Rocky motioned to Trick—the man holding Preacher’s cut and Preacher stepped forward and snatched it from him. Shrugging it on over his jacket, the leather molded comfortably to his body like a second skin.
Rocky gestured to the bonfire. “Knock a few back with me?”
Preacher reluctantly agreed. No matter how badly he wanted to leave, refusing a drink with Rocky would be bad form—the equivalent of spitting in the man’s face.
As they made their way toward the bonfire, Preacher’s eyes were on Debbie. She was slumped forward, her hair hiding her face, fiddling with something on the ground in front of her. Frowning, he picked up his pace.
“Hey.” He bent down and tapped her knee. “You okay?”
Her head lifted slowly, her long hair parting to reveal a pair of bloodshot, unfocused eyes.
Her mouth stretched into a wide smile.
“Hi,” she whispered, then giggled.
He grinned at her. “Debbie Reynolds,you are baked.”
“Yes,” she whispered, shrugging. “You said to follow your lead.”
“You wanna smoke? It’s my own blend.” The proud declaration came from a raven-haired girl shaking a silver cigarette case at Preacher. Flicking the case open, she revealed several neatly rolled joints.
Holding up a hand, Preacher shook his head. Things might seem amicable at the moment, but the Road Warriors had still coerced him into a meeting. A head full of drugs was the last thing he needed while among men he didn’t trust.
The girl glanced at Debbie. “Wheels seemed to like it.”
Brows up, Preacher looked to Debbie, who quickly turned away. Her cheeks had gone pink and her bottom lip had disappeared beneath her teeth.
Chuckling, he sat down beside her and nudged her shoulder with his. “Wheels, huh?” he whispered, and Debbie ducked her head, burying her face in her hands.
“We’ve got whiskey and moonshine.” Rocky stepped forward, a bottle in each hand. He shook one of them. “Right outta the backwoods of West Virginia.”
Knowing better than to put himself in a moonshine coma, Preacher gestured for the whiskey.
“Turn some music on!” someone demanded. Someone else complied, and a country song filled the space between idle chatter.
Some of the Road Warriors headed back to the fair while others found seats around the fire. One Road Warrior cozied up beside a woman with her face buried in a magazine. Another, gripping a large hunting knife, was sharpening the blade on a nearby rock. Several yards away Rocky had tugged the black-haired girl onto his lap, and his hands were all over her.
Preacher took a swig of whiskey, grimacing at the bitter taste.
“So you’re the vice president of a motorcycle club?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Preacher noticed Debbie studying his leather cut. He grimaced through another swallow of whiskey before answering. “That’s what they tell me.”
“What does the vice president of a motorcycle club do?”
“Whatever the president tells him to do.”
“What does the president tell you to do?”
“You should have left,” he said, veering her away from questions he couldn’t answer.
Debbie blinked. Confusion flickered across her features as she glanced around the campsite. “But… I thought I was supposed to wait here for you?”
“I’m talkin’ about earlier. You shouldn’t have gotten involved.”
“I thought they were going to hurt you,” she whispered. “I only wanted to help.”
As ridiculous as it was—this slip of a girl thinking she could somehow protect him from the Road Warriors—Preacher also found it admirable.
