Preacher

by Zahra Girard

  Preacher

  An MC Romance

  Wayward Kings MC Book 4

  By

  Zahra Girard

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Zahra Girard

  All rights reserved. This ebook or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you'd like to share this book with another, please purchase a separate copy for them. Thank you for respecting the hard work that went into my work.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Make sure you have the other books in the Wayward Kings MC series:

  Get book one ‘Bear’

  Get book two ‘Ozzy’

  Get book three ‘Hazard’

  Chapter One

  Jessica

  It’s Thursday night, and I’m on the outskirts of Reno in a bar called Jokers Wild, it’s packed to the gills with people wearing leather jackets and flannel and denim, filled with Classic Rock blaring from an old-fashioned jukebox that still takes quarters, I’m one of dozens celebrating.

  I’ve got my best friend Cassie with me, and I’ve just passed a milestone. Hours earlier, I sailed past my probationary period and officially became a full-time employee of Reno General hospital. After ninety days with Reno General’s ER, I’m now an official hire.

  Today’s a good day and tonight’s shaping up to be even better.

  My heart rate is well over a hundred, pushed up by drunk-dancing and loud music, my blood alcohol level is at the right kind of drunk, and I am relishing the fact that I’m well on my way to achieving what I’ve been working towards for years. I’m back in my hometown, the place I spent the first eight years of my life before tragedy struck and took my father from me, and I’m actually making something of myself in a field of work that I enjoy.

  This is years of hard work paying off. And it feels amazing. I’ve been smiling the whole day.

  “Here’s to having tomorrow off, and to spending many, many years together fending off the pill-seekers, the pants-shitters, and the sweet old men with the cute pickup lines and the corny jokes who make us wish they were fifty years younger and single,” she says, raising a shot of tequila.

  I tap my glass to hers. “Cheers.”

  We down our shots and I wince as the alcohol burns down my throat. It’s not the good stuff. Not by a long shot. Cassie and I can’t afford the good stuff. But we’ve got plenty of the cheap stuff on the table in front of us: several still-full shot glasses of tequila, a vodka-tonic for me, and a margarita for Cassie. We’re well-equipped to either get drunk, or strip the paint off the walls.

  “You should call Bryce. Get him out here, get him to join the party,” she says.

  I shrug. “I’d rather not.”

  “What? Why? I thought you two were dating.”

  “He’s the one who thinks we’re dating. I just haven’t made it totally clear to him that we’re not. I still need his help with digging up stuff about my dad.”

  “So, what, once he’s dug through the newspaper’s archives for you, you’ll dump him?” She grins at me over the lip of her margarita glass. “That’s cold. It sounds like something Tracy would do.”

  “I resent the comparison to our frigid boss,” I say. “If I end up feeling something for Bryce, then, well, we’ll actually start dating. But I need his help to find out more about my dad. He’s the main reason I came here, after all.”

  “Do you think you’re going to solve the case or something? Because you’d think the cops would work even harder when the victim is one of their own, I don’t see what you can do. And I don’t mean that in a harsh way, Jess.”

  I shake my head and look down into my drink for a moment. Talking about my dad isn’t easy, and every time I do talk about him, I’m reminded of how little I actually remember of him. As time goes on, he fades, and I lose a little bit more of him.

  “I’m not trying to be Nancy Drew or anything. I’m just trying to learn more about him. My mom doesn’t like to talk about dad, it hurts her too much. He died when I was eight. That was fifteen years ago, Cassie. I remember he was my hero, he loved his job, he took me hiking every father’s day up in the mountains near here — he loved Peavine Peak — but that’s it… and it makes me sad that’s all I remember.”

  “Sorry, Jess,” Cassie says, looking chastened. She goes silent for a second, and then the song blaring from the jukebox switches to Joan Jett & the Blackheart’s ‘I love Rock and Roll’. “Come on, let’s go dance.”

  * * * * *

  Hours later, body buzzing, with Motorhead and Guns ‘n Roses and Iron Maiden bouncing around inside my fuzzy-feeling skull and with a few mystery bruises from drunk-dancing a little too hard decorating my body, I stand in line for the bar’s bathroom behind ten other women, feeling like my bladder is about to explode and unleash a torrent that not even the Hoover Dam could contain.

  This is not ideal.

  The line is hardly moving.

  I shuffle from one foot to the other.

  I’m not going to make it.

  There’s an alley outside, but I’m not drunk enough to use it yet. I’m not desperate enough, either.

  Next to me, guys stumble in and out of the men’s room. No line, no wait, not a care in the world. They have no idea how lucky they are.

  I stare longingly at their enviable bathroom experience. They can step in, whip it out, fire away, and be done and relieved in two minutes or less. So quick it should be a tagline in an advertisement.

  They don’t even technically need a toilet. Just a hole in the ground. Or a sink. Or a drain.

  This is one of those rare times in my life where I wish I had a penis.

  “There’s only one working stall,” the woman in front of me says, noticing me bouncing from foot to foot. “You’ve got a long wait, honey.”

  “One stall, are you serious?” I say.

  “The other’s out of order. Has been for a week.”

  “You’re kidding. For real? A week?”

  “A week at least. Meanwhile, the men’s room has three stalls and four urinals,” says another woman three places in front of us. She’s wearing a leather jacket and a steel-studded wristband. “Not to mention the sinks. Some guys use them even if the urinals are open, just for the hell of it
. Entitled pricks.”

  My desire for a temporary penis gets even stronger. Right now, I’d even settle for a catheter.

  “They can piss pretty much anywhere. Hell, they’d be happy with just a hole in the ground. And yet they get more toilets than us. They don’t know how good they have it,” says another woman in line. She’s got a piercing in her eyebrow and a tattoo of a skull on the back of her hand. “The whole fucking world is their urinal.”

  “Oh, trust me, they know. When it comes to pissing on things, they know. You ever seen a guy in the snow? They act like the whole damn sheet of white is their canvas and they’re Picasso with their dicks,” says the woman in front of me. “It’s like they’re endlessly fascinated by that damn thing between their legs.”

  “They never get tired of playing with it. It starts when they’re toddlers and just never stops,” says an older woman near the front of the line who kind of looks like a cross between Joan Jett and one of the Golden Girls. “It’s like every time they reach down there, they’re rediscovering it. I call it ‘cock amnesia.’”

  One woman comes out, and the next in line goes in.

  It’s been five minutes.

  I am definitely not going to make it.

  I’m bouncing from one foot to the other while the women in front of me debate men’s fascination with themselves. Normally, I’d be all in on this debate, but things are getting too urgent. In the space of a Def Leppard song and AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” I make it one place closer to the front of the line.

  The alley is starting to seem more and more attractive.

  “Hey, what’s the deal here, ladies?” comes a deep voice behind me.

  I look back. Then I blink, and wonder if I’m wearing beer goggles if this guy really is that handsome. He’s tall. Thickly muscled. Athletically built, and with a strong jaw and a few-days growth of scruff. He’s got thick black hair that’s short on the sides and longer on top, with most of it combed back except for a few stray hairs that hang lazily over his forehead.

  I swallow. Twice.

  He’s wearing a leather jacket, jeans that are just tight enough to show that there’s a reason he’s so damn confident-looking, and a plain black t-shirt that clings for dear life to a six-pack.

  “Male privilege, that’s what we’re talking about,” says the Golden Girl-Joan Jett-looking woman in front of me. “Why is it that we can’t get gender equality when it comes to bathrooms? You guys can piss anywhere, and yet you get more toilets than the people who actually need them.”

  “Then why don’t we fix it?” he says, pushing open the door to the men’s room and poking his head inside. Then turns to us. “It’s clear. You all go ahead, there’s three empty stalls, I’ll stay here and keep people out.”

  Three at a time, the line goes down, and this guy stands outside the doorway with his arms crossed. Two times, he has to stop guys from going in, telling them to go piss outside. Both times, the guys he stops actually look excited to be given permission to pee outside, like he’s giving them permission to go do something they secretly wanted to do all along.

  Finally, I’m to the front of the line.

  “Hey, thanks, um…” I pause, realizing I don’t even know his name. “Thanks, Mr. Bathroom Bouncer.”

  It’s only after the words leave my lips that I realize I’m probably more drunk than I thought and that I should sober up before I attempt to flirt again. If I can even call that weird display flirting.

  Way to not make it awkward, Jessica.

  “Bathroom Bouncer? That’s a new one,” he says, chuckling. “Just call me ‘Preacher’.”

  I frown, confused. He doesn’t look anything like a priest. I would’ve found religion a long time ago if they looked like him. Maybe I’ve been looking at the wrong ones. Is there some religion dedicated to hot men and leather?

  “Thanks, Preacher,” I say. “I’m Jessica.”

  “You’re welcome, Jessica,” he says, with a slight nod towards the bathroom door. “You’re up.”

  The door shuts behind me and, soon after, I’m at the sink, washing my hands. I hope he’s still out there. He’s the first guy in this place that I’d want to actually talk to. And maybe it’ll lead to more than that. It wouldn’t be a bad way to round out a good night.

  I finish washing my hands and take a look at myself in the mirror. I fix my hair a little, adjust my top to show a little more cleavage, and take a deep breath before going to the door.

  It’s just talking. He’s just a guy. I’m sure he’ll be up for a little dancing at least. If it works out that more than that happens, great, if it doesn’t, that’s ok, too. Tonight’s a good night either way. I got this.

  I push on the door.

  He’s still out there, casually leaning back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and looking every bit as handsome as I remember. I smile at him.

  He smiles back and gives me a look like he’s already picturing me without my clothes on. And I want the same from him.

  Tonight is going to be good. I’m sure at the very least he and I will be dancing and I know that, if I want more, all I’ll have to do is say ‘yes’. And he looks so easy to say yes to.

  Then, as I watch, some sort of commotion breaks out from inside the bar and the smile on Preacher’s face melts into a frightening expression of rage.

  He shouts something wordless and seizes me by the shoulders, hurling me like I’m weightless back through the bathroom door. I crash into the tile floor and feel the thud vibrate through my bones.

  He lands atop me with a crunch that feels like it’s going to break every bone in my body.

  I scream. Terrified. Confused.

  Then the shooting starts. Bullets rip through the room and crash into the wall right where I was standing a second earlier, unleashing a violent shower of shrapnel down upon me that peppers my face and forces me to shut my eyes. Just feet away from me, someone is unleashing violence on the bar with the rat-a-tat rapidity of automatic weapons.

  Someone is trying to kill me, and the only thing standing between me and certain death is the leather-clad stranger I met minutes before.

  Chapter Two

  Jessica

  I hit the floor of the men’s room with a bone-crunching thud. Pain flares in my body. I let out a gasp as Preacher lands on top of me, but he’s up and on his feet in a flash, so quick I hardly have time to process what the hell is happening.

  My heart feels about ready to explode; there’s more adrenaline than blood flowing through my veins. My breath is coming in a rapid flurry of gasps.

  But I still have the presence of mine to think ‘Ew’.

  I just hit the floor of the men’s room.

  With my face.

  Some of it is sticky.

  No.

  No amount of scrubbing will ever disinfect me.

  I flip over and scramble to my feet. Blinking, confused, I look around the bathroom, trying to get my bearings.

  Screams and shots erupt from the bar, pushing my heart rate higher. Preacher takes me by the shoulders and shakes me, jolting me out of my stunned state. His face is deadly serious and his voice — fierce, steely — is like a smack in the face.

  “Jessica, I need you to get in the corner stall, lock the door, and stay down. I’ll come get you when it’s safe,” Preacher says to me. “You’re going to be all right. I’ll keep you safe. I promise. But you need to do exactly what I say. Ok? Now go.”

  Somehow, the Bathroom Bouncer that I’ve known for all of five minutes makes me feel safe. I’d be screaming if he wasn’t here.

  Just like he directed me, I get down low.

  A stray bullet whizzes a foot above my head while I scramble across the floor to the corner stall, my fingers and palms slapping against the sticky tile floor. My heart thuds like it’s trying to force it’s way out of my ribcage while I fumble with the half-broken lock that doesn’t quite fit in the stupid notch that’s been drilled in the stall wall.

  I’m not as
calm as I thought. But then, I might die.

  I hold the door closed, and I watch through the open space between the door and the floor.

  The bathroom door bursts open inward and a towering, bald-headed man bursts in. He’s wearing a leather jacket with the patch of a bloody dog’s head on the chest and he’s carrying a pistol in his right hand. The word ‘enforcer’ is patched right over his heart.

  In the space it takes me to blink, Preacher springs on him. He grabs him around the wrists and rams him backwards against the tile wall of the bathroom. There’s a heavy crack as the man’s head snaps back against the tile, and the two men grunt as they lock up. The man struggles, he kicks, he lashes with his knees, but Preacher will not let go. Preacher screams as he slams the thug’s gun-hand against the wall over and over until I hear a snap and the pistol drops to the floor with a clatter.

  The thug growls and headbutts Preacher square in the face. A sickening thunk echoes off the bathroom walls and Preacher staggers backwards, crashing into the sinks. Light flashes off steel the thug draws a long knife out of a sheath around his ankle.

  I scream.

  The thug turns and looks right at me. I swear I see him smile.

  That look says “you’re next.”

  “I told you to keep down,” Preacher snaps.

  He dodges sideways as the thug slashes at him and the two lock up again, Preacher desperately fighting to get the knife out of the thug’s hand.

  There’s a thud as he jams his knee into the thug’s abdomen, staggering him. Then another thud, another knee, and then flash of light on steel and a cry of pain from Preacher. The thug’s knife shimmers red in the fluorescent light of the bathroom.

  “You’re dead, you son of a bitch,” the thug says. “So just lie down and make this easy.”

  “Suck my cock, you fucking Jackal,” Preacher spits back.

  “You’d fucking like that, wouldn’t you?”