Preacher: The East End Boys

by Christopher Harlan

  Fucker.

  If not for the fact that I’d go to jail and lose everything I’ve worked for, I’d put a UFC style beating on this asshole right here and now. But I can’t afford to—not literally, and not figuratively.

  “Good luck with that,” is all I give him, and follow my brother outside. Maybe I’ve gotten a little more mature since that time, since I’m not solving every problem with my fists now—just some of them.

  Pope’s waiting for me just outside the courtroom. “One way or the other,” is all I hear as I walk out of the courtroom.

  “The fuck was that?” Pope asks. “You believe Captain Dickhead is here in court with us?”

  “Believe it?” I ask. “I expected it after you handed me the card the other night. Great work in there today, man, really great stuff.”

  “Eh,” he jokes. “All in a day’s work. That’s what we do, remember?”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “We fucking win, Lucien. You taught me that.”

  “That’s right.” I look back at the courtroom doors as Draven walks out and joins the rest of his slimy friends. “And something tells me we’re going to have to win a lot more before this is over.”

  “Well, then there’s only one thing I have to say to that. Bring it on. Bring it right the fuck on.”

  Thirty-Five—Lyric

  The Present

  Dr. Cordelia Summers is a difficult woman to get a session with.

  When I told Lucien that there were other great psychologists in Manhattan, what I really meant to say is that there are other psychologists just like the great Dr. Summers. She’s renowned in my field—one of the best in the country—and she doesn’t really take new patients on at this point in her career.

  Luckily for me I still have a close relationship with my dissertation advisor, and he was able to get me a session with her because he and Cordelia go all the way back to college. I’m at her place now, standing in front of a gorgeous brownstone that doubles as her home and her office. This is what I pictured when I dreamed of being a therapist one day.

  She greets me out front. She’s young for having such a reputation. And beautiful—not that it matters, but still, she’s gorgeous.

  “Lyric?” she asks, meeting me half way up her steps.

  “Yes, hi, nice to meet you.” We shake hands. “And thank you so much for seeing me.”

  “Anytime. When Gus called me, I told him yes right away. Great guy.”

  “The best. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “That’s because you’re grinding like I did when I first started my practice. I respect that.”

  “Thank you.”

  The rational part of me knew that I had to go back to therapy when Lucien just showed up in my office. I’d been in therapy once before, for two years when I moved to the city. I was dealing with some pretty heavy depression and anxiety about what happened with us in high school, and for a while I dealt with it in all the wrong ways—too much drinking, too many random hook ups, too much time lying in bed listening to depressing British music—all the cliché things that I knew were unhealthy.

  So, I saw someone and slowly worked my way back to being myself. For years, I’ve felt like I was back to stable, back to normal, and all it took was his name in my appointment book to make me feel like I was nineteen and fucked up again.

  So here I am.

  I feel good about her already. We go inside and she leads me into the room that couples as her office. Once I’m inside, I go into therapy mode, and I realize that I’m going to have to talk about everything—about Lucien and all the issues surrounding him.

  I take a deep breath and wait for her to ask that question that I’ve asked so many times myself. “So what are we here to discuss?”

  Boom. There it is.

  I spend about five minutes giving her the background on Lucien and I — broad strokes and only what she needs to know for therapeutic purposes. She listens carefully, saving her questions for when I’m done, and I’m sure she has many.

  “It’s weird.” After I gave her the background I blurt out the thought that I keep having over and over again.

  “What is?” she asks.

  “Not to get too personal—I know the rules, trust me, but do you have kids? I’m asking for a reason.”

  “We don’t, no. Not yet.”

  “Nieces? Nephews? Any kids in the family?”

  “A few.”

  “You know how when you don’t see little kids for a while—maybe a few months, maybe a year—and then next time they’re in front of you it seems like they’ve completely changed. They seem five years older, a foot taller, more mature. Do you know what I mean?”

  “It’s funny you say that—I just had that experience with my sister’s little one last Christmas. She seemed like she’d grown up overnight.”

  “Exactly. Now imagine it’s not a kid, but a man, and imagine ten years passed in between point A and point B. That’s what it’s like with Preacher.”

  “Who?”

  Shit. I forgot she doesn’t know him by that name. “Sorry, I meant to say Lucien. The last time I saw him we were both 18. In a lot of ways, he was the same—personality wise he’s exactly the same. But to see him as a poor kid and then see him again as someone who not only has a lot of money, but throws it around a lot—I’m still just not used to it.”

  Cordelia does what I do. Writes things down. Listens. Evaluates. It’s strange to be on this side of the couch for once. I’m feeling what my patients must feel—a little unease, a little discomfort at spilling my guts to a relative stranger, and worried that I’m secretly being judged. I know what I sound like—an insecure, co-dependent woman who deep down knows the solutions to her own problems, but I can’t seem to pull the trigger and just walk away from Lucien.

  He has a power over me that I can’t break. He always has.

  “I don’t think that’s the issue,” she says. Her statement cuts through me. It’s curt and accurate. I know I’m dancing around a little bit, but I can see she’s a no-nonsense type of therapist.

  “What do you think the issue is?”

  “Based on what you’re saying? The secrecy. It sounds like there’s a lot of unanswered questions that are giving you some turmoil.”

  Congrats, Dr. Summers, you just sunk my battleship.

  “Yeah,” is all I can say. “Exactly.”

  “Then you have a choice here, Lyric. Life is about choices and nothing else. You’re a smart woman and from what Gus said of you, you have a savvy mind for analysis. You know what the issues are, you just needed me to confirm them.” She’s scary good at this. “But what I mean by making a choice is this—you can either accept things as they are and hope that he tells you his life story at his convenience, or you can make that a non-negotiable in whatever relationship you two have.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he tells you the things that you have a right to know or it’s over. Done. You walk away from everything.”

  We finish our session and, as she walks me out, I feel great and horrible at the same time. It felt good to get some of that off of my chest and to just speak my truth to another person. What feels horrible is what she said to me, and knowing how true it is.

  She gives me a hug goodbye. “Remember what I said about choices, and then it’s up to you.”

  As I get into my Uber, it’s all that I can think of.

  Choices, and the ones I have to make.

  I hear Cordelia’s voice— ‘. . .you’re a smart woman. . .’

  Sometimes, Dr. Summers. Anytime I’m not around him, that is.

  Thirty-Six—Lyric

  The Present

  I had an afternoon session with the masturbator.

  When he came in, all I saw in my head was that little dick graphic Sophie scribbled next to his real name, which is Michael.

  When Michael came to see me, he looked like he was in bad shape—5 o’clock shadow for days, bloated face, bags under
his eyes. If Sara with no H looked like she could be in high school, this guy looked like the ‘after’ shots of presidents. They say that presidents age about twenty years during their time in office because of all the stress. Michael was a thirty-five-year-old man who looked every day of fifty.

  He’s a pornography addict. Sprinkle in a little alcoholism and you have a pretty sad guy who can’t seem to break a pattern of behavior that’s causing turmoil in his life. I wanted to offer him a razor and my shower, but then I remembered what Sophie said about letting him in the bathroom.

  “Doc, you gotta help me. My wife left me this morning. I never thought she actually would do it.”

  They never think the wife will actually leave. The gamblers, the alcoholics—all the addicts. Sometimes they don’t. But when they do, I’m secretly happy because actions always speak louder than words. Now maybe he’ll listen to me.

  “You need to break this pattern, Michael. She left because you said you would change but you haven’t. You have kids—she doesn’t want them around that.”

  “Do you think I do?”

  “Of course not, but I also think that you’ve convinced yourself that you have no control over your own life. Pornography isn’t happening to you, it’s something you engage in. But it’s destroying your mind and the life you worked so hard to build.”

  We finished our session as per usual—which means I did most of the talking, he did most of the nodding, and I scheduled him for another session the following week.

  They say teachers learn from their students—the good ones anyhow. Psychologists certainly learn from their patients—the bad ones anyhow. We learn what not to do, how not to behave, and sometimes, like today, how to analyze our own behavior.

  I’m home now, thinking about that very thing. Everything Cordelia said to me is echoing in my ear. I barely have time to process it fully before I get another text.

  Lucien: Get ready for me. On my way. Got some good news today.

  Me: K

  ‘K’ was my desperate passive aggressive text — it wasn’t even the dreaded one-word text, it was the one letter text. I don’t know if he could tell or not but he didn’t write back after I K’d him. I’m not in the mood for a Netflix and chill situation—and Lucien isn’t even that type of guy. He’s more of a party and fuck man, but none of those activities interest me at the moment.

  We need to talk, plain and simple.

  For a guy like Lucien—a man of few words who wants to tell people what to do—the phrase ‘we need to talk’ isn’t something he’s going to want to hear. But it needs to happen regardless.

  I hear a knock on the door and let him in. I feel a little embarrassed that my entire place is about the size of his bedroom, but he’s never been a judgmental guy—we lived in the East End, after all.

  “So what’s with the ‘k’ shit?” he asks. “You trying to blow me off?”

  And passive-aggressive behavior wins again! “No, I was just texting my sister.” A partial lie—Jess is actually coming to visit in a couple of days for our birthday, but our texts about it ended hours ago.

  “How is the twin?”

  “Still a genius. Still into genius stuff. Still a little weird. . .”

  “And still a nine?”

  “You know it really turns me on when you talk about how hot my sister is.”

  “Hey, it’s the truth,” he says. “And I gave her a nine because you’re my only ten.”

  “Beautiful save, Mr. Carter.” He smiles. He’s so intense all the time that his smile changes his whole face. It’s there and gone, reminding me that I need to talk to him. “Look, we need to talk.”

  “Uh-oh. That sounds terrible.”

  “It doesn’t have to be, but some things have been bothering me that I need to discuss.”

  “Alright.” He came in with a bottle of champagne, which he puts down on my coffee table when I tell him we need to talk. “What’s on your mind?”

  “A lot. All sorts of things. About us. About you.”

  “What about me?”

  I turn to him. I don’t want to be unfair and ambush him with all the mental shit I’ve been building up on him the second he walks in the door, but I need to get it out. “Look, Lucien. I don’t know what this is between us—but it’s something. I don’t have a name for it or a title.”

  “We don’t need names or titles.”

  “I agree,” I tell him. “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t need. . . something from you.” He looks confused. I’m being super vague. “I mean, as great as everything’s been since you came back, there are a lot of things that I think about 24/7–things that you keep secret that matter to me. I’ve tried to ask you but you just avoid the questions or refuse to answer them. But I can’t keep going like this until you tell me. . . something.”

  He considers what I’m saying. I study his face, trying to tell what he might be feeling. It’s nearly impossible to do with Lucien—he plays his emotions so close to the vest that sometimes it’s hard to tell if he even has them. I’m looking for micro expressions of anger, or frustration, or anything, but all I get is that still, intense glare.

  “I’m putting up a building for at-risk youth. It’s a project of mine. Kids who were like me—lost, in trouble, even criminal in their behavior. I want to build a private institution—the first of its kind—to offer support for these kids and give judges an alternative to sending troubled kids to a place like Harmony Hills Detention Center. I want you on staff there to work with the kids, to help get them rehabilitated.”

  I wasn’t expecting that. Not even a little bit.

  “Lucien. . .”

  “I was afraid you’d refuse, but this is a project that’s special to me. I’ve been in the system before and the only reason I came out in one piece is because of who I am—but there are kids who get eaten up by it—have their whole future taken because of what they become in those prisons. I need your help.”

  I feel such a wave of happiness that he told me the truth—plain, simple, and honest—when I asked for it. “I’d be honored. I think that’s amazing. I didn’t know you’d ever do something like that.”

  “I’m full of surprises.”

  Yes, you are. And there are more things that I need to know—topics we both know create an invisible space between us—but for right now, for tonight, this is enough.

  Thirty-Seven—Preacher

  The Present

  I leave Lyric a note before I leave.

  She’s still asleep, naked and hot as fuck, and I don’t want to wake her.

  It’s not a love letter—I don’t do that—I put my own special spin on it:

  Last night was incredible. That thing you did with your legs? Holy shit. And btw my dick is actually writing this note because it stays so hard around you that I taught it how to hold a pen so it could properly thank you. Off to the grind. Talk later.

  —Preach

  Despite my nickname, I have no religion. Not my thing. If there’s an earthly equivalent, let’s just say I worship at the alter of physical self improvement. It’s how I keep my body and my mind where I need them to be for my job. When my brother and I took over the company, we promised to start the day off with a workout whenever it was possible.

  I meet Pope for a run—a long one. For once, I’m the one who looks like he’s spent the night banging the hottest girl in New York. Maybe that’s because I did.

  “Are you just on time?” He knows my thing about being early. I give him shit all the time about it.

  “Everyone gets one pass. I was at Lyric’s place and its hell and gone from here. Don’t act like you really care. I’m sure you filled these five minutes swiping left or right or texting all your fuck buddies back so their little blonde feelings don’t get hurt.”

  “Hater,” he jokes. “Such a hater.”

  “Let’s go. We’re losing time.”

  The first mile is in almost complete silence. Once our bodies adjust and we get into a rhythm, Pope finall
y says what I’ve been waiting for him to say.

  “What’s with this girl?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You were together for a few months ten years ago when you were both in high school. Fuck, Preach, it’s not like she’s the goddamn love of your life. What’s the matter with you? You don’t act like this when it comes to women. Never. What’s so special about this one?”

  Pope’s never had a real girlfriend.

  There was that trashy girl back in ninth who was so obsessed with my brother that she wouldn’t leave him alone even after he told her in no uncertain terms—and I was there to hear him say it—that a drunk make out session at a party isn’t exactly a declaration of eternal love.

  But stalkers aren’t girlfriends.

  Don’t get me wrong, Pope’s had his share of women—actually, he’s had a lot of men’s share of women—but never one that he was in a proper relationship with. No anniversary celebrations, no presents on Valentines Day, no snuggling up on a couch watching a movie—he’s just never found one that grabbed him and held on.

  Not that he’s boyfriend material anyway. But who the fuck am I to talk? I’m about as emotionally available as Ted Bundy.

  But that last part he asked about—that caught my interest. “You wouldn’t understand if I spelled it out for you.”

  “Then spell it out for me anyhow. I want to know what this girl has besides an obviously magical vagina.”

  “It is magical,” I confirm. “Legs too. Tits, one hundred percent.”

  “Preach!” he yells. “Focus. Tell me. Make me understand.”

  “She isn’t scared of me like everyone else is—not now, and not then. I frightened her, don’t get me wrong, I can be a scary motherfucker when I want to be. But being scared of me never scared her away. She saw past everything, saw the real me inside. That interests me.”