Preacher (Wayward Kings MC Book 4)

by Zahra Girard

  I turn around. “What?”

  He’s leaning out from the bathroom doorway, wearing only the bandage wrapped around his bare, muscular chest. Everything else is just him. Bare him. I gasp a little, silently, thank god, and try to keep my eyes from wandering. Every muscle on him is well-defined; thick pecs that flex reflexively as he looks at me with a faint smile on his face. His torso — from his six-pack to his chest — is decorated with ink and the sight of him all together is enough to make my breath catch. The rest of him is hidden behind the doorway, aside from one toned and powerful leg sticking lazily out into the hallway.

  There’s a slight smile on his face.

  He knows I’m watching. Maybe he planned it.

  I try and look like I’m not entirely startled to see him half-naked and smiling at me.

  “Yes?” I repeat.

  “I know I can be a son of a bitch sometimes, but don’t think I’m not grateful for a place to stay. So, thank you.”

  It takes me a second to process his words and another second to realize that the usual response when someone says “Thank you” is to say “You’re welcome”.

  I get it right, after a pause long enough to make my cheeks blush.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, weakly, my eyes still glued to his ruggedly powerful body.

  I’ve seen him shirtless before. Heck, I’ve seen about this much of him earlier, when he was being patched up at the ER. But there’s something about the way he’s carrying himself right now, this supremely confident swagger, that makes more than just my cheeks flush.

  “I appreciate it. Listen, I’m going to shower, then I figure we can change my bandages before we turn in. Alright?”

  I nod. That’s the best I can do. He’s taken away my ability to actually say anything.

  He gives me a nod, then turns away from the doorway. There’s a spare second where my hungry eyes catch a glimpse of the bathroom mirror through the open doorway and a too-short look at his ass. It’s full, muscular, plump.

  Jesus, that’s a piece of meat.

  The bathroom door shuts.

  My cheeks are red hot and my heart rate is elevated like I’ve run a dang marathon. I can’t get the image of his butt out of my head. Firm and thick.

  I might be a little bit attracted to him.

  This might be a problem.

  Chapter Ten

  Preacher

  I strip down, turn on the shower and let the water run for a while so it can heat up. My body is stiff and sore, aching in the way it gets when bruises and wounds are tightening and healing. The most maddening part is I know I can’t hardly stretch because it’ll pop most of the stitches that are holding me together.

  At least I feel stronger. Every day, every meal, I get a little more of myself back. And it’s all due to her. Hell, without her help, those Jackals back at the hospital probably would’ve cut my throat.

  My mind runs back to our conversation earlier.

  She didn’t deserve me snapping at her like that.

  I need her. Without Jessica, I’m out on my ass without a place to stay. I need to get strong again. Without a place to crash, I’m vulnerable — and it fucking kills me to even think that. I need to be strong so that I can get out there and find my family. Without them, I’m alone again, just like I was years ago, when the thing I spent most of my time thinking about how was comforting it might be to end it all.

  I’m not going to give in to that. I’ve built a new life for myself after all that tragedy, I’m not going to let it fall apart.

  The first thing I need to do is not burn my bridges with Jessica. I’ve got to let her know she means something to me.

  I pop my head out of the bathroom door and call out to her and let her know I didn’t mean to be such a prick. I’m not used to this whole apologizing thing — in my life, we don’t do that, we take what we want and damn the consequences — but I try.

  Somehow, something I say leaves her fucking stammering, with her eyes wide like she’s seen a ghost or something.

  Maybe it worked?

  I dwell on it through the whole damn shower, aware of every ache in my body and every time I sway a little on my feet. Each of those throbbing pains reminds me that, though I might be standing and walking around, it’ll be a while before I’m back to full strength.

  What did I say to get her so flustered?

  Do I really suck that bad at apologizing?

  I hope she knows I meant it. The only way I can think of to get better at apologizing is to do it more, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to get into that habit.

  If she kicks me out, my chances of finding my family again go way down. When I finish this shower, I’m going to have to show her I’m not always such a giant prick.

  How do I do that?

  I turn the shower off and stand there for a moment, dripping and thinking. I take my time toweling off and put my ill-fitting jeans back on. I leave that stupid band shirt on the floor — something about that shirt seems to rub Jessica the wrong way and, besides, I have to keep my shirt off for her to help put on a new set of bandages.

  Dry now, I pause in front of the mirror and adjust my hair a bit, trying to look like less of a homeless man in an oversized pair of jeans. It helps. A little.

  I’m going to have to go out there and speak from the heart and really make it clear that I appreciate her.

  When I get out of the bathroom, she’s still in the kitchen, with another beer in her hand. The sink’s running, but she’s just staring at it, wrapped up in her thoughts.

  She’s got to be real pissed.

  Why else would she be acting like that?

  I come up behind her slow and put my hand on her shoulder. She starts like she’s been electrocuted and beer sloshes from the top of her bottle.

  “Preacher, you scared me. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  She turns around, faced flush pink and chest rising up and down with tense, rapid breaths. Even her chest is a bit rosy and my eyes drift lower… I can’t help it. The barest outline of her nipples visible pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt.

  “Look, I just wanted to tell you that you don’t have anything to be scared about from me. You’re smart, you probably have a pretty good idea of what I’m involved in and I’m not going to patronize you by thinking you believe the bullshit I told you earlier that I’m just a mechanic. I’m not. But you don’t need to be afraid of me. Ever.”

  Her mouth is slightly open and her tongue is pressing against the roof of her mouth. Her eyes drift from mine, looking down at my bare chest, and she reaches out and puts her hand on me, just above my wound. Her fingers linger there.

  It’s shocking how soft her skin is and how gentle her touch can be.

  There’s a conflicted look on her face, as if she’s caught between two difficult choices. Let me stay, or kick me out.

  “Jessica?”

  My heart is thudding inside me, quickening with each passing second she touches me and moment that passes and indecision swirls in her stunning blue eyes.

  Finally, she takes a breath and the indecision in her eyes fades, but it doesn’t disappear entirely. She looks up at me, beautiful blue eyes shining. I know she’s scared — that fear in her eyes is not entirely gone — but she’s caring enough that, even before she opens her mouth, I know won’t be leaving tonight.

  I breathe a little easier seeing that. I hate even the sight of her being scared; it lights this urgent fire in me to protect her.

  “It’s ok. I’m not going to kick you out. It’s just, sometimes you make things… complicated… for me. But forget about that for right now. We need to get you a fresh set of bandages. You look good otherwise, though,” she says, pausing for a second to run her hands over my chest. My muscles twitch beneath her touch. “It doesn’t look like anything’s infected. Let’s get you patched up, get some fluids in you, and get you some rest.”

  My eyes drift over to the fridge. I know there’s at least a full sixer
in there. “Does beer count as a fluid?”

  She gives me a small smile. “It sure as heck isn’t a solid.”

  I grab an ice-cold bottle and we head back to the couch. Jessica heads into her bathroom for a second and comes back with a small medical kit. She takes a the spot next to me, gets up on her knees and leans over me while she starts to bandage me up. She takes her time, running her soft hands slowly across my chest and carefully making sure every bit of gauze is perfectly placed before she tapes it down.

  Her breathing is still quick and labored, like somethings bothering her and I know it’s probably me and the harsh way I spoke to her earlier. Even so, she’s careful and caring. She deserves better from me.

  “Look, about earlier and what you asked me… It’s not ‘what hurt me’, it’s ‘who’. You’ve been good to me and you deserve to know the truth.”

  I finish the entire beer in one long pull while looking for the words to say something that I’ve never told anyone. The whole time, Jessica is staring at me with her eyes that are so blue, so deep, so full of caring and compassion.

  I clear my throat.

  “Jessica, I wasn’t always a biker son of a bitch and a mechanic. Before that, like I told you, I worked on the oil rigs. I was still a son of a bitch, just a son of a bitch with a different job. And I had someone. Karen. We were engaged. She took care of me, and I took care of her in my own way.”

  Her hands have frozen in place on my chest, and her eyes are so large they suck me in with their innocence and intensity. The air crackles between us, and, though I have to fight to form these words, I can sense that even though she’s silent she wants me to go on.

  “Karen kept up my home while I was away on the job. Everything I did, I did for her. I’d be gone weeks at a time, and always, it never failed that I’d come home to find her there, waiting for me. I took it for granted how lucky I was,” I say, pausing. In so many ways, I’ve moved on from losing her, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel pain talking about her. Her ghost still haunts me to this day. “And I didn’t pay attention for shit when she tried to tell me about any of her problems. I thought I had it made. I was wrong.”

  I set my empty bottle down on the coffee table, and she grabs it so quick it’s surprising, almost like she was waiting for an excuse to break away. “Can I get you another?”

  “Thanks.”

  She’s gone and back quickly, but in that short amount of time, I find I miss her touch. She hands over another ice cold bottle of beer. She settles back into the same spot beside me, on her knees, her hand resting on my chest and it just feels right.

  “I’m listening, Preacher,” she says in a voice that would make a whisper seem deafening. She’s looking at me with eyes that pull at me to tell the truth. This must be how her patients feel: in the hands of someone who is completely focused on them, someone who cares.

  It hurts digging up memories like this, retreading the path that led me through so much pain and heartache.

  “I look back on it now, and it makes me angry like you wouldn’t believe. Angry at myself, angry at the world, angry at her — and I know how crazy that sounds — and angry at the man who hurt her.” My voice gives out for a second as my chest and fists tighten. I’m not going to get these words out without a fight, but she’s taken me in and she deserves the truth.

  She needs to know. And just as much, I need to tell her. I need to let this out to someone.

  “A couple times Karen tried to talk to me about this guy she worked with. And I listened so damn well that I couldn’t tell you his name right now even if my life depended on it. But this guy bothered her. Creeped her out. She wanted me to stay home more often,” I lean back further into the couch, my eyes searching the ceiling. I can’t look at Jessica right now, can’t deal with seeing the questions in her eyes. Or the sympathy. Even after all these years and all this pain, I still don’t feel like I deserve it.

  I sigh. “One night, I’m out with the guys in my crew. We’re way out in this town in Montana, piss drunk, celebrating a big payday and the end of a successful gig. She calls me. I let it go to my voicemail — I’m drunk, I’m having a good time, I don’t want to deal with more complaining.”

  If I listen, I can still hear Karen’s voice on the message she left me. I take a drink and push her memory to the back of my thoughts.

  “She was scared. This guy had said something to her that day, she’d called the sheriff, but he didn’t take it seriously, either. Told her maybe she shouldn’t lead anyone on and it’d be a good idea if she dressed a little more conservatively. Typical ignorant bullshit. Karen wanted me to come home. Begged me,” I say. I wait for a moment, eyes closed. Jessica’s chin is nestled on my shoulder and her hand has moved from its spot near my bandages to a spot just over my heart.

  “It’s ok,” she says. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. But if you want to, I’m here for you.”

  I keep talking because I know she is really listening. She gives a damn. And I honestly believe that, though this memory hits me to my core and hurt me more than anything else in my life, she isn’t judging me.

  I open my eyes, let out a breath, and see her there still looking up at me.

  “When I sobered up the next morning, I listened to the message and I tried to call her, but it was too late by then. I drove faster than I’ve ever driven, but when I got home, there was just the sheriff and a roll of police tape to greet me. They’d already arrested the piece of shit, otherwise I would’ve killed him. Hurting him was the only thing I thought about for days and days, and it drove me crazy that he was out of reach. Things got dark for a while after that. Real dark. Until I met my family. The club.”

  Her fingertips brush the scar that runs in a thin line in parts around my neck. She knows without me having to say it, and there isn’t even the sense that she’s judging. Only that she cares and that she’s truly listening.

  The silence that falls between us is the most comfortable I’ve felt in ages, it’s nothing but peace and the feeling of her skin against mine.

  She rises up a bit, settling back on her knees for just an instant before leaning in to plant a tender kiss on my cheek.

  “Thank you for talking to me. I know that wasn’t easy.”

  I freeze up. Any other time, any other woman, and that’s all the opening I need to get her face down and screaming my name into the couch cushions. But I can’t let Jessica in any further. It’s not safe and I can’t put her in any more danger.

  I couldn’t live with myself if she ended up getting hurt because of the life I lead.

  I have to keep some distance between us. Even though the feeling of her lips against my skin excites me in a way I never thought I’d feel again. Even though, with that one kiss, it makes me see clearly every decadent curve of her body.

  Her lips hit my cheek again, her eyes wide and gleaming, and her hand feeling so hot against my chest it’s a miracle my skin isn’t smoldering. If the first kiss was consolation for my pain, this second kiss is nothing but a suggestion and invitation.

  All I need to do is kiss her back and I can have her.

  All of her.

  But I can’t do that.

  Because she will never understand the danger she’s in, and I have to do what it takes to keep her safe.

  Sighing, I reach up and put my hand over hers. I pull it off my chest. The light in her eyes drowns in disappointment.

  “Good night, Jessica,” I say. “I’ll take the couch. You take the bed.”

  She stands, confusion all over her face though she does her best to hide it. One slow step after another takes her down the hallway to her bedroom. From the doorway, she turns and looks at me through her tangled, beautiful mess of curly blonde hair. There’s a trace of a smile on her lips. A hint of the dimples on her cheeks.

  “Good night, Preacher.”

  The bedroom door closes behind her, but not all the way. Light and shadows play on the sliver of wall visible through the crack
in the doorway and glimpses of her and hints at the curves of her that lie beneath the clothes.

  It could all be mine, and all I need to do is go to her door and step inside.

  I want that more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

  And I can’t have it.

  I turn away and stretch out on the well-worn couch.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jessica

  Every time I think I have him figured out, he shows me more of himself and turns my expectations on its head. He’s a killer; he’s a protector; he’s a criminal; he’s a good man.

  Every hint pulls me in further.

  I want to understand him; I want to help him.

  I know what it’s like to lose someone close, I know how much that can alter your life.

  I know why he so desperately wants to find his family again: they were the ones who gave him a second chance, and he doesn’t want to go back to that dark place in his life that he was before.

  He wants to move on, just like me.

  I get in the bed and let out a sigh.

  The bed smells like him. Closing my eyes and breathing in, the barest hints of his scent conjures images of his body in my mind. I can imagine those few parts of him that I haven’t seen but so desperately want to.

  But his shadow never comes to my doorway, his voice never calls my name, his hands never touch my body, despite how hard I wish it to be.

  So I touch my own.

  I don’t have a choice. My body is aching with fatigue, but also pulsing with need, and I won’t get to sleep without quieting the part of myself that needs release.

  I might not have a choice in what I do, but I leave the doorway cracked to give him the option to make a new choice.

  My hand slides between my legs.

  My lips part, and with my other hand I caress my breast and think of how it would feel to have his lips where my fingers are.