“It never feels like enough. I never feel like enough.”
“You’re so much more than enough,” Preacher promised. He was quickly becoming everything. Preacher wouldn’t put that on him, though. They didn’t know each other. Except, they did. Memphis knew more about Preacher than even Cy. Preacher wasn’t a talker, he was the listener. The one everybody confessed their sins to so he could offer up some kind of atonement. He didn’t talk about his past. He’d certainly never bared his soul about his parents. But something about Memphis just made him feel…safe. Which was stupid because it was Preacher who was supposed to be protecting him, not the other way around. They’d made a deal.
“How about, when the sun comes up fully, I start showing you ways to defend yourself? Like I promised. It won’t fix everything, but maybe it might help you feel a little more…empowered.”
Memphis nodded.
“But, when this is all over and you and Knox are safe again, I think you should talk to somebody. A professional, I mean. Somebody who actually knows what they’re talking about. Not just some old con who sat through an online course on trauma. Okay?”
Memphis shrugged, giving a half nod. Preacher didn’t push it. Memphis had to want to get help. He also had to be able to afford it.
That thought slipped away as Memphis kissed Preacher’s chin, his leg hooking over Preacher’s hip. “What do we do until then?”
Preacher grinned, letting his hand trail over Memphis’s bare thigh. “What do you want to do until then? Are you hungry?”
“Uh-uh,” Memphis said, tucking his head under Preacher’s chin to kiss along his neck.
Preacher slipped his fingers between Memphis’s cheeks, letting his fingers tease over his hole. “Are you…horny?”
“Uh-huh.”
Preacher laughed. “I think I can help with that.”
It was all so easy with Preacher. Almost too easy. No matter where Memphis had been in his life, he could never shake this stiffness in his spine he got around other people. There was a system in place for dealing with people—all people—face to face. Keep his scars covered, never make waves, keep conversation shallow and polite, don’t ever talk about anything real.
For years, it had worked. It made those around him think of him as friendly, if not a bit bland. They didn’t invite him places, at least not after the first few times. He didn’t care if he came off as slightly odd or eccentric. Those things kept him safe. And being safe was worth sacrificing anything.
Besides, he had his plants and a little studio apartment and that was all his. Really, it was far more than he deserved. Being alone had seemed like the only way to feel secure. Dealing with people and the real world was a minefield of trust and feelings that he was no longer equipped mentally to deal with. Some people might have found it lonely—and he supposed it was. But behind his closed and locked apartment door, he could shed the skin of being the weird guy and just be. He’d valued being alone over almost anything. Alone equaled safe.
Until Preacher.
Memphis gazed out over the yard, downing his water bottle, still pretending to recover from their first self-defense lesson. He sat tucked under the treehouse on the little porch, his gaze glued to the scene unfolding before him.
Bo and Luke were growling and snarling, fighting over a comically small stick that caused their mouths to sit close enough for it to look like they were conjoined at the snout. They were making a terrible racket, and anybody who saw them might think they were locked in a true fight instead of just playing.
But that wasn’t what held Memphis’s attention. That was reserved for Preacher, who stood not far away, stripped down to a thin t-shirt and jeans, which hugged his ass and thick thighs, the muscles of his back and arms straining as he lifted an ax overhead, expertly splitting firewood, one piece after another in a hypnotic rhythm. Memphis was glad Preacher was facing the woods and not him, otherwise Memphis might be embarrassed about his half-hard cock tenting his fleece-lined sweats just from watching Preacher work.
Memphis licked his lips, taking another sip from the bottle. Did other people see what he saw? Part of him hoped not. Preacher was sexy in an unconventional way. In a terrifying way. In a way that, sometimes, made Memphis think his daddy issues were far greater than he’d ever feared. He was ruggedly handsome, for sure, nobody could argue that, but with a look of somebody who had lived a hard life. Though barely into his forties, his hair was graying, lines formed at the corners of his eyes, and when he looked directly at Memphis with that hardened gaze, it gave him a bit of a chill at the thought of incurring his wrath.
But that wasn’t Preacher at all. There wasn’t a mean bone in the man. He rescued dogs and kids. He protected strangers who had nowhere else to go. And that was almost scarier than if he were a secret monster. Memphis knew how to run and hide from monsters. He’d been doing it his whole life. He didn’t know how to run from Preacher. Preacher, whose world weary gaze took in Memphis with infinite patience, who touched him like he was precious, who listened to him without judgment, who fucked him like he couldn’t get enough. He shivered at the thought, watching Preacher throw another log on the pile.
It didn’t seem real. If he wasn’t on the run from his psychotic brother, Memphis might have thought this was all some fever dream or that he’d finally snapped and was living inside some private medication-induced fantasy where a big, bad felon had come to save him. Or to teach him to save himself.
Preacher had accused Memphis of lying after their morning training. He’d been shocked by Memphis’s ability to shoot and hit his target, impressed by his speed and agility when they sparred. It wasn’t that Tennessee hadn’t taught the boys to fight. He’d drilled it into them from the time they were in diapers, forcing them to fight each other over every minor conflict. But it was easy to remember those lessons with Preacher; he wasn’t terrified of Preacher. Not physically anyway. He hadn’t been so light on his feet when confronted with Nash, and no matter what Preacher said, Memphis couldn’t forgive himself for that. He certainly wouldn’t let it happen again.
Preacher promised they’d keep working, every day, until Memphis felt some sense of control. Because that was who Preacher was. He didn’t give up and he didn’t shame Memphis for his fears. He just accepted that they were a thing and figured out a way to work around them. And it was really starting to fuck with Memphis’s head…and his heart.
When Preacher stripped off his t-shirt, Memphis put his existential crisis on hold, wishing he’d bothered with underwear, so he could at least attempt to control his now obvious erection.
It was uncharacteristically warm outside—hovering around sixty degrees. But the news said the temperature was going to plummet once more when the sun went down, blanketing them with more snow, so Preacher—being Preacher—had wanted more firewood. Just in case.
Memphis didn’t mind the cold when he had Preacher always ready and willing to warm him up…and fill him up. He shifted, feeling the now familiar ache in his backside. They’d fucked that morning before training, Preacher pounding him into the mattress like he wasn’t fragile and damaged, whispering all the filthy things he planned on doing to him later, trying to coax Memphis to do the same.
Despite the persona he put on for strangers, Memphis had never thought of himself as shy, but he was much more interested in being on the receiving end of Preacher’s dirty words than trying to voice all the things he wanted the older man to do to him while they were tangled in the sheets.
It wasn’t that he feared Preacher’s judgment. He just froze under the pressure of finding something to say when Preacher was doing things to him that scrambled his brain and removed all reason, leaving no thoughts behind other than yes, please, harder, and more.
Preacher dropped the ax, embedding it into the tree stump, before stacking the cut wood into a neater pile, using his shirt to mop at his face and chest before walking to Memphis with a wolfish smile on his face. “Whacha thinking about?”
