Preacher: The East End Boys

by Christopher Harlan

  “You ever been in a fight?” he asks. It’s a strange question, but he asks it like it’s not.

  “A fist fight?”

  He nods. “Uh-huh.”

  “No,” I say. “Of course not.” I pause, thinking back to my punching Kyle the night of Draven’s party. “Well not really, I guess.”

  “Then you wouldn’t understand why someone would raise their hands to another person. It’s hard to explain in words if you’ve never had to do it.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. He’s a little defensive, like I’m criticizing him, but I’m not. I’m just curious. Not just about the fight, about him in general.

  “How did you do that thing?” I ask, feeling dumb for not knowing the right words.

  He smiles. “That thing? It’s called a punch, girl-named-after-music. It’s easy, I can show you. You just close all of your fingers. . .”

  “I know what a punch is, thank you very much, guy-named-after-some-random-religious-figure.” Another smile to break that intense exterior. I’m on a roll. “I meant where you pulled him down to the ground?”

  “Ah,” he says. “You mean a power double. That was my move.”

  “Okay you just said a whole bunch of words I didn’t understand. A what-what now?”

  “Power double,” he repeats. “It’s a wrestling move—a takedown. That’s what I did—I think. It’s hard to remember, fights happen fast.”

  “You wrestle?”

  “I used to, back in my old school.”

  “Like a juvie wrestling team?”

  A third smile. This one is more sarcastic looking. “I’m trying to imagine all of those thugs in singlets and headgear. That’s hilarious. But, no, I meant my high school, before juvie. I was a wrestler.”

  “Arkham has a team, you know? We generally suck at most sports, but the wrestling team isn’t that bad.”

  “That sounds like a real endorsement, but I can’t wrestle anymore.” He says, his face going serious once again. “I got hurt.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. In juvie?”

  “Jesus, girl, not everything happened in juvie. I had a normal life before—I was only in there for a year.”

  He seems annoyed. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or just me being sick of conflict, but he frightens me. I can’t explain why—he’s not yelling or threatening, but there’s something dark locked behind his eyes—like looking into the eyes of a lion.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “The only thing you’ve told me about yourself is that you got into trouble and that you used to wrestle. I was just putting two and two together.”

  He softens. “It’s okay. The only ass kickings at juvie were the ones I handed out, not the other way around. I got injured before I went away.”

  I take it from his super vague response that he doesn’t want to tell me any more about that, and I’m not going to push him.

  “Hey, who is that guy I fought, anyways? The dark one.”

  It’s a little early to give this kid the Alpha lecture, so instead I’ll just give him the bullet points. “The one you were fighting is named Draven. He’s. . . how do I describe him?”

  “A punching bag,” he says, grinning but not smiling. “That’s how I think of him. For such a big kid, he can’t fight for shit.”

  That’s because he doesn’t have to fight—for anything. “He usually has his little pack with him. All his boys. They think they run things at school.”

  “And do they?” he asks.

  “Well, yeah, sort of. They act like they do, but that’s mostly because their fathers are rich idiots who actually run things around here. The sons are just blow jobs that went too far.”

  He starts cracking up—like, really laughing from his belly, and it’s the first time I’ve seen a break in the bad boy vibes he has going. It makes me feel really funny. “I have to remember that one, don’t let me forget it.”

  “The funny part is that Draven hates his father. He just loves the money and the future that’s already signed, sealed, and paid for.”

  “And what future is that?” he asks.

  “They’re in finance because. . . of course they are. Big wigs—have investment banks all over the east coast, but home base is in Manhattan. Lots of money.”

  “Have you ever been?” he asks.

  “Where?”

  “Manhattan?”

  “I wish. I was born and raised in this town, unfortunately. But that’s what college is for—getting away from home. How about you?”

  “Born and raised in Manhattan, actually.”

  Even drunk he just really caught my attention. “Really? You’re not messing with me?”

  “No shit, I swear. Lived in Queens till I was three, but my first real memories are of growing up in the city.”

  The really tall gorgeous kid with the freaky name just got ten times more interesting. I’ve always been obsessed with living in Manhattan, ever since my mom saved up and took Jess and I there years ago to see a Broadway show. I fell in love, hard, right on the spot, like some bad rom-com. The lights, the smells, the people—the city seemed alive, and I knew it was the antidote for everything Arkham didn’t have to offer.

  I want to know more. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what the hell are you doing in this place?”

  “I don’t mind you asking,” he tells me. He grabs my flask and takes the last sip—more like a chug. “I do mind answering, though.”

  I crossed a line I didn’t realize was there. I’m prying into his business and I don’t even know who he is really. I blame the booze. Not just for that, but for the fact that I’m not feeling so hot. “Sorry,” I say. “Forget I asked.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s a fair question,” he admits. “I’m just not ready to answer it just yet.”

  “I understand. I was being nosey. I do that sometimes.” I go to stand up and realize it’s a huge mistake. I shouldn’t drink—I really am a lightweight. I don’t know what makes me take a fast step, maybe I’m trying to not look as sloppy as I clearly am right now, but when I do he needs to grab me again, and I feel his strength as he lifts me up easily.

  “We’ve gotta get you home.”

  “No, it’s fine, I’m alright.”

  “You’re not alright. You need to get home. Come on.”

  A few minutes later, I’m a block away from my house. “I’m guessing you don’t want your parents to see you like this?”

  “Only if I want to live,” I joke. “And just my mom. Dad left.”

  “All fathers are dicks, huh?”

  I don’t answer because we both know the answer already. “Are you going to sneak me in?” I ask. I’m so drunk, I’m saying crazy shit.

  “Not sure meeting your mom for the first time like this would make the best impression—dragging her drunk daughter home in the dark. Bad look.”

  He’s right. I’m only thinking about myself, but I don’t need to get this kid in any more trouble “Hold on. I can stand. I’ll text my sister.”

  I wait for Jess to answer. I know she’s home doing what she loves best—reading. She meets me at the front door instead of Mom. Even drunk, I can see Jess looking this kid up and down, first with that protective sister look on her face, and then with softer eyes.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  “I’ll explain,” I tell her. “Just get me inside and past Mom.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s out cold already.”

  I stumble to Jess and she helps me get inside. Before I’m fully in I turn back around. “Thanks,” I say. “For everything.”

  “See you soon,” he says before disappearing into the distance.

  I hope so, Preacher. I hope so.

  Seventeen—Lyric

  The Past

  “You are. . .as confusing as Geometry, as frustrating as Shakespeare.”

  My pounding head lifts up from my pillow at the sound. I think I’m either dreaming or hallucinating, but then I hear it again. The one thing I know for sure is t
hat I’m hung the hell over. Head pounding. Dehydrated. Feel like crap. The whole nine yards of late-night park drinking.

  Last night was a mistake. Not the Preacher part. That part was incredible.

  I hear the noise again. Now I know I’m not crazy—not the hallucinating type of crazy anyway.

  Something’s definitely hitting my window.

  I get out of bed—slowly at first, so that I don’t fall over. . . again. And as I walk over to see what the noise is, every single step between my bed and my window reminds me what a crappy decision I made last night.

  It had been the perfect teenaged crime. I got in and out of the house without Mom knowing anything about it, but I must look like total shit. My eyes are definitely red and my breath probably smells like an old wine-o. That noise isn’t helping.

  I look out my window and see him.

  Preacher. He’s standing right on my lawn looking tall and beautiful. I wave at him and open my window. “What are you doing here?”

  “Food,” he yells up. “Eating. Metabolism. Energy. All that good shit. You need it. So do I. Thought I’d take you.”

  “Right now?” I ask. It’s surreal to see a guy I just met when I was drunk in a park standing on my lawn offering to take me to breakfast. All he’s missing is the boom box above his head and the sad look on his face. Something tells me he doesn’t do sad looks—only angry, intense, and smoldering. It works just fine for me.

  “Didn’t you hear my energy speech a minute ago? Come on. Get your shit together. Pancakes and crap are awaiting us.”

  Mom’s still asleep. I don’t need to check. Her and Ambien are besties—they hooked up after Dad left. And when she really wants to have a party, she pairs it with a few glasses of her favorite Merlot. I’m guessing after our little scrap she was stressed enough to have her sleeping until at least noon.

  “Give me five.”

  I get ready faster than any girl in the history of girls getting ready, and before I know it I’m inhaling the scent of waffles and pancakes at the diner. I’m nervous around him. Last night I had some liquid courage flowing through me, but now I’m stone sober, and I feel intimidated being around him. We make a little small talk, but all I can think the whole time is oh my God, I’m here with him.

  We order some food for our metabolism and energy, and whatever the hell else he said. My head is still pounding. But there’s something I really need to know that’s been bugging me since he said it. “So tell me the story.”

  “Excuse me?” he asks. “What story?”

  “The name. Preacher. You said it was in juvie, but what’s the actual story?”

  “Oh, we’re jumping right into it, huh?”

  I pull my sunglasses down and look at him humorously with what I’m sure are bloodshot eyes. “I don’t have the energy to be subtle.”

  “A thirteen-year-old kid gave it to me.”

  I nearly spit my water out all over his beautiful face. “Holy shit, thirteen? I was still playing with dolls and watching Dragon Ball Z. How old were you at the time?”

  “Sixteen,” he answers. “Just barely.”

  The next question is so obvious that I feel weird not asking it. “Can I ask you why? Like, what you did?”

  It hangs in the air for a few seconds. He’s looking at me intensely, and, for a second, I think I’ve gone too far again, and I genuinely feel like I don’t know what he’d do if I set him off.

  He leans forward in the booth, staring through me with those piercing eyes and intense gaze, waiting for me to react. I don’t. I wait. I watch. And then finally he answers me in way I’m not expecting.

  “That’s a girlfriend level question,” he answers. “I’ll tell you after we’ve been together at least a few weeks.”

  Holy shit.

  He didn’t say that like a joke. I could smell sarcasm like a bloodhound, and there was none of it. He meant it.

  After Kyle, I’d put up an invisible shield—a thick layer of protection that I unconsciously believed would keep me safe from guys who could hurt me, which is to say all guys. I believed it to be impenetrable—the kind of defense an ancient warrior could take into battle knowing no matter what struck the outside, it would simply bounce off.

  But when I saw Preacher, I quickly realized that I didn’t have a battle-ready unbreakable shield, I had a piece of paper with a shield drawn on it in crayon.

  “So are we like, going out then? I don’t even know you.”

  He reaches across the table—his arm right over the plate of pancakes that the waitress just dropped on the table.

  “I’m Lucien Carter. Nice to meet you.”

  PART 2

  “A born again hooligan, only to be king again.”

  —The Fugees, Ready or Not

  Why Me?

  That’s what I asked him that day. Why did you choose me, of all the girls at school you could have had?

  He didn’t hesitate to answer. He never did. He was the most self-assured boy I’d ever met in my life, and when I

  asked him the question that would have shaken most others, he answered me as though he’d been expecting me to ask for a very long time.

  “Because when I first saw you, I knew that you were broken,” he told me. “But even with a soul shattered into a thousand pieces, you were still

  the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life. And I couldn’t wait to see what you looked like when you were put back together again.”

  Then he waited, as though he was expecting me to be angry about the honesty of his answer, but I wasn’t angry at all.

  I just laughed and looked down at the ground.

  “What’s funny?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I told him. “It’s just that I felt the exact same way about you.”

  Eighteen—Lyric

  The Present

  Let’s do a quick recap of what’s happened over the last 24 hours, shall we?

  So yesterday, my ex from high school (the one who disappeared without a trace and broke my heart) showed up like a ghost from the past, pretended to be a new patient (a sexy as fuck patient at that, but not the point), and told me he wanted to take me out to dinner.

  Then he stalked me on a date I had with another man. During that encounter, he threatened my date, probably scared him off forever, and assured me he was going to fuck me next time he saw me. That ‘next time’ was about ten minutes ago.

  And right now, I’m sitting in a restaurant, ordering breakfast, completely unfucked yet wishing I had a change of underwear.

  Oh, and I’m pretty sure—no, I’m definitely sure that Sophie knows there’s something going on with me and Preacher. He’s too big to slip out the window of my office, and he wouldn’t have done that anyhow, which means I had to gather myself and walk out of the office with him, doing my best I-didn’t-just-get-fingered-against-my-office-wall impersonation. Sophie knows for sure. What sealed the deal is when I asked her to reschedule my ten o’clock so that I could go to breakfast. And now here we are.

  “I’ll have what she’s having,” Preacher tells the waitress.

  What she’s having should have been your cock, but instead she’ll be having overpriced eggs and coffee.

  He looks at me with a serious expression that pretty much never leaves his face unless he’s laughing that evil laugh of his.

  “What?” he asks.

  My eyebrow shoots up. He’s such a dick. “You know what, are you kidding?”

  “Feeling unsatisfied?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can’t say I blame you, but don’t push that on me. I didn’t tell your doodling secretary to overachieve and come in almost an hour early.” Dammit, Sophie—cockblocking isn’t part of your job description, but then again neither is drawing little dicks next to my patients. “Plus, I was thinking about your little speech on boundaries. Maybe we should just be friends.”

  He can be a real bastard when he wants something, but I’m not a high school senior anymore, and I’m not falling
for his games. “Who says I would have let you fuck me anyhow?”

  That was the wrong move. Not playing his game is one thing, but trying to beat him at his own game is something I learned a long time ago not to try. Guess that lesson didn’t exactly stick.

  This time his eyebrow goes up, but his comes with a grin that’s reserved for Satan himself.

  I double down, stupidly. “I’m just saying, you’re making a lot of assumptions.”

  “Lyric, my only assumption is that if Sophie had set her alarm thirty minutes later last night I would have introduced the side of your face to that big wooden desk while I fucked you so mercilessly from behind that your books would have shaken out of their shelves.”

  Yeah, about that change of underwear. . .

  He said that with no concern that the people at the next table would hear. I’m not sure I care either. What he said is so hot that I decide to play a game of my own.

  “Bullshit,” I whisper just under my breath. He takes the bait.

  “Excuse me? What was that?”

  This time I look up confidently and make direct eye contact. “I said, ‘bullshit’.” This time my voice is nice and loud. He doesn’t care who hears, he hasn’t looked away from me yet.

  “You doubt me?”

  “I’m just saying, talk is cheap.”

  “We wouldn’t be talking if I’d decided to keep our little rendezvous at your office. And you know why we couldn’t talk? ‘Cause your mouth would be so stuffed with my cock that it would be near impossible to form words without gagging. Well, you’d be gagging either way, obviously.”

  I lean forward. “And after I sucked you dry, what then?” He tries to hide his excitement, but I know if I could see through this table his pants would be tightening.

  “After I decided you’d tasted me for long enough, I’d spin you around and rip those dripping wet panties right off your body. Before they even had time to leave a stain on your fancy braided rug, I’d be so far inside you you’d start panicking and not knowing what to do with yourself.”