Preacher glared down at him. “You need to mind your own business.”
Still bent over, Tiny nodded jerkily. “Yeah…brother,” he rasped. “I know…it. Just couldn’t…let you...run off…again.”
Preacher instantly felt bad. He hadn’t been thinking clearly when he’d taken off, hadn’t given much thought to how his sudden disappearance would affect the others. Looking at his friend now, he realized how incredibly selfish he’d been.
But then again… if memory served him correctly, everyone had seemed to think his release from prison had been just another goddamn Tuesday, and business as usual. Tiny included.
Straightening, Tiny placed his hand on Preacher’s shoulder. “You know The Judge won’t ever admit to it, but he’s been worried sick about you. He’s been makin’ calls, checkin’ in with everyone, tryin’ to find you.”
Rolling his eyes, Preacher turned away and stared off across the park. He didn’t doubt The Judge had been looking for him, but he doubted his reasons. If The Judge had been worried, it was only worry for his club and Preacher’s role in it.
Moving off the pathway, Preacher dropped down beside a cluster of trees. The jagged backdrop of the Appalachians loomed in the distance. The sun was barely visible now, a quickly fading haze of oranges and reds.
Tiny sat down beside him, breathing hard and smelling strongly of body odor.
“You fuckin’ stink.”
“Yeah? You look like a caveman with that beard.”
“Man, you’re as wet as they are.” Preacher gestured to Tiny’s T-shirt, soaked through at the collar with sweat, before jerking his chin toward a group of bikini-clad young women heading down the path. Hair wet, wrapped in towels, they’d clearly been swimming.
“Not as wet as they’re gonna be once I get my hands on ‘em.”
Preacher started to laugh, and so did Tiny. Andshit, even with Tiny stinking to high heaven, Preacher realized how much he really had missed his friend.
“Get a couple a’ drinks in ‘em and we’ll be in like Flynn,” Tiny suggested, waggling his eyebrows.
Preacher spared the group of women another quick, dismissive glance. Shrugging, he turned back to the sunset and lit a cigarette. Minutes passed in silence.
“He really was worried,” Tiny said eventually.
Preacher didn’t answer him.
“You stupid or something?” Tiny asked irritably. “He blamed himself the entire time you were locked up! And then you come home and you ain’t actin’ right! Next, you up and take off in the middle of the night and nobody knows where the fuck you are! And now you’ve showed up here outta nowhere? Man, you can’t blame him for wonderin’ what the fuck you’re gonna do next. Hell, brother, I’m wonderin’ the same damn thing and I can guarantee you so is everyone else.”
Sighing, Preacher flicked his cigarette away. He didn’t want to talk about this shit, not with Tiny, not with anyone. He didn’t like the way it made him feel—guilty and pissed off, and angry with everyone, himself most of all.
His frustration mounting, feeling suddenly uncomfortably warm, he shrugged out of the pack on his back and started removing layers. Once he felt cooler and less like punching someone in the face, he glanced down at the bag in front of him and froze.
Shit.
He’d been so pissed off, he’d left Debbie alone with his family. She was probably cursing him to hell and back.
“You gonna tell me where you been all this time?”
Preacher glanced at Tiny and shrugged. “Nowhere. Just… on the road.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Nothin’.”
“Okay, fine. Who’s the broad?”
“Just some chick.”
“She ain’t exactly your type.”
“I don’t have a fuckin’ type,” Preacher muttered, despite knowing full well that he most definitely had a type. And Debbie was so far removed from the loud, flashy women Preacher had always preferred. But even as he pictured them—the well-built blondes he’d once thought he’d never get enough of—his thoughts immediately veered back to Debbie.
