Preacher’s nostrils flared.I want to be fucked right here, right now, and just like that, had been all but engraved onto her expression.
All of it had been playing on repeat in his head for the last several hours, his dick trapped in this agonizing, semi-hard state that he didn’t quite know what to do with.
The guy he’d been before? That guy would have already enjoyed the hell out of Debbie. He wouldn’t have given a single shit about her age or what would become of her after he was done with her. But this new Preacher, this infuriatingly indecisive half-man, was sitting here thinking about how there were consequences to every action—something he’d learned the hard way. And a meaningless fuck was not worth hurting this girl, especially a girl who had nothing and no one.
Jesus-fucking-Christ.If he wasn’t going to fuck her, what was he still doing with her? He’d already fulfilled and surpassed his good deed quota for the entire year. Whatever the hell he was doing now bordered on philanthropy. Or self-flagellation.
Once the sun came up, he needed to cut her loose. She could resume her trek to New York City and he could get back to wandering.
Except, the longer Preacher stared at Debbie, the less comfortable he felt with that plan.
She was too good for the streets, too good for the shit life she was living. And not nearly hard enough to hold her own in New York City.
He sighed angrily. Why did he care? What was it about this girl?
He liked her—that much was clear. But why?
Was it because she made him laugh, and it had been a very long time since anyone had?
Or was it because he recognized something in her—something that spoke to that empty hole that had taken up residence inside his chest? They were both out on the road, running from their lives, weren’t they? And even though Debbie claimed to be running toward New York City, Preacher knew a lifeline when he saw one. That’s all New York City was: a goal to keep her going, even when the odds were stacked against her.
Rolling his eyes, Preacher shook his head. Maybe she was nothing more than a distraction—a reprieve from the self-doubt he couldn’t seem to shake.
Whatever it was about this girl, it was just one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of things taking up space inside his overcrowded head.
Lying back on the bed, Preacher stared up at the ceiling until his eyes began to close. His last coherent thought before he drifted off to sleep was that, come hell or high water, he would not be spending another day in or around Wayne County.
This place was cursed.
Turning, he cracked an eye at Debbie.
Either the place was cursed… or the girl was.
• • •
Sitting cross-legged in bed, elbows propped on her thighs and chin resting in her hands, Debbie stared across the room. Snoring loudly, Preacher was sprawled across the center of his bed, one arm slung across his face. He was shirtless, and staring back at her was the face of a horned demon—a dark tattoo inked onto his bicep.
He’d been asleep when she’d woken, was still sleeping long after her shower and her not-so-shabby job of turning her torn jeans into cutoff shorts.
It was nearly noon now, and she had debated waking him several times. Only… she wasn’t sure what waking him might mean for her. When it came to Preacher’s generosity, Debbie knew that she’d already overstayed her welcome. That she should thank him and be on her way.
The only thing stopping her was a pesky bit of truth: she didn’t want to leave.
It was weak and she knew it. Allowing the lonely solitude of her lifestyle to overshadow reason and sensibility.
She barely knew Preacher, yet she found herself liking him more than she liked being alone. She trusted him, too. How could she not? He’d proven himself half a dozen times already. It was she who’d been untrustworthy.
Conflicted, Debbie reached across the bed and plucked a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand. As she smoked, she resumed watching Preacher sleep. He continued to snore, the heavy rumbles in perfect sync with the rise and fall of his chest. Her gaze drifted to where his unbuttoned jeans sat low on his waist, exposing the tapered cut of his abdominal muscles and the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the denim.
Recalling their kiss, the demanding way Preacher’s tongue had swept through her mouth, warmth began to spread through her. Curling low in her stomach, it unfurled up and down her body, heating every inch it touched. Breathing in deeply through her nose, Debbie’s bottom lip disappeared beneath her teeth.
Chock full of feelings she didn’t know what to do with and jittery with unspent energy, Debbie rolled out of bed. Leaving her cigarette burning in the ashtray, she rifled through her backpack. Notebook and pencil in hand, she settled back onto the bed and flipped to a clean page.
She drew Angel and Rocky first, using her imagination to fill in what the night sky had kept hidden. When she was satisfied with her sketch, she turned the page. Head tilted, pencil poised, Debbie began to draw all those hard lines and smooth planes she’d been ogling for the last two hours.
Eyes flicking from Preacher to her notebook, she drew him as he was—half naked and sleeping. She smoked cigarette after cigarette while she sketched, her pencil strokes as quick and precise as her breathing had become.
Lost in concentration, Debbie didn’t notice when Preacher stopped snoring.
