“I wasn’t trying to be a dick,” the guard says. “Sorry.”
Daisy’s answering smile is timid but warm, and her cheeks flush.
Oh, wow, I think she likes him.
He’s too old for her, but, as her blush spreads, he smiles at her and winks. “No offense.”
“Knock it off, Deacon,” Felix orders.
“I’m not doing anything.” Deacon tries to look as if butter wouldn’t melt.
“Yeah, we all know what that look means,” one of the other guards scoffs. “And anyway, she’s a kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Daisy mutters under her breath.
A third guard speaks. “You know what that look means because half the time, when he’s putting it into practice, you’re there, too. Fucking freaks.”
Deacon winks at him. “The unit that plays together, stays together.”
He saunters off, but I consider his words. Do some of these guys share women? The way the Preachers do with me?
I can see that Daisy is also trying to analyze what he meant by it, and her mouth drops open when she finally seems to reach the same conclusion.
“Does everyone do this sort of thing out here?” she asks. The question is muttered under her breath and is clearly to herself.
“No.” I gently nudge her shoulder. “But he’s definitely bad news.”
“How can you tell?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The insane good looks? The arrogance? The wink? His job?” I laugh softly. “The guy’s a walking red flag.”
“Yes, well, what does that make your men?”
I ignore her jibe even though it hurts. Perhaps she has a point. I’d have thought the same of the Preachers when I first met them.
I leave the men to their planning and return to the RV where my sauce is still simmering. I boil up a giant pot of pasta and get to work serving up the meal. Daisy joins me, helping to hand out the dishes. The men are all sitting around, either on the ground, or on small folding chairs. It feels like a strange step backward, this kind of docile servitude of us women serving the men, but the truth is that we’re not going to be able to physically fight the Prophet and his disciples, and we want to do something to help.
There’s still a strained silence between Daisy and me. We need to sort this out somehow because I don’t want our relationship to fall apart. My thoughts go to what she’d said when she’d first walked back into my life about how the Prophet had always planned to take me as a child. I still haven’t discussed this with the Preachers because I know what they’ll say. Maybe they’ll even enjoy having something else to hold over my dad after what he did to Roman, and a part of me wouldn’t blame them for that. I’m struggling with it, though. I’ve always loved my dad, even despite his recent transgressions, and the thoughtof him arranging to hand me over to the Prophet when I was just a little girl doesn’t sit right with me.
I sit on the ground next to Malachi with my own portion in a bowl. I note how Daisy has found a spot close to Deacon. Despite my warnings, she’s shooting him shy smiles in between mouthfuls of pasta.
One of the men—Derrick—pokes around at his bowl with a fork. “Where the fuck’s the meat? Or the flavor.”
One of the other men sniggers, and I feel my face burn.
Cain is on his feet in an instant. He launches himself at Derrick, and before the other man can even process what’s happening, he finds himself flat on his back, his food spilled onto the ground.
“Don’t fucking disrespect Ophelia like that.” Cain outweighs Derrick by thirty pounds of muscle and stands over him, his arm pulled back.
Malachi jumps to his feet. “Wow, Cain. Calm the fuck down.”
Derrick cowers, raising his hands to cover his face. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Hands are on weapons, but Cain is the boss here, and no one quite knows how to react.
“Cain, it’s fine,” I say, my heart pounding. “Leave it. Please.”
“Not until this fucking asshole apologies to you,” he snaps, before turning back to Derrick. “She worked hard to feed you, and your response is ingratitude and to mock her? Fuck you. Say. Sorry.”
