Preacher: The East End Boys

by Christopher Harlan

  “If you wanted to stop in to say hi, then mission accomplished.”

  “I’d never come to see you after so long just to say hi. C’mon, Lyric, you know me way better than that.”

  I thought I did.

  He steps closer to me. His scent follows him—masculine and clean, wafting into my nose. It’s a smell I haven’t known in a long time. “Then what do you want?”

  “Have dinner with me. I’ll explain everything you want to know.”

  “Dinner?” I ask, puzzled.

  “Yes, dinner. You do eat, right?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then have dinner with me. We can talk more.”

  I’ve dreamed of this chance for years—the chance to tell him off, to ask him a million questions about what happened, to make him explain why he did what he did to me. Looking into his eyes now those thoughts flood back as if I hadn’t spent years in therapy trying to get them out of my head.

  “Asshole!” I yell. He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got balls walking back in here after what happened. I can’t believe how heartless you can be.”

  He grins, and it burns right into my stomach. “Who’s Andrew?” he asks.

  Wait, how does he know?

  I don’t even have time to process the question. “Excuse me?”

  “Who. Is. Andrew?” He repeats himself methodically, almost condescendingly. He never looks away, trying to make me squirm. I won’t give him the satisfaction. He used to do this to me all the time. He’d find out something about me without me knowing he did, then he’d bring it up at the most random times and in the most random of ways to mess with my head and shock me.

  “How...”

  He smiles before I finish the question. He still gets a kick out of making me uncomfortable. I shouldn’t even care if he knows about Andrew, or even how he knows. Preacher gave up his right to know anything about my life a long time ago—ten years to be exact. I shouldn’t give a shit what he knows and what he doesn’t. I decide to throw his bullshit right back at him. “If you must know, Andrew is my date tonight. Right after this appointment, actually.”

  I want him to react. Jealousy would be nice. But as usual he gives me nothing—no wide eyes, no eyebrow raise, nothing. I shouldn’t be playing these games like we’re kids anymore, but I can’t help myself.

  “I figured that, since your receptionist drew a little heart around his name.”

  Dammit Sophie. You and your doodles. “I see I’m going to have to have a chat with her about privacy.”

  “Don’t, I peeked. The book was upside down and on her side of the desk. It wasn’t her fault.” Of course not, it was your fault. “What I didn’t get was why she wrote the words ‘ice cream’ next to his name.”

  I giggle. I can’t help it. “Inside joke,” I tell him. “But enough about me and what I’m doing later. You still haven’t told me why you’re here. What’s going on? You having issues you need help with?”

  The sarcasm in my voice is laced on thick. I know that’s not why he’s here. The idea of Preacher asking anyone for help is laughable, let alone of him allowing himself to be vulnerable enough to see a therapist.

  “Despite your ego getting away from you, I’m not here for you. You were just a happy accident.”

  Bastard. He can still make my blood boil.

  “Nice to know you think of me as an accident.”

  “Come on, Doctor, don’t go petty on me now. I wasn’t calling you anything, just disavowing you of the belief that you’re the center of the known universe.”

  I’m beyond done with this conversation, but at the same time I don’t want him to go. Him being in front of me makes me feel like I’m a high school girl again, unsure of myself and wanting him near me even if I know that it’s not the best thing for me.

  I don’t want to engage in a back and forth verbal battle with him—that’s what he wants. The more I fight, the more he loves it. I decide to just ignore the little digs he’s throwing at me and keep the conversation on track.

  “So if not to spend time with my huge ego, what else brings you here?”

  He smiles. He’s still beautiful when he smiles, even if it’s in an expression filled with deviant intentions. “Business. Always business. A few blocks away, actually.” He takes a few steps in my direction.

  “Look, I don’t like having my time wasted with cryptic statements and lies. I have better things to do with my time, like. . .”

  “Getting ready to see this Andrew person?”

  I can hear the jealously in his voice, and I feel ashamed that it makes me happy. “Yes, if you most know. If you’re not looking for a therapist then I don’t know what we’re doing here.”

  He turns and takes a few steps away from my desk. “Like I said, I have some business to attend to in the neighborhood, but I was also hoping that we could reconnect. Maybe over dinner or drinks—preferably both.”

  I start to open up my mouth to say no—to tell him any reconnecting is out of the question, especially given how things ended between us—but those aren’t the words that come out of my mouth.

  “I. . . I don’t know.”

  He raises his eyebrow as if he expected an immediate yes, but I’m not ready to see him again, not like that. Not yet. I wait for him to protest, or to use his Jedi mind tricks to convince me I’m wrong. But that’s not what he does at all.

  “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

  Yes. Yes, you are. You always have. And don’t pretend you don’t love it. “Don’t flatter yourself, Preacher. You just took me by surprise. And I’m guessing that was your intention the whole time.”

  “I called and made an appointment just like everyone else. I used my name—hell, I even mentioned that I knew you. Doesn’t sound like much of a surprise to me. You could have had your doodle drawing receptionist call me up and cancel if you wanted to blow me off.” He’s right. I know he’s right. I did want to see him. “But I understand. I did just pop up out of nowhere. I get it. But here.” He reaches into his breast pocket and puts a card down on my desk. “If you change your mind, you at least know how to get in touch with me. It was good seeing you, Lyric.” He’s almost out the door when he stops, his hand still on the knob. He removes it and instead reaches into his back pocket, taking out a large folded piece of paper. “And here, in case you forget why you should use the card I just left you.”

  He’s gone as quickly as he appeared. I take a deep breath and let my heart rate come down to a normal level before grabbing the card he placed on my desk. I should rip it up. I don’t. I throw it in my bag.

  It’s the other piece of paper I’m really interested in.

  I walk over to the bookshelf where Preacher left the folded piece of white paper. I look into the waiting area to make sure he’s gone before unfolding it.

  When I read it, I can’t help but smile, and it’s a real smile. It only has two sentences written on it.

  I love you.

  I’ll always be yours.

  — L

  I can’t believe he still has this.

  Seven—Preacher

  The Present

  God, she looked like sex on two legs!

  Lyric was hot in high school, but now she’s a smoke-show as a grown ass woman. And speaking of asses, holy shit! I need to calm the fuck down before my ever-growing erection gets too big and starts punching through my fancy suit pants like the Incredible Hulk just lost his temper.

  She bought my whole I-just-happened-to-be-in-the-neighborhood bullshit, hook line and sinker.

  Part of that was true.

  I do have business a few blocks from her office.

  I hadn’t planned on seeing her just yet, but that meeting was always going to happen.

  Plans are a bitch.

  I didn’t plan for my father to finally do the universe a favor and stop breathing. His death brought me something besides personal satisfaction and the kind of wealth that lasts generations, it brought me back to the city I grew u
p in—the city where she lives.

  She was right —I do have balls—big ones, in fact—and they’re turning Crayola blue as we speak. I’ve known about her living in this city for a while now, but I needed to wait until the perfect moment to make my entrance into her life. I needed a reason that would make sense to her, and I’m on my way there now.

  I could take an Uber to my meeting a few blocks away, but in New York traffic they could elect a new mayor by the time I made it a few blocks by car at this time of day.

  I’ll walk.

  It’ll give my body something to do besides pumping blood into my cock while I think of Lyric.

  I get a text from Pope asking why I’m late.

  Me: ‘Cause I just saw Lyric and now my dick has taken over all bodily functions. It’s currently leading me on a wild-pussy-chase around Manhattan. Be there when I’m there.

  Pope: Asshole. Stop making shit up and get over here. People are waiting.

  Let them wait. Not like they can have the meeting without me. And that’s the second person to call me an asshole in five minutes.

  And they’re both right.

  I am whatever they say I am—isn’t that the old Eminem line? Well it’s as true as my desire to bend Lyric over that desk and remind her that she’s mine. She wanted none of it—at least that’s what her words said. But I learned a long time ago to listen to people’s bodies, not their words.

  People’s bodies will tell you the truth that their words try to hide.

  And her body—that incredible body—was screaming for me to fuck her silly. She had all the signs—flush cheeks, intense eye contact, and she wouldn’t stop playing with the necklace I gave her to remind her who she belongs to.

  Those things told me a very different story than the indifference coming out of her mouth.

  And what I want to do to that mouth should be illegal. Probably is in some states.

  She has a right to be pissed at me. I did her dirty in ways she’s never forgiven me for. But I had my reasons, and that was a long time ago. I’m back now. I’ve been waiting, and now it’s time to reclaim what’s mine.

  I finally get to the address. My meeting waits inside for me. A room full of expensive suits with huge bank accounts and lots of power.

  Pussies. One and all. They have no idea who they’re negotiating with.

  But they’re about to find out.

  “Mr. Carter, we’ve been waiting.”

  Pope shakes his head disapprovingly. “Don’t worry,” I tell the room of angry suits. “I’m sure you passed the time thinking about all the slimy shit you’ve done over the course of your careers—hell, maybe even today alone. You should really thank me for giving you time to self reflect.”

  Lawyers. I fucking hate them. All of them.

  They’re the scum of the earth.

  That’s exactly how I signed Pope’s card when he graduated from law school. “Congrats on getting your degree in douchery, love your big bro.” He didn’t seem amused. At least he’s my douche, and he’s damn good at his job.

  “Mr. Carter,” the angry looking one on the end says, while giving me what he thinks is a tough guy glare. “This is one of the worst cases of unprofessional behavior I’ve seen in over a decade of practicing law.”

  This guy’s completely deluded if he thinks this table, his fancy suit, or the rules of decent society are protecting him from speaking to me like that. This isn’t the yard at Harmony, I realize that, but the same laws of the jungle apply—the only difference is technique.

  Luckily, I do my research. Guy’s name is Daniel Holloran, 40 years old and a mostly squeaky-clean record. Far be it from me to. . . nah, fuck him. “Danny boy, shut the fuck up please, before I start this meeting with a PowerPoint presentation of those charges that almost got you disbarred in ‘07.”

  He looks shocked. Good. That’s the business world version of just beating his ass in front of the others so they know to stay the fuck in line. “Now, back to what I was saying.”

  After my brother and I took over The Carter Organization we decided to steer the ship a little differently than our dear old dad might have wanted. But we—meaning I, as the primary shareholder—decided to take the reigns we’d been given to do whatever we saw fit. Along with that comes the mantra to crush anyone who stands in our way.

  Hence this meeting.

  Our company has its tentacles in a lot of different arenas, but real estate development is our bread and butter. We put up buildings in one of the toughest real estate markets on planet earth—New York City.

  And this one is a special project of mine.

  This meeting isn’t a board meeting of my company, it’s a meeting to determine whether or not this project can even go through. That makes it something I know more than a little about—this is a fight, plain and simple.

  On my side of the table is the only team I need—the only one I’ve ever needed: me and my brother. And if Pope couldn’t make it, I’d gladly take on the whole other side of the table on my own.

  Speaking of which, the suits across from us represent the other stakeholders. Building in Manhattan is about as simple and easy as the planning of D-Day. It’s not just a matter of filling out some paperwork, getting permits, and breaking ground. There are a million roadblocks along the way, and any one of them can either shut down your project, or make is so cost ineffective that it’s more attractive to cut your losses and walk away than it is to keep going. I’m dealing with one of those roadblocks now.

  Across the table are the suits that collectively represent the businesses, financial institutions, and even individual people who are. . . let’s call it ‘less than fond’ of the idea I have—the ones who are putting no small amount of capital behind shutting me down, including some of my father’s former associates who preferred the way he ran things to the way his sons are. These guys aren’t working together, per say. They represent different stakeholders, but they aren’t exactly not working together either.

  Twenty minutes of corporate bickering play out, and I have to sit here through all of it. At the end of it we’re still nowhere, and decide to reconvene in two weeks. I’ll be even more ready for them then.

  The room starts to thin out as the suits go back to their busy days of defending pedophiles and squeezing even more money for giant corporations.

  I start to walk out after the last of them has left but Pope stops me at the door. “Rough crowd, huh?”

  “Fuck them all. This is happening whether they want it to or not.”

  He smiles. “Channeling Dad’s spirit, are we? Appropriate, given this was his company.”

  “Dad would have dropped a giant pile of shit right in his expensive pants if he knew what I was doing here, you know. Luckily for me was is the operant word in your sentence. Nice to refer to that prick in the past tense, isn’t it?”

  “If you say so.”

  Pope’s my younger brother in every way that he can be. He remembers Dad fondly for some reason, but that’s only because he never saw the worst of him. That was reserved for me and Mom.

  “Well I do fucking say so.” He needs his leash snapped every once in a while, when he tries to get fit for another pair of rose-colored glasses. He can feel whatever he wants, but his words are subject to my personal approval on all matters involving our father. “Now enough nostalgia, make this deal happen.”

  “Yes, sir,” he says sarcastically.

  “There you go.”

  “Hey, you want to go get something to eat?”

  “Afraid not, baby bro. I’ve got plans already.”

  “Of course you do,” he says. “I should have known better. Who’s the lucky lady?”

  My dick gets hard just thinking about her. “Meeting an old flame for drinks.”

  I am going to see her again later—she just doesn’t know it yet.

  Eight—Preacher

  The Past

  “Fuck this place.”

  There are a lot of words to describe my brother, bu
t subtle isn’t one of them.

  Pope’s been complaining the entire car ride here—three goddamn hours and two bathroom breaks— like he’s seven instead of seventeen. I would have smacked him in the mouth by now if it wasn’t for not wanting to give Mom any more stress—we’ve given her enough of that to last a lifetime.

  As we finally pull up to our new house, I have to admit I’m having the same thoughts as Pope. On the real estate website, this place didn’t look that bad—the magic of photoshop and camera angles I guess, ‘cause in person it’s a dump. The last ten minutes of the drive in told me everything I need to know about this town—one minute there were million-dollar homes to my left and the next minute Ghetto Superstar started playing in my head. We passed a dollar store, a 24-hour laundry, two liquor stores, and a few homeless people begging for change.

  But the difference between me and my brother—and trust me there are many—is that I can keep thoughts inside of my head, where thoughts belong. Pope blurts shit out with no filter whatsoever. Today he’s having a real bad case of verbal diarrhea.

  As the two of us carry the first of many boxes that hold what’s left of our lives inside of them, I let him know what I think of his complaints. “Would you shut the fuck up about the house? Mom will hear you.”

  “I don’t care if she does. She’s the one who moved us to. . .”

  I scruff him by the collar to remind him who the older brother is, even if it is only by a year. Pope’s the kind of kid who needs a physical reminder when a verbal one doesn’t quite do the job. I’m happy to oblige. “I care if she hears, and that means you do too. She’s got enough to worry about already and this whole thing isn’t her fault. So I’m gonna need you to shut your fucking mouth while it’s still a voluntary action.”

  My brother is a tough kid, tough as they come, but I won’t have him disrespecting our mother in her own home—even if that home is this piece of shit.

  The screen door swings open and Mom comes in with a box that’s bigger than the ones Pope and I carried combined. She’s the real tough guy in the family. She puts it down on the floor and takes a deep breath.