Preacher: The East End Boys

by Christopher Harlan

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  “Guilty as charged. But no secret there. Now, are you ready to tell the truth?”

  “I’m not playing your little game, sorry.”

  “You will be.” He tells me, looking at me like he wants to tear my clothes off. “Around 9:05. That’s when you’ll be sorry you forgot about me. That’s when you’ll be sorry you forgot that I ruined other guys for you. And then, by 9:06, you’ll forget you ever met anyone but me.”

  He’s supremely confident—he always has been. But it’s my turn to hit back. I’m not some body for him to conquer. “Maybe I’ll give Andrew a call instead. I’m sure he could make me come if I gave him a chance. He’s been wanting me for weeks now. Maybe I’ll let him have what he wants.”

  That’s when he charges at me—there can’t be more than three or four feet between us, but he closes that distance fast. It frightens me so badly I instinctively back up until I feel the bookshelf pressing into my back.

  “I don’t think you’ll be doing that. Not today. Not ever.”

  My heart is racing. He’s so close to me I can smell him. My fear blends with the excitement I feel when he’s forceful, and I don’t know whether he’s going to kiss me or hit me.

  “And why’s that? You don’t control me.”

  He laughs. Literally. “Keep telling yourself that. One day you might actually believe it.”

  My chest is heaving in and out, and the rest of my body is frozen in place, waiting to see what he’s going to do.

  “You have no right to be jealous. Not of him. Not of anyone.”

  His eyes are smoldering and his body is dangerously close to mine. “Jealousy is when someone has something you want but don’t have. I’ve never been jealous in my life.” His hand finds my face, and his finger plays with the outside of my lips. “If someone tries to steal from you, you don’t feel jealous. You feel a swell of rage that someone has dared fucked with what’s yours—and you are mine, Lyric—mind, soul, and. . .” I part my lips as his finger slides inside. I suck on it, hard. “Body.”

  He’s less than an inch from my face. He pulls his finger out of my mouth and reaches his hand under my chin, angling my head gently upwards until our eyes are locked. “9:05.”

  My body freezes in place. He can do anything he wants to me and I’m powerless to stop him.

  But then again, I don’t want to stop him.

  Fifteen—Preacher

  The Present

  I take a step towards her, closing that last inch of distance between our bodies. We both know what’s going to happen—the only difference is I’ve accepted it and she hasn’t—yet.

  “What are you doing?”

  I have to smile at the silly and obvious questions meant as a stall tactic. “I think we both know the answer to that. I’m a man of my word. Always have been.”

  She looks up at her wall clock. I don’t need to. I know what time it is. It’s time for me to have a taste of what I’ve craved for ten years now.

  “I want you to leave.” Her voice betrays her words. She doesn’t want me to leave at all.

  “You don’t want me to go, and we both know why.”

  “Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

  “Because you want me as badly as you ever have. Deep down in that secret place of yours, you’re dying to know what I would feel like inside of you, and how many times I’d make you come before we were finished. But you’re afraid.”

  She laughs at that. “Of what?” I press into her gently to let her know what she’s afraid of. She tries to step back, but never looks away. Her cheeks are getting flush like they do when she’s excited. I know her body is feeling everything mine is. “What do I have to be afraid of?” she practically whispers.

  “The things you’ve always been afraid of—the thing you’ve fought every second you’ve known me—you’re terrified of giving me all the power—of letting down that last wall that protects you from me. You’re afraid that once you do that I’ll have complete control over you. But part of you wants to risk that to find out the answers to those questions. So,” I say, pressing closer to her, “the only question is which will win out? The part of you that’s afraid, or the part of you that’s curious?”

  She tries to move but she can’t get around me. Her cheeks are blood red, and her breath is fast and sweet. She’s pretending—trying to escape, but there’s nowhere else she wants to be right now.

  I want only one thing from her—complete and total submission.

  She could flail, fight, lie to herself all she wants, but our bodies never lie. “Preacher, please. . .”

  “Beg me some more.” My body presses hers against the wall, trapping her so that she can’t get away. I move my mouth down, into the side of her neck and start sucking on where I know her weak spot to be—the spot that drives her crazy.

  “Preacher.” She moans again, her hands coming up and running through my hair. I press my lips even harder into her neck and, as soon as my lips touch her warm skin, her body tightens like electricity is flowing through it. My hard on is starting to hurt, begging for relief, digging into her body as I suck on her neck.

  But she won’t give in all the way just yet. She keeps repeating my name, again and again, and its music to my fucking ears. I’ve waited for this for too long, and now I’m about to have it. Right now, isn’t about sex. Sex is ordinary—pedestrian—what I’ve done with my share of nameless, faceless women. I don’t just want Lyric for sex, I want to make her mine, to claim her body and her soul, to let her know who she belongs to.

  I attack her lips, pressing mine into hers so hard that she knows there’s nothing to do except to open her mouth. My tongue plunges inside, forcing her lips open as her hands scratched against my back.

  I reach down, tracing the outside of her body with my free hand until I feel the bottom of her dress. I grab it and bunch it up in my hand, lifting it up until it’s up past her waist. I press my body into hers, tightly, so that her dress will stay up without me having to hold it. I need my hand for something else.

  As she claws at me, I reach down between her legs. My fingers are soaked before I’m even inside of her. The body never lies. I plunge my finger into her dripping wet pussy, and her whole body contracts again as she grips my shoulder. I push deep into her, until my my knuckles are against her lips, rubbing her clit with my thumb slowly.

  “Preacher. . .”

  My name falls from her lips again like music. Once I replace my finger with my cock, she won’t have anything left except whatever sounds she can make to beg me for more.

  It’s almost time. I lean my mouth next to her ear, my finger driving her to the brink of orgasm. “Just tell me what you want right now and you can have it,” I whisper. “Just say the words.”

  I hear her mouth open. I know she’s about to ask me—to beg me—for what she wants.

  I get myself ready.

  And thats when she pulls away, hard.

  “What? What’s the matter?”

  She looks panicked. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “In the lobby. Listen.” I wait. I listen. I feel the pain in my raging hard on waiting to be relieved. That’s when I hear footsteps. “See. Shit, I think it’s my secretary. She must have come into work early.”

  “Lyric, are you here?” comes from the reception area.

  She pushes me out of the way and fixes her dress. Her hair is a mess still as we both hear a soft knock on the door. “Hold on, Soph, I’m in session. Just finishing up, I’ll be right out.”

  “Session?” I whisper, barely keep a straight face.

  “Sounds more professional than ‘I’m getting fingered against the bookshelf’ don’t you think?” She looks really embarrassed. And by embarrassed, I mean horny. I’m right there with her. I walk up after she’s fixed her dress and kiss her deeply. She steadies her body against me and kisses me back.

  “There we go. Now breathe, it’s okay. We were in session.
”

  “Right,” she says, slowing her breath as we cool down. “Session.”

  “How about some food? Do you have time? There’s a place down the street and there is something I actually do need you to talk about.”

  She looks up at the clock again. “I can get something quick, but I have to be back here in like 45 minutes for an actual session.”

  “Then move that sweet ass.”

  Sixteen—Lyric

  The Past

  “You are. . .a special place I like to visit when I need to feel warm.”

  Mom found out about @lyricstits.

  That fucker of a guidance counselor snitched on me and called home behind my back. She said she wanted to check on me because, and I quote, online bullying is an endemic problem in our society, and she wanted to make sure my mental health was intact leading into my senior year. Translation—she needed to cover her ass in case I decided I’d had enough and decided to use my ceiling fan as a gallows.

  After school I walked into a shit storm of yelling and interrogation. Jess was a great sister and tried to get Mom off my back.

  Mom, it wasn’t her fault.

  Kyle’s a dick.

  This is a crime in some states, Mom, don’t blame Lyric.

  Mom was having none of it. She started yelling that I wasn’t trustworthy because I’d lied to her about where I was going that night—technically, Jessalyn and I had both lied to her—and how I shouldn’t have been with a boy alone in a room, blah, blah, blah. She could yell until I didn’t even hear words anymore—they all just blended into a generic white noise of angry parent.

  I needed to get away from here—from everything and everyone.

  So here I am, with one leg dangling out my bedroom window like an after school special about teen runaways.

  I’m not really the sneak-out-of-my bedroom window type of girl but, as my feet hit the ground from the very poorly timed jump from my window, I’m just happy I didn’t break an ankle when I landed. That would be just my luck—try to be a good teen and disobey my mom’s orders to not go out, only to end up injured on my front lawn in the midst of my little act of rebellion.

  I stand up and put weight on it just to make sure I didn’t injure myself, and so far so good. That’s when I realize I’m standing within eye shot of my front window. I take off towards the part of the East End that’s usually reserved for heroin deals, but since I don’t plan on buying drugs tonight I think I’ll be okay. Plus, it’s still light out, for a little while longer. Right now, the only vice I need to help me forget my problems is sitting in my bag, all ready for when I find a place to sit and drink it.

  There’s a park I’ve been to a few times over here. It’s one of those places that used to be beautiful when it was first built, but that’s now fallen into disrepair from years of neglect. It’s a huge space and during the day families still bring kids here, but parks take on a whole different character at night, when different groups comes out to play.

  I’ve been here with Gage once or twice when we were bored over the summer and had nothing better to do. With him, I never worried about my safety, but now I’m by myself. With all the shit I give Kennedy about her stereotypes of the East End, I should hate myself for looking around as much as I am right now, but I’m not trying to get killed in a park.

  Once I scan a few times to make sure the mugger coast is clear, I put in my headphones and take out my flask. Music has always been my escape. Happy or sad, bored or entertained, whenever I can plug in and listen to my favorite bands it takes me somewhere else, somewhere I need to be. And right now, I need to be in that place, far from here, far from all the bullshit of my life.

  The alcohol won’t hurt either. I take a huge swig of whatever it is Mom keeps in here. It burns going down, but that doesn’t stop me from taking another huge sip right after. Eventually I don’t notice the feeling.

  I sit here for I don’t even know how long, listening to screaming punk rock boys yell unintelligible lyrics over distorted guitars. In between tracks, I suddenly hear footsteps behind me, crunching some sticks and leaves that were never cleaned from last fall. I stand up, and that’s when I notice that I’m full out drunk. For a second, I think I’m going to fall over, so I sit right back down.

  If this is a someone trying to mug me all they’re going to get is my iPhone, some jerry-rigged headphones and a bad attitude, so joke’s on them.

  But when I look, it’s not a crackhead or someone holding a gun asking for my money, it’s a really tall boy.

  It’s the really tall boy. You’d think my heart would slow down when I see that I’m not getting jumped. But it’s beating even faster than before.

  “Jesus!” I yell.

  “Close, but not quite.” He’s standing in front of me—the very tall kid. He has the look of something wrong—something sinful—something you know you shouldn’t have because it’s bad for you, but you know you’re going to have anyway. “I’m still working on that turning water into wine shit. Not totally there yet.”

  Don’t worry, we don’t need wine—I have whatever this shit is in my mom’s flask.

  “Where did you come from?” I ask. I literally don’t know what to say to him, and I’m still a little flustered from someone coming up behind me.

  “That way,” he says, pointing down the road. “Few blocks over.” When he extends his arm, I see the shirt he’s wearing and I can’t help but smile.

  “I’m listening to them right now you know.” He furrows his brow like he’s not sure what I’m talking about, so I point to his chest. I might be staring a little. He looks down at his clothes and then back at me.

  “No shit? You like Op Ivy? No one even knows who they are.”

  I do, strange new boy. “Operation Ivy is one of my favorites—the way they blended punk and ska and still stayed heavy. Gillman Street legends.”

  “What’s your name?” he asks. His voice is deep. Like, really deep. I don’t think he recognizes me at all, but I sure as hell recognize him.

  “I’m Lyric.”

  “That’s fucking perfect, isn’t it?” he laughs. I can’t tell if he likes my name or thinks it’s really stupid. I go back and forth myself.

  “I guess,” I say. “And you?”

  “They call me Preacher.”

  My turn to laugh. “Wait, Preacher? For real?”

  “For real.”

  “And should I even ask who ‘they’ are?”

  “They?” he asks.

  “Yeah, you said they call you Preacher. Who are ‘they’?”

  He looks at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable—just like he did that day of the fight. It’s hard to describe, but looking at him was difficult—not because I didn’t want to. In fact, all I wanted to do was stare into those beautiful eyes like they were a movie screen, but when I did I felt small, like I disappeared into nowhere, and I couldn’t think straight let alone speak properly.

  “This kid Jorge from juvie. He told me I needed a name because all the kids there had nicknames—that became mine.”

  So he is the one. The one Mr. Bransfield warned Kennedy about—the one with the record—the new East End boy. Even a little drunk I’m a.) shocked at how honest he’s being with me considering he met me seconds ago and b.) I can’t get over how beautiful he is.

  I go to stand up and stumble a little. This is not a good look—white girl wasted all day. He comes over and grabs me before I fall, and I stumble into his chest as he wraps an arm around my waist to keep me from falling.

  “Must be a hell of a pity party you’re throwing.”

  He smells clean—like dryer sheets filling the living room after doing laundry clean.

  “Thanks,” I say, getting my balance. “I think I might have had too much of this.”

  He leans over and smells the flask I’m holding up. “I’d say for your size any more than two sips is too much. That smells like you’ve been making your own moonshine in the bathtub at home.”

  I smile.
“I wish.”

  “Why don’t we sit down?”

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  I put my butt back on the bench. He sits down next to me and I breathe in that laundry smell again. “So, are you going to tell me your real name or what?”

  “You mean you don’t think it says Preacher on my birth certificate?” His face lights up when he smiles, but even when he’s joking like he is right now there’s a seriousness to his eyes.

  “I’m going to have to go with a no on that one.”

  “I have a brother named Pope—also not his real name.”

  “A whole family of aliases. Interesting—you guys on the run from the law or something? ‘Cause that’s the only time I can think you’d need fake names.”

  “Trust me,” he says. “If we were running from the law, this town is the last place we would have run.”

  “Arkham’s already ruined you, huh? Don’t feel bad,” I tell him. “It does that to everyone.”

  “It’s just not what I’m used to.” It’s a weird thing to say, but he has me curious.

  “Like juvie?” I joke. “I know the East End is a little shitty but it’s got to be better than prison.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, or what it means. But I do know how I feel being around him. My heart beats faster than hearts should—like that speed a heart monitor makes on a medical drama right before it flat lines.

  “So,” I say, totally unsure if I want to finish my sentence or not, but really wanting to ask him about what happened. “That fight, huh.”

  “What about it?” he asks.

  “How come it happened? Do you know who those guys are?”

  He looks away, almost dismissively. “Doesn’t matter,” he tells me. “It was self defense. They tried fucking with my brother, and I had to let them know that no one fucks with my family. Pretty simple situation, actually.”

  Yeah, I think. Simple, if you’re used to brawling in the street. “I guess.”