stride when we went hiking that meant I had to almost run to keep up. But I don’t really know him. I deserve to know him.”
He sighs. “I’m not going to stop you — it ain’t my fucking place, and even if it was, you’re an adult who can make her own damn decisions — but I’ll tell you this: be cautious. No one’s as good as you think they are, and there’s a chance you’ll just end up learning something you regret. A memory like that will stay with you and there’s no getting away from it. Do you really want that following you through your whole life?”
My eyes are drawn to him by the pain in his voice. I take a long look at him, considering. I see a glimpse of him, another layer beneath the surface. It’s run-through with pain and sadness, grief that’s written in lines on his face. There’s more to him than a past as a roughneck and a man who likes simple things like working with his hands. I can’t help but want to learn more.
“What hurt you?”
Then he grins, and that stricken side of him disappears beneath the surety and confidence of his smile.
“Nobody hurts me,” he says. “Excluding sons of bitches that get a lucky shot in with a knife.”
There’s a warning in his eyes that’s more serious than his casual tone of voice belies: be careful, it say
s.
I draw back. This side of him frightens me.
“I won’t have you in my home if you’re going to talk like that. You’re scaring me.”
He looks like I’ve struck him. And I feel like he’s struck me, reminding me blatantly of the kind of life that I know he leads. He isn’t just a mechanic, and I can only imagine the things he’s been involved in. Whether or not I can see a good man inside him doesn’t erase the blood on his hands.
“I’ll clean up,” he starts to say, reaching for the plates.
My feet ache from running all day and my head aches from trying to digest what Detective Erickson told me about my father. I don’t have the energy to pry any more out of him, or energy for worrying that I might provoke some threat out of him just because I didn’t choose my words carefully enough.
“You should get some rest. It’s been a long day,” I say, my voice sounding cold even to my own ears. “And we should change those bandages. I’ll take care of the dishes.”
“Fair enough,” he shrugs, standing slowly and heading towards the bedroom.
I grab the plates and carry them into the kitchen and lose myself in my thoughts while my hands go through the rote movements of scrubbing dishes.
My thoughts go to him. To Preacher.
I can see he’s bad news — I’m not blind — but beneath the danger on the surface I can see there’s more to him than whatever criminality he’s mixed up in. We’ve both lost someone — whether he’ll say it or not, I can see it in the pain on his face. It’s a pain that calls out for compassion and understanding. There’s a kindness inside him that he does his best to hide, but it still comes out when he talks to me about my dad. And why else would he try to fix things up around here? Why else would he look ready to kick Stephen’s ass just thinking about him harassing me?
Most important of all, he may be a connection to my father. Indirectly, at least. He might be able to tell me more about the type of people that killed him. He knows more than he’s letting on.
“Hey. Jessica.”
Preacher’s voice makes me start enough that I bobble the plate I’m washing and it nearly crashes to the floor before I catch it.