“He’s gonna be trouble.”
“Not much I can do about it.”
“Yet,” Frank said.
“Yet,” Preacher agreed and took a swig.
“We got any leads on who tipped off the Feds?”
Preacher chugged another several inches of gin. “It was Debbie,” he said tightly.
“What was Debbie?”
“Greenpoint. She ratted us out to the Feds.”
A subtle flaring of his dark eyes was Frank’s only reaction.
“They scared the shit outta her… threatened her with… somethin’.” Preacher shook his head. “I don’t know specifics.”
“If she folded once, she could do it again.”
Preacher sank down further into his chair and took another swig of gin. “I’ll figure it out,” was all he said.Just not right now, he added silently.
Right now he was going to drink himself into oblivion and hopefully forget the never-ending, ever-expanding pile of problems heaped at his feet… for just a little while.
“Here.” Frank set down an unopened bottle of rum in front of Preacher. “You’re lookin’ a little low.”
Muttering his thanks, he continued to drink, hardly noticing when Frank left.
Sometime later, Preacher staggered out into the hall looked blearily toward the living room. Music was playing, and he could hear chatter and laughter. Rum in hand, he stumbled forward.
The bright colors in the living room made his head hurt, and he sat down on the first empty seat he came across. Someone called out his name, though he wasn’t quite sure who.
Eyes closed, he rested his head against the back of the sofa and continued to drink.
Feeling disoriented, sluggish, and blissfully numb, Preacher almost didn’t register the sudden extra weight on his lap. He cracked one eye open and waited until his spinning vision fell into focus.
He recognized her, or rather he recognized the ring in her nose and the safety pins dangling from her ears. She was new to the club, had been hanging around only this past month or so. Her name was Jenny or Jessica—he couldn’t remember which. With her ripped-up clothing and bleached blonde Mohawk, she looked better suited to standing outside CBGB’s, screaming about anarchy and animal rights, and flipping off anyone who didn’t look like her.
“You look sad, Mr. Preacher President,” she said, then giggled.
Preacher thought her speech might have been slurred—or maybe it was just his hearing that was slurred.
Her hand appeared on his chest and dragged slowly down the front of him. Gripping his belt, she yanked hard. Her lips split into a sly smile—a blur of bright red lipstick and gleaming white teeth. “You want me to cheer you up?”
“No.” He tried swatting her hand away—a piss-poor attempt that had her giggling.
She grabbed him again, this time below his belt. “Lemme make you feel better,” she purred, stroking him through his jeans. “I promise you, your girl ain’t ever gonna know.”
His girl. Bitter laughter lodged in his throat. His fucking girl was the reason two men were dead and a third of their goods had just been confiscated by the goddamn FBI.
But she hadn’t meant it. She hadn’t known. She was a good girl. She was his good, good girl.
And this was his fault. All of it. He’d kept her in the dark thinking he was protecting her from his world. Instead he’d ended up being the reason she’d been tossed into this sea of sharks, head first and without a lifejacket.
Are you a monster, too?Debbie’s voice echoed in his thoughts.
He lifted the bottle to his lips and chugged until his head was heavy, bobbing involuntarily, and rum was spilling from the corners of his mouth.
