Preacher: The East End Boys

by Christopher Harlan

  What I never imagined when I was still fan-girling about this moment back at Columbia was that I’d be here with Lucien.

  In fact, I never thought I’d ever see him again. He was a story I’d keep deep inside of me—of my first love, of the boy that opened my world up to new possibilities and then broke my heart. He’d be my sad romance—the story I’d use to relate to my future daughter when she got her heart shattered for the first time.

  He’s become real again. He’s flesh and blood, and I don’t know why he makes me feel the way he does. I don’t know myself around him. It’s a mess of my own creation, but it’s one I can’t seem to clean up. He shows up ten years older than the last time I saw him, and all my years of cursing him and swearing that if I saw him again I’d tell him off are gone when he looks at me.

  And I let him kiss me.

  Not just kiss me.

  How far would I have let him go if Sophie hasn’t walked into the office?

  I would have given him everything I swore wasn’t his, and I would have done it as many times as he wanted.

  His car pulls up. He’s got a driver this time, and he’s in a car so fancy that everyone on line looks over and gets their phone out like someone famous is about to step out of the car.

  Lucien steps out with the same swag as if he was a movie star or rock star. You can almost see the paparazzi flashes on his face as he saunters over to me with an I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. He’s dressed in a tight-fitting button down tucked into dress pants and shoes so polished I can see myself in them.

  He looks like sex. I’m going to see Hamilton with the living embodiment of sex.

  “You look amazing.” He looks me up and down in a subtle way that’s meant for me to notice but not be creeped out by.

  “You’re not looking bad yourself. I can’t believe you got tickets to this on such short notice. That’s unheard of.”

  “I know a guy,” he jokes. “And I can’t believe I’m going to go see some assholes sing and dance.”

  “Those assholes are highly trained actors, actresses, and dancers in what’s supposed to be one of the greatest shows ever.”

  “Fine,” he says, grinning and looking at me with devious intentions. “But when I get bored I expect you to reach over and keep me entertained.”

  “Can you stop thinking about sex for five minutes?” I question.

  He leans over and puts his mouth by my ear. “Lyric, it’s a feat of mental strength that I don’t have an erection big enough to stab the guy in front of us in the back. When I’m around you, it comes with the territory.”

  Fuck. I’m turned on and kind of laughing inside at the imagery. And now I’m thinking about sex. I think about it every time I see him, but especially after the other day. I feel his fingers in me, I feel his warm breath against my neck, I feel my body ready to accept him.

  “The line’s starting to move.” It’s a distraction to get my mind back to singing and dancing and not imagining how big Lucien is. They need to get this show going already.

  ***

  “Oh my God that was amazing!” I’m beaming. I know I am. I feel like a little kid on Christmas morning because that was seriously the best thing ever. I’m so happy.

  “Sorry, what was that? I’m still waking up.”

  I give him the look. “Don’t even. That was incredible.”

  “If you say so,” he tells me. “And for the record, I like to be woken up with blowjobs, so next time I fall asleep around you remember that.”

  “You’re disgusting,” I tell him.

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Waking up to dick in mouth is better than anything Starbucks has on the menu, trust me.”

  “Do you wake up with your dick in a lot of mouths?”

  “Not recently,” he says like we’re having a totally normal conversation.

  “Good.”

  I don’t know why I said good. I like the idea of him not being with anyone, even though he’s not with me. That sounds stupid, I know. Obviously, he’s been with a lot of women. He’s gorgeous, well off, and has a presence that can command a room. He’s a human panty dropper.

  And most importantly, we’re not together. I don’t know what the hell we are.

  “How about a drink?” he asks. “It’ll wake me up if I’m not getting that blowjob.”

  I know what drinks meant—they meant the possibility of inhibitions being lowered—of ending up like we were in my office.

  I should say no, but I’m not ready for the night to end yet. Not even close.

  “Sure,” I tell him. “O’Malleys?” I laugh and get a small smile out of him.

  “No,” he says immediately. “Not the place that idiot used to take you. A nice place. Somewhere the drinks are overpriced.”

  “That’s pretty much all of the city.”

  “I know a place. Come on, my driver’s around the block.”

  Even though I’d been in New York for the last few years, Lucien knew the city better than I did. He grew up here. Went to school here. I only went to college here, which isn’t really the same thing. Manhattan is like Arkham in that way—there are the haves and the have nots, just like anywhere, but in Manhattan there are places you hear of and pass by but never go because you’re too busy or can’t afford it. I fit in to both of those categories.

  “Alright,” I say, trying to sound like there’s even a choice in my mind. “One drink. Do with me what you will.”

  He stops, looks at me like he’s the devil himself, and grins. “Those are dangerous words to say to me.”

  I know, Lucien.

  Everything about you is dangerous.

  Twenty-Six—Preacher

  The Present

  “So your place after this, right?”

  She looks too good to not try. I always thought dating and fucking were like peanut butter and chocolate. “Lucien, come on, focus.”

  “I am focused. I’m very very focused on just how fast I can get those panties off and pick up where we left off last time.”

  She grins against her own will. I love the internal struggle being around me causes her—like the angel and the devil are on each shoulder and I’m feeding the devil caffeine pills every time I speak. “Last time was a mistake.” I don’t think she believes that at all. “And I’m not wearing any underwear anyhow.”

  My dick twitches like it’s getting electroshock therapy. If there weren’t so many people in this bar I’d bend her over this table. “Good to know. And there are no mistakes,” I tell her. “Not when it comes to us.”

  She cackles, hyena style—so loud it practically cuts through the noise of the crowd and the music playing. “Are you serious?” she asks. “Lucien, our entire relationship or whatever you want to call it back in high school, that was all a mistake. And as far as what happened in my office, that was definitely a mistake. I won’t let it happen again.”

  She’s trying too hard. But she plays with minds for a living, if I give her enough time she might actually convince herself that she means what she’s saying. Time to give the devil some steroids to tip the fight in my favor.

  She orders a drink. A real drink, not one of those fruity girl drinks. I’m impressed. “Scotch, huh? Guess you didn’t like that play as much as you said.”

  “It’s not the play that’s making me drink.”

  I take a sip of my whiskey. It burns going down like a drink should. “I don’t make you do anything, Lyric. Not drink, or fight, or fuck. I never have.”

  “Is that right?” She takes another sip and starts rubbing her necklace again—rubbing my necklace.

  “That’s exactly right. You’re lying to yourself if you believe otherwise.”

  “Fine, Dr. Carter,” she jokes. Another sip. “I didn’t realize you also had a degree in. . . what do you keep annoyingly calling my profession?”

  “Head shrinking.”

  “Right, that. So since we’re in session, and you’re oh so good at knowing my inner thoughts and desir
es, why don’t you tell me all about myself.”

  Bad move, doctor. But ask and ye shall receive.

  My turn to sip. “You really don’t want me to do that. It’s the scotch talking.”

  “No, Lucien, I really do.”

  Alright. Careful what you wish for, beautiful.

  “You want to convince yourself that I’m making you do all of these things, but really they’re just your deepest desires. I’m your deepest desire, but you like to live on the surface.”

  “The surface?” she asks. Another sip. Her scotch is almost gone now.

  “Yeah. The part of you that’s made for appearances—for the outside world. The letters in front of your name, your overpriced fancy office, pretending you didn’t choose to be here with me. Surface. But dig just a little bit, and the real you is under there. I don’t control you, Lyric, I just cut through all the bullshit and speak to the real you.”

  Even getting tipsy—maybe a little south of tipsy—she knows I’m telling the truth. It’s in her rapidly glazing eyes, and in the fact that she doesn’t have one of her trademark witty comebacks.

  “Interesting analysis, doctor. Can’t say that I agree, but thanks for your input.”

  She takes her last sip until her glass is so empty it looks like it just came from the factory. “Easy, there,” I tell her. “You were always a lightweight. Most girls are but you’re the worst I’ve ever seen.”

  “Then why take me to a bar? Trying to lower my inhibitions even more? Get me drunk so I’ll let you fuck me?”

  She goes to put her hand up to order another drink. I grab it gently and place it back on the table. “Let’s be clear on one thing, Lyric—I don’t need alcohol for you to let me fuck you.”

  She looks at me and I think for a split second she’s going to tell me to let her go, or that I’m wrong about everything I’m saying, but she doesn’t. She hesitates, her hand still in mine, until she pulls it away and stares right into my eyes.

  “Why did you leave?”

  There it is. The million dollar question she’s been afraid to ask me.

  “Your office? I had to, remember, Sophie came in.”

  “Lucien,” she says quietly, almost as if saying my name any louder would break her. She knows she’s asking a lot of me with that question but she’s still afraid to hear the answer no matter how badly she wants to know. The pleading in her eyes is almost enough to make me tell her the truth, but I can’t yet.

  “I had to,” I tell her. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

  “You had to? Why? You didn’t say a word to me. We were together. You were practically my whole world. We were in. . .”

  She stops herself. She’s getting upset and that’s the last thing I want. “Look, a crowded bar isn’t the place and this sure as fuck isn’t the time, but right now you just have to accept that I needed to leave. That’s all I can give you.”

  “Of course it is.” She excuses herself and goes to the bathroom. That conversation took a turn somewhere. I thought by now I’d be naked in her bed and instead she’s half drunk and drilling me about the past.

  While she’s in the bathroom, I get a text from Pope.

  Pope: Bad news. We need to talk.

  I put my phone away as she comes back out. I’ll deal with that bullshit later.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to spoil the night. I’m feeling my drink and it made me a little more honest than I should have been. I asked you to take me out after all.”

  “Demanded, actually,” I remind her, smiling.

  “I’m sorry. Would you like to stop? We can call it after this one if you really want to.”

  Nice play. You missed your calling at the negotiating table. “Contracts don’t change,” I tell her. “I made a deal and I’m going to honor it.”

  “A deal, huh? That all I am to you?”

  She sets traps nicely. I jump right over them. “Never,” I answer. “Two more dates aren’t that bad—plus I figure I have a far better chance of getting a blow job from you after a date than at my office once you’re an employee. Don’t get me wrong, it’ll happen there too but there are just more logistics to work out. Not a problem, though.”

  “You’re so gross.”

  “Don’t let the suit fool you. I’m the same savage I’ve always been. I just own ties now. And I will have you.”

  She wants to fight, but her guard is lowered. She blames the alcohol, but I say it’s just the real her starting to come out and play. “Confident much?”

  I grin. “Always.”

  My driver takes us back to her place. I have the privacy glass up between the front and back seats, as per usual. The entire ride here I’ve been doing another kind of analysis—a little game called “how drunk is she?” So far, too drunk to come up.

  That doesn’t stop her from inviting me under some false pretense she invents to make herself feel better about wanting me in her bed.

  “Want to have a nightcap?” she asks.

  “Do I want you to climb on my cock and ride me while I buck like a bull underneath? Of course.”

  “Okay that’s actually not what I said.”

  “Yes it is. But not tonight. Not with you like this.”

  “Like what?”

  I turn to her. “When you finally decide to reach the summit of my cock, I want it to be with no excuses — of your own free will with nothing to blame but your own desire. And right now, you can’t do that. Maybe next time.”

  She looks disappointed—hurt almost. Her insecure little mind is probably wondering what she did wrong, or if she’s not good enough. I don’t want to leave her with that impression. As she goes to get out of the car, I grab her by the shoulders and spin her back into me. “Lucien, what. . .”

  No more words. My lips crash against hers. I use my tongue to pry her warm lips open, and she lets me inside her mouth with no resistance whatsoever. I bite on her bottom lip and she moans. My dick is so stiff it’s practically piercing my pants, and I know that she’s about to soak the seat. She wants all of me right now. She wants me in her apartment, in her bed, in her.

  But she can’t have it tonight.

  Tonight was the appetizer.

  The main course is yet to come.

  Finally, I pull away. Her cheeks look like they’re filled with a thousand rubies, her lips wet with a mix of our saliva. She’s looking at my mouth, begging for more with her eyes.

  “Goodnight, Lyric.”

  I turn her away. She wants to beg me, to invite me up again, this time with no night cap bullshit, but the angel on her shoulder won’t let her just yet. It’s okay. I’m going to poison that little shit real soon.

  “Goodnight.”

  She gets out and I stare at her ass as she walks away. I make sure she gets inside before knocking on the glass. My driver knows that means its time to go.

  Now there’s only one thing left to do.

  Plan anything that’ll get me closer to being in her bed.

  Twenty-Seven—Lyric

  The Past

  “You are. . .the feeling that only a great hug can give.”

  Who the hell gets detention during the first week of school? I didn’t even know that was possible. Apparently, it is.

  I guess I’m lucky, though, slapping a kid right in his stupid face should probably get me more than an hour of sitting and staring as a punishment, so I’ll shut my mouth and do my time without complaining.

  But still, I don’t belong here with. . . these kids. It’s way too Breakfast Club for me. I’m Claire—but nicer, end-of-the-movie Claire. Some of the kids in here are just bad, even by my standards.

  I sit down and take out my planner. I might as well do something productive with my time. I text Jess on the down low because we’re not supposed to be on our phones but we were going to walk home together.

  Me: In the poke with the Science Bitch. You’re on your own.

  Jessalyn: Figured. That jerk deserved what he got.

  “No texti
ng,” I hear in a screechy, annoyed voice. I low key roll my eyes before looking up at Ms. Janice—the aforementioned Science Bitch. Everyone hates her because, among other annoying teacher behaviors, she corrects you when you call her miss. “It’s MIZZ Janice” she’ll tell you. I have no idea what the difference even is or why anyone cares, but she sure does.

  “Sorry,” I tell her. “Just telling my mom that I’ll be late.”

  Five minutes pass. The other two boys in the back have their heads down despite Ms. Janice telling them to sit up straight about twenty times. I’m trying to go through all the materials my teachers gave out today when I see a figure at the door.

  It’s him.

  “Excuse me,” Ms. Janice screeches. “Who are you and why are you late?”

  If ‘fuck you’ was a person, Preacher would have been his twin. The expression he wore on his face was a quiet warning—a rattle at his back that always had a muffled shake to it, warning everyone that if the sound got any louder there was going to be trouble.

  “Those are two separate questions,” he says dismissively. “Which would you like me to answer first?”

  “Sit down immediately!” Ms. Janice yells. Apparently, she’s not in the mood for sarcasm.

  His face scans the room, ignoring Ms. Janice completely and stopping right on me. His eyes were penetrating—a heat seeking missile that shot right inside of me. He walks over to me and my heart flutters. “Hey there.”

  “Hi.” I didn’t know what to say. I might as well have told him that I carried a watermelon.

  “Fancy meeting you here. Did you forget your summer assignment or something?”

  I smile. “No, jerk. I. . . I slapped this kid.”

  His eyes go wide. “Yeah. Like a real slap or one of those girly ones?”

  “Let’s just say that he has a Lyric handprint tattoo on his face like Mike Tyson.”

  “That’s my girl. Fuck that kid.” I know he doesn’t mean ‘my girl’ like I want him to mean it, but hearing those words makes my body feel things I didn’t realize it could feel.