Preacher swallowed the sudden lump in his throat as he held him, kissing the crown of his wet head. A sudden realization hit him like a baseball bat to the chest. Preacher loved Memphis. He loved him. He didn’t know how it happened, or when, but Preacher did love him…more than anything.
Memphis was right, though. This wasn’t sustainable. Not for Memphis or Knox, no matter how much he loved life at the farm with Robby and Calder. This needed to come to some kind of a head, and if that meant putting a bullet in both Nash and Tennessee Camden, then Preacher had to consider it a viable option. He didn’t want to go back to prison, but he wasn’t able to watch Memphis live this way. Not after he’d made so much progress over the last few weeks.
Memphis deserved to be happy.
Memphis and Preacher slept with the dogs on the bed between them. Well, Preacher slept. Memphis laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, letting his fingers thread through Bo’s soft fur, unable to stop the barrage of thoughts battering his brain. Was he going to be on the run forever? Was death the only way out? What about Knox? Tennessee and his crew wouldn’t just let him go. There was still a chance at him becoming one of them. There had never been a chance of that with Memphis. Tennessee had no interest in leaving his crime syndicate to his gay son.
Weeks ago, that thought would have sent him into a panic attack or, at the very least, into a days long shame spiral. Like, what kind of person cared if their abusive, homophobic, piece of shit father didn’t want to leave his illegal business dealings to him? That sounded crazy. But, once upon a time, Memphis had cared. Once, the only thing that had been worse than the scars he carried was the knowledge that if his father had apologized, he probably would, at the very least, have listened. That was his real dirty little secret.
Tennessee Camden was a monster and Memphis had still, on some level, craved his approval as much as he’d dreaded the day when he would finally return to finish the job. How did those things gel in somebody’s brain? They didn’t. And that had always just made Memphis feel worse, like there was something really wrong with him.
Just the thought of the big man and his cruel eyes and meaty fists even now made Memphis break out into a sweat, made something in his core go cold. Tennessee had made every moment of his childhood a nightmare. There had never been a moment when he hadn’t lived in fear of the next beating, the next verbal assault, the next bout of psychological torture. But Memphis was just so tired. Tired of being afraid. Tired of running away from his problems.
Bo made a low whining noise and stood, stretching, before hopping off the mattress and going to the empty bed on the other side of the room, curling up against the pillows with a sigh, as if Memphis was bumming him out with his dark thoughts. With a long look, Luke stood and abandoned his post at the foot of the mattress to join the other dog. Traitors.
Memphis rolled towards Preacher, who was lying on his back, one arm splayed over his head and the other resting on his belly, his mouth slightly gaping. He appeared to be sleeping soundly, but the gun sat on the bedside table beside him. Memphis had no doubt Preacher would be up on his feet, ready to fight in seconds, if a threat presented itself.
Yet, somehow, Preacher knew Memphis wasn’t a threat. He must or every move he made would have woken him. And Memphis was a restless sleeper. They’d been sleeping together for weeks and he never mistook Memphis’s footfalls or his movements in the darkened shadows of the room. It was like Preacher just knew it was Memphis on some deeper level, even when asleep.
He couldn’t help but brush his thumb across Preacher’s bottom lip, smiling as his cheek twitched. He’d never allowed himself to imagine this level of intimacy with anybody. Not the sex, but the other stuff. Showering while Preacher shaved, cuddling on the couch, cooking together in the cabin’s tiny kitchen, fighting over who’d left the jar off the peanut butter.
Imagining those things would have brought a level of anxiety Memphis wouldn’t have been able to tolerate because there was nowhere in Memphis’s emotional memory where another person would want to achieve that level of intimacy without there also being anger and beatings and rage. Because there was no good memory Memphis could recall that hadn’t eventually turned into a bad one on a dime each time he’d been stupid enough to let his guard down.
Memphis had spent so much of his life imagining every worst case scenario and then, somehow, stumbled into the best one. Except, it wasn’t. Not really. Tennessee and Nash would always be a wall between his and Preacher’s happiness. Knox’s, too. He didn’t know what to do. What could they do?
What would life with Preacher be like without the threat of death hanging over his head? Could he and Preacher have a life together? Would Preacher want that? What about Knox? They were a package deal now. Would Preacher want an instant family with a sullen, traumatized teen and a boyfriend with massive PTSD?
Was he crazy for even imagining a life like that? None of it mattered if Nash and Tennessee were looming over their heads forever. Tennessee had always been the bigger threat in Memphis’s mind. He’d always imagined Nash as more of a passive partner. Until he’d chained Knox to a wall and left him there for God knew how long. It was obvious now that Nash was just a younger version of Tennessee. But his father still called the shots. Even behind bars, he was making moves. Putting a hit on Memphis? For what? What purpose did it serve?
A month ago, Memphis had been too terrified to ask why. What was the point of trying to take him out? He’d been so terrified, so deep into his own grief and self-pity that he’d never stopped to contemplate the why of any of it. Were they hoping to steal back Knox? Did they think he’d be an easier target with Memphis dead? Was it revenge for daring to step foot back in Tennessee’s territory?
Memphis scooted closer to Preacher, putting his head on his chest. Preacher’s arm came around him, the heavy weight soothing his frayed edges.
“I can practically hear you thinking,” Preacher said, voice gravel. “You need to get some rest.”
“I could have been asleep this whole time, you don’t know,” Memphis grumbled. “Maybe I just woke up and wanted to touch you.”
Preacher’s chest rose and fell beneath Memphis’s head as he laughed. “You’ve been awake this whole time and so fidgety you scared off the dogs. I spent most of my life in prison. Even when I’m sleeping…I’m not sleeping. Staying awake and worrying won’t fix anything.”
“I’m not worried.” At Preacher’s weighted silence, he said, “Okay, I’m not just worrying. I’m thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
“Tennessee. Nash.”
Preacher sighed, kissing the top of Memphis’s head. It was a weirdly soothing gesture Preacher did often, and Memphis had grown addicted to it. “They’re not worth your time or energy.”
Memphis slid his fingers up under Preacher’s shirt, absently running his finger over his belly. “Why do you think my father chose to take the hit out on me? Do you think he just hates me that much? That’s what I thought four weeks ago. But now, I’m not so sure. I think he’s just tying up loose ends. I think he wants Knox back into the fold. I think he did it to help Nash get him back.”
“How would that help him get Knox back?”
“My father thinks I’m a coward. He probably thought I’d run and leave Knox behind. I guess he was half right.”
Preacher shifted, and then he was lying on top of Memphis, his wrists in his hand. “Hey. You are not a coward. Anybody in your situation would have run. Keeping Knox with you wouldn’t have kept him safe, not if the target was on you. Sending him with people who could protect him was the bravest thing you could have done for him.”
“I’m not brave,” Memphis said, meeting Preacher’s gaze so he knew it wasn’t just lip service. “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to run. I don’t want to fight bad guys.”
“What do you want?” Preacher asked.
