Preacher: The East End Boys

by Christopher Harlan

  There’s something else he wants besides my professional services, and no matter how much he tries to hide it. I know he wouldn’t be here otherwise. That’s when I realize I have some power of my own.

  “Yes,” I tell him.

  “Excellent, I’ll have my brother draw up the. . .”

  “On one condition,” I interject, stopping him mid-sentence. He raises an eyebrow and looks at me like he’s not happy I’m about to ask for more than what he wants to give.

  “Condition?” he asks. “Money isn’t enough?”

  “There’s something else that I want. I’m going to assume in your business you deal with contracts a lot. They’re negotiated, aren’t they?”

  “Everyday,” he says, looking annoyed. “What’s your point? Besides the complete financial freedom I just generously offered you, what more do you want?”

  “I want you to take me on three dates at different places around New York City.”

  He looks at me with surprise in his eyes. “Did I hear you right? You want me to take you out?”

  “Yes. Three different places.”

  He sips his wine. “You know I don’t date. How about I fuck your brains out in three different locations around the city? That’s more my speed. You pick the places—back of my car, Central Park, bathroom of a club. I’m really not picky.”

  Pig. This is going to be more work than I thought. I should have just asked for more money.

  “I’m all good with the bathroom screwing, thanks—three dates is what I want.” But there really isn’t an ‘all’ for me when it comes to dating him—the truth is we never really dated in the traditional sense. He had the same mantra years ago—I don’t do dates, I do H & H, he told me, hookups and hangouts, but that’s all. I accepted his limitations then because he was like no other boy I’d ever met, but now is different—now I’m a grown woman who’s stronger than that eighteen-year-old high school kid, and I won’t settle for less than what I really want. It was Lucien who taught me that.

  “I don’t know about this dating stuff. Sounds like what you do when you want to get into a relationship.”

  “It can be, but it doesn’t have to be. It depends.”

  “On what?” he asks.

  “On what you want out of the situation. Some people you date just to have something to do, but it doesn’t go anywhere.”

  “Like that chubby beta guy at the bar? What was his name?”

  “You leave Andrew alone. He’s fine, he’s just...”

  “Beneath you,” he says forcefully. “Seriously, what did I do to you that you’d let that put his dick in you?”

  There’s so much to unpack in his sentence that my mind doesn’t know where to even begin.

  You did a lot to me. You got inside of me. You grabbed my soul and squeezed as hard as you could. You made me feel alive. You ruined other guys for me.

  “Not that I need to tell you this, but there was nothing inside of me when it came to Andrew. We just went out a few times. He wanted to, don’t get me wrong.”

  “Of course he wanted to,” Lucien says. “Getting you would have been about twelve notches above his pay grade. And shame about the lack of Andrew dick, though. Any others?”

  That isn’t a real question, he’s putting out feelers to see if there’s competition—other guys who’ll take me on dates, treat me like a queen and have amazing sex with me. “A few here and there but nothing serious.”

  “Good,” he answers. “I don’t like to tread where other men have explored already, not my thing. I’m Leif Erikson, not Columbus.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “One guy actually discovered something for the first time. Walked on the territory for the first time, left his mark. The other asshole came along after and took all the credit. I’m a pussy discoverer, not just another dude who comes around after all the good land has been surveyed already.”

  I should be so offended by that sentence. I should, but I’m not. “So then I won’t call you Preacher anymore? Just Leif?” He smiles. “It’s kinda sexy—I don’t hate it.”

  “You can call me Darth Vader if I get to have you.”

  “Slow down there. No one said anything about having me, I just want you to take me out. There are things I want to talk to you about.” I know he’s not looking forward to that. “Plus, I want you to show me the new you—that way I have a sense of who I’ll be working for.”

  “Come on,” he says. “You already know me. Maybe better than anyone else.”

  He’s right. He told me things I know he’s never told anyone, but that doesn’t mean I know him. I doubt anyone’s ever truly known him. “Correction, I knew you. That was a decade ago. We’ve had two presidents since then for fucks sake. You were a troubled kid who was like the edge of a knife. The kid I knew in the Misfits shirt and ripped jeans wouldn’t have been caught dead in a suit and tie. I don’t know the man you’ve become.”

  He looks at me intensely. “And you want to?”

  “I do.”

  “Fine. Three dates. Do we have deal?”

  “I believe we do.”

  After dinner, I call an Uber. Preacher decides to wait with me to make sure I get picked up. “Can I ask—where the hell did you get all this money?”

  “My father,” he says. “Only nice thing he ever did for me besides dying.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not sure what anyone could say to that. My driver pulls up on the corner of the street a few feet away. We walk over together. “Goodnight.”

  We hug. When he wraps his arms around me, I feel small in the best way possible. I forgot what it felt like inside of his embrace. I forgot his smell, his touch, the comfort he can bring and the excitement he can inspire. I feel all of those things at once as I lean into the hardness of his chest. “We’ll talk soon,” I say as I disengage.

  “Sooner than you think.”

  I get in the car and grab one more look at him as we pull away.

  Welcome back. I’ve missed you so.

  do you workTwenty-Three—Lyric

  The Past

  “You are. . .the reason my heart does wind sprints every time I come to school.”

  Okay, so I’m not the jealous type—I just need to put that out there.

  I know that sounds like something only a really jealous person would say, like saying ‘no offense’ right before you say something offensive, but Lucien’s not even mine, so I really shouldn’t be mad at Cynthia Cabillo for eye-screwing him as he walked into the lunchroom today. And it would be super petty to hate on Jennifer—goddamn Jennifer—just ‘cause she flirted with him so hard that even our science teacher got uncomfortable with her hair twirling and giggling.

  I definitely didn’t want to claw their eyes out or punch their thirsty little faces.

  That would be petty of me, and I’m above stuff like that.

  Except that I’m really not—not when it comes to him. I’m learning new things about myself when he’s around—and apparently I’m not a fan of other girls who bat their eyes at him.

  I saw him first. And more importantly, he saw me first. He looked right at me—right into me—that day of the fight. There was something unmistakable in his gaze, and I’m not being paranoid or crazy. Behind the devilish tint of a dirty and bloodied glare was something that just told me he’s into me. And trust me, the feeling is more than mutual.

  So when we ended up in English class together and got partnered up for a getting-to-know-each-other first week activity, I was hyped to see the looks on all the other girl’s faces. Their turn to be jealous, only they have good reason to be.

  Ms. Ritz is new—which means that she’s going to go harder than teachers need to go, especially with those of us—which is to say all of us—who basically have senioritis on September 1st.

  We should be past getting-to-know-you activities—most of us already know and dislike each other going on twelve years. So when she announces to the room full of hungover and disgruntled ki
ds that we’re going to be doing some ice breakers, the audible sigh from the room makes me smile. Ms. Ritz seems unbothered by it—she has this saccharine smile that seems surgically implanted.

  She starts yelling names, one at a time, and each of us writhes in our seats like they’re calling us to be executed.

  But all is forgiven when I hear the sweetest words a teacher has ever said in my presence.

  “Lyric and Lucien, pair up.”

  Yes! I’m sorry I ever doubted you, Ms. Ritz, you’re my new bestie and definitely my favorite teacher.

  Lucien saunters over to me, his height causing every girl in the room to look at him a little longer than they’d normally look at a boy. For most of these chicks, he’s like a new species of guy, and they look at him like that first Neanderthal must have looked at his first Homosapien—you kind of look like me, only a little. . . different.

  The room is loud with the sound of desk feet scraping against the floor as we all turn to pair off. Lucien sits down across from me, his intense face never revealing what he’s thinking or feeling. At least I know what I’m feeling and thinking.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” I joke.

  Ms. Ritz yells out her instructions. “Okay class, so we’re going to be doing a lot of work on characterization in literature this year. To start, we’re not going to do the typical getting-to-know-you activity.” Thank God. “Instead, we’re going to do something a little different—it’s called an impression exercise. I want you to look at your partner—I know some of you know one another already, but if that’s the case just pretend like you don’t. Now, imagine you had to describe everything that person makes you feel, and what you feel about them, just based on how they look or what kind of energy they give you. I want you to write down a series of phrase, all beginning with ‘You are. . .’ Your partner won’t see what you write—it’s just for you to get your mental juices flowing. I’ll give you five minutes—don’t think about it too hard, just react.”

  Just react. Got it. That’s easy to do around him.

  I take out my notebook and a pen. Lucien literally has nothing in front of him. “Where’s your notebook?”

  “What’s a notebook?”

  Oh God. I rip a page out and pass it across our now connected desks. “Here.” I also grab an extra pen from my case and hand it to him.”

  “Thanks. I forgot you need this stuff for school. They didn’t let us have pens too often last year—they were worried we’d make shivs out of them. One time. . .”

  “Mr. Carter,” Ms Ritz interrupts. “This is more of a quiet assignment. You all can talk later.”

  Lucien shuts up and starts writing. I try to look over and see what he thinks of me, but I can’t see the words.

  Ms. Ritz does that new teacher thing and walks around the room way too much, stopping at each pair of students to hover annoyingly over our shoulders and watch what we’re doing. She stops at Lucien and looks at whatever it is he’s writing. “Huh. Interesting.”

  Interesting? What’s interesting? What is he writing about me? I’m dying to know.

  But he won’t show me anything. He’s literally covering his paper with his arm and when I try to look over he gives me that cocky grin. “Do your work,” he says. “Tell Ms. Ritz what you think about me.”

  Alright Lucien, game on.

  Twenty-Four—Preacher

  The Present

  “Hold on, what the fuck is happening?”

  “A better question is how the hell are there thousands of movies and TV shows on Netflix and still nothing to watch? Streaming is the new cable.”

  “What?” Pope wants to talk about the bomb I dropped on him the other day like I was the fuckin Enola Gay. “Forget your goddamn streaming services, we need to have a brotherly talk about what you told me.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say dismissively. “One question, though? Did we have a brotherly conversation when you banged the last three skanks who no doubt became notches in that little book you keep next to your bed? ‘Cause maybe I just wasn’t paying attention.”

  He sits down on the couch next to me. “Hold on,” he says. I’m waiting for him to go on about Lyric but that’s not what happens. “How do you know about my book?”

  I laugh. “Older brother telepathy. That and you told me about it one night at the bar after work. You don’t remember? You must have been hammered.”

  “If we were at the bar I was definitely hammered. Why go to a bar if not to get hammered?” He takes out his phone and orders a pizza. When he’s done, he jumps right back into the conversation he wants to have. “Okay, dinner’s on the way, now get to talking about Lyric.”

  “I think I told you everything already.” I haven’t looked away from the TV screen yet. “Oh, when did this show get a third season? I’ve been waiting for months. Did you know about this?”

  “Asshole, focus. Lyric? A job? Start explaining.”

  That gets my attention off the screen. “Let’s be clear, I don’t have to explain anything to you. I’m just trying to be courteous by letting you know what I have in the works.”

  “And what if I disagree?” This is when he tries to assert himself. It’s a cute thing he does—like a puppy barking at that dangerous, much larger dog from the safety of inside the house.

  “Fuck all if you disagree. This is happening.”

  “Well, as long as we can talk about it like adults.”

  “This has nothing to do with being adults, Pope. You know the job I’m offering her makes sense. Don’t over complicate things.” Pope is a brilliant kid—charismatic, top of his class, and if he had anyone but me as his older brother he’d be the greatest CEO ever. Unfortunately for him, I exist, and that means I make all final calls.

  “Fine. Just want it on the record that I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Noted and forgotten. Now what toppings did you get?”

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  Guilty as charged. “Oh shit.” The name on my phone is just what I’ve been waiting for.

  “What?”

  “I’ve gotta run downstairs for a second. Hold on.”

  “Dude, you dealing drugs? What’s going on?”

  “Shut up and find a decent show on this thing.” I run downstairs. Saturday night is my first. . . wait for it. . . date with Lyric. I can’t fucking believe I’m going on a date, and this kind of date of all things. But if that’s what it takes to get those panties on the floor then fuck it, I’ll do what I’ve got to do.

  I step out onto the street and see my guy. “Yo, you got what I need?”

  John’s an employee. I know he’s into shit like this and he has a hookup, so I slipped him more money than anyone not dealing in meth should ever slip another guy. “I’m a man of my word. You’re lucky I know a guy.”

  We make the switch. He hands me the envelope. I feel accomplished.

  “Thanks, man, I owe you one.”

  “Remember that when it’s time for bonuses.”

  “I don’t owe you that much, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  I take the envelope back upstairs. I’m starving. I couldn’t eat all day thinking about fucking Lyric, but now that I know I’ll get the chance on Saturday my appetite is raging back. That pizza can’t come fast enough. I hope Pope ordered something for himself.

  “You get your crack?”

  “Even better. I got the key to Lyric’s sweet little pussy.”

  Pope looks at me sideways. “In that envelope? I didn’t know they were selling pussy keys right on the street. I swear to God you can get anything in this city.”

  I laugh out loud at that one. Sometimes my brother is a funny motherfucker.

  “Pizza coming soon?”

  “They said 30-40 minutes. But all pizza places say that shit, even if it takes an hour.”

  “I’m fucking starving. Let’s talk shop in the meantime.”

  “Now? Don’t we do that enough?”

  “Shut up and brief me,” I joke. “Wh
at’s going on with my project?”

  “Our project.”

  “Right, that’s what I said.” Pope likes to think he’s more involved in this than he is. “Our project. Any news since the last meeting of the suits?” He hesitates. It’s not like Pope to hesitate. Usually I need to tell him to shut his fucking mouth he talks so much, but I can tell he’s holding out on me. “Shit head. What is it?”

  “I was going to wait until after we had a few to tell you.”

  I don’t like the sound of that at all. Not one bit. “What is it? I hate surprises. Spill it.”

  He takes a deep breath and reaches into his pocket. “Here’s the punchline. We might be the joke.” He tosses me a business card. I don’t believe what I’m reading. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “I wish.”

  I look at the name on the business card—the last name, in particular. “Well, well, looks like the whole fucking graduating class moved to the city, huh?”

  “I was just thinking the same thing. What are we going to do?”

  That’s an easy one Pope. “Crush him, just like we did the first time.”

  Twenty-Five—Lyric

  The Present

  I screamed when he texted last night. A literal scream. I probably woke the neighbors and scared them half to death.

  But it was a good scream, and I really had no choice.

  He actually got tickets!

  I’ve wanted to see Hamilton since forever. I remember talking my college roommate’s ear off about it to the point she hated not only that show but all Broadway shows.

  Part of the allure of Manhattan for me—besides being hours away from Arkham—was the theatre district. I’d always wanted to see a real show, and Hamilton was the biggest show in my lifetime. Problem was the tickets cost more than I had to spend on food for a month, so seeing it never happened when I was in school.

  Somehow, someway Preacher got tickets—and good ones—for tonight. I’m standing in line, looking around at other people and thinking I dressed a little too fancy for the occasion. I don’t care though, I’m not only going to see the best show on Broadway, I’m going to see my dream show.