by V. Theia
“Hey there. Got a minute, Preacher? I called, but someone said Rider was busy.”
“I suppose I got a minute if you continue insisting. What keeps you sniffing around us, sheriff? Keep in mind I’m not as fair going as Rider is and rarely swallow bullshit lies,” he said like a joke, a tight smile on his weathered face.
“That sounds like a threat.” Charlie’s jaw tightened. He could glare all he wanted, Preacher wasn’t afraid of the law. Most were bent bastards, this guy, however, according to Rider, he was alright, but it was a pain in the neck having the enforcers coming around all the time, having to play nice and genial to keep them from smelling the real secrets Renegade Souls MC had under their hat.
Charlie thrust a sheet of paper out expecting Preacher to take it. He didn’t. Only stared at the face of their last enemy, may he rot in hell. “I know what the ugly fucker Hades looks like. So, what? Good riddance to him, you should be glad he’s skipped town, sheriff, one less loser off your books, isn’t that right?”
“Have you seen this man?” Preacher blew out a sigh at the question he’d been asked four times in total, knowing his brothers had endured so much more questioning these past months.
“Nope, not since the last time you shoved this under my nose. And if I did I’ll be sure to tell you law keepers.”
“Do you have any information regarding this man?”
“Again, nope. We’re not friends. Nor do I like the bastard. He has shifty eyes. Look at them, too close together, that inbred shit-stick has secrets if you ask me, probably that his momma is really his sister-auntie.”
“Should I be asking you, Preacher?” The hero-cop chose his question well. Preacher grinned and coasted a hand down his beard, let go of an expletive or two.
“You’re howling up the wrong tree, sheriff. But I’ll bite. Ask me anything, you’re only wasting your own time. This town is better off without Kyle fucking Williams, you know it, let him stay gone instead of wasting tax payers hard earned cash trying to hunt him down.”
“Hassling my men again, Charlie?” Rider asked approaching from the left. A warning on his angry face. Preacher bit back a grin and stepped up to his president’s shoulder. Brothers in arms. A force to be reckoned with, even against a blonde-haired cake baking fucking nosy as shit cop. God almighty, when was this going to die. “It’s becomin’ a habit I ain't likin’” Rider could act the offended motherfucker like no one else and do it with a stern face masking what he was truly feeling.
Charlie sighed that sad hero-cop sound and folded the sheet of paper he must be handing out to every townsperson in hopes one of them knew the whereabouts of Hades.
Preacher got it, the cop wanted to bag himself the big fish, earn himself a commendation from the mayor, to wear a bright shiny medal on his chest, this was the biggest case Armado Springs had seen in many a year, but as Rider said, the hassling was getting on his last nerve.
He’d only been back in town a week and already his punk deputy had pulled him over twice, doing routine checks, he’d insisted. Fucking liar. Hedging their bets more like hoping to catch one of the MC’s out for the crime. RS were the go-to for every crime in the city. They were only responsible for seventy percent… and absolutely they were responsible for Hades' disappearance, but no one was admitting to that, not unless they wanted to do twenty-five to life.
“Routine inquiries, you know that. I won’t take up any more of you boy’s time, but if you remember anything.”
“We know where you’re at, sheriff,” added Preacher. When pigs fly, and eat donuts.
“I’m regretting coming home.” He laughed once the cop had driven off through the gates. Both men watched him leave, making sure he took the winding road away from the compound. Rider turned to head back into the shop.
“We weather it, Preach. It’s what we do.” Preacher often wondered for the things Rider carried on his presidential shoulders, all the weathering he did silently.
It’s what RS always did. It didn’t mean he didn’t want to smack the cop around a little. Oh, no permanent damage, nothing like that, he was a good cop, after all, few bruises, a little concussion, small amount of memory loss.
Back in his military days as part of a counter-terrorism expert marksmen squad, he thought nothing of following orders and taking out a target, he had been damn good at his job, so much so he’d moved up the ranks fast. He was known to get his mark every single time. Some days he could still feel the metal of his L129A1 Sharpshooter sniper rifle in his fingers. When he woke up in cold sweats, it was always with his arms raised in the position as if still holding his gun.
Unpredictable targets had been his specialty.
They’d hailed him a goddamn hero for killing.
Preacher was no hero. In a lot of ways being a part of MC reminded him of his old squad.
The Renegade Souls did a bunch of weathering that first year he patched in. Sorting out the chaff from the wheat, he never once thought about walking away. He had grown a lot of respect for his president for facing that head on with snapping wolves at his heels. It couldn’t have been easy, as an outsider as he was at that time, still, the new face in town even with Grinder sponsoring him, Preacher saw a lot of which brought about his loyalty for the new president and his MC. This small irritation of Hades' murder/manhunt was testing them all. One wrong word, one crazy drunken word said to the wrong person and it could be curtains for them. They whole club would fry for it.
Just as well he was heading back to Lincoln for a few days more.
Not that he was looking forward to that shit.
Red Light and his anger issues. It was like Oscar the grouch on steroids.
And he hadn’t fucked Ruby yet.
Talk about a bad week.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“So, what? … no making friendship bracelets for each other?” - Preacher
Six Months Ago
It wasn’t as though Preacher presumed to be welcomed with open arms from Red Light on arrival into Nebraska late that night. The nomad was stationed in Kansas but was headed to Lincoln the same as Preacher to sort out some of their financial woes. So, a welcome wasn't exactly expected, maybe a tough-guy head nod, a chin jut. But the death glare was damn well unjustified.
He hadn’t stepped off his bike nor turned the engine off after pulling into the garage port when he was hit in the face with the blue eyed stare of...well, he supposed enemy, not that Preacher held any bad feelings, in fact, he understood precisely why Red Light hated his guts once upon a time, but now? Years later? And still this? For fuck's sake.
He fortified his chest with fresh air stained with the scent of motor oil. His back was killing him having ridden most of the three hundred eighty-five miles, only stopping once for a four-hour nap in a grimy roadside motel, so he really was on a short fuse for it to be Red Light as his welcoming committee.
It was one of those typical November cold winter nights, the kind that froze balls and his eyelashes crusted over with frost, he wanted a bourbon and a warm bed more than he wanted anything. Good idea to ride, dickhead. Planes exist, you know. But a drink and a bed were not in his immediate future. Instead, he was about to have himself a confrontation earlier than anticipated.
Stabilizing his lungs, Preacher got a lay of the situation real damn fast. Far as he was aware Red Light hadn't meant to be arriving in Nebraska until later that week. The later the better for Preacher as he’d hoped once he’d known the fellow RS member was coming to town, too, he couldn’t foresee anything changing between them and he was here to do a job and get the hell out of dodge. He’d told Rider he was down for any out of town trip, fresh pussy was always fun, but damn if his body wasn’t already tired and not up for a bar hunt. Maybe tomorrow.
Spine cracking, he shoved keys into his pocket, casting a look around the bike shop, rather than meeting the glare from Red head on. Tidy place at least, he hated walking into shit-holes, seemed to have everything they needed, but there was only one bike in the five works
tations being worked on, he could tell right away H’s shop wasn’t doing so good, it should always be full, he'd check out the booking sheet, see how it lies with jobs, and go from there to know what they needed.
“Well, well. Look what the cat just vomited up.” After two years, it wasn’t the best greeting. Great. Don't punch him, he repeated. Fingers at his sides flexed into fists.
The last time they’d been in the same place they’d beat ten shits out of each other and Red Light had taken to the roads as a nomad rather than stick around the Colorado chapter issuing he left or he’d kill Preacher. Preacher had walked away from that brawl with two busted ribs, a face that looked like he’d used a cheese grater to shave and he’d limped for a week. Rider had almost bounced both their asses out of the club for it. He got word that Red Light didn’t fare much better when he’d gotten on his bike and took off he’d only got as far as the next town before his broken body had to stop. The Butcher had met him at a motel, patched him up, stayed with Red Light for two nights and when he could ride again he had taken off.
“Good to see you, too, Red. How’s it going?”Keep it civil, he warned himself. Bygones-be-fucking-bygones for Christ sake.
Red Light didn’t get that memo. His lip sneering.
He was a big guy. Stockier than Preacher was, wide in the shoulders, he'd always worn his muddy blonde hair short and slicked back for as long as Preacher had known him, and the wide black gauges stretching out each earlobe, tatts going down both arms in vivid black ink, he lived at the gym, or at least he used to, who knew what had changed for the guy, they weren’t exchanging Christmas letters.
“It’s going.” Was his clipped response. “Don’t know what you’re doing here, we can handle this ourselves.”
“My president begs to differ since he sent me here at H's request.”
“You’re a waste of fucking time.” Red stared. Provoking.
Because Preacher knew first-hand what was Red Light’s problem and had one time deserved the spewed hate he could see where the guy was coming from. Didn’t mean he’d take being treated like a fucking dog. He arched a brow, stepped forward, a shift of his bones in warning.
“Fortunately for us all, you ain’t the man in charge, you get no say in what I do. So, to save us all some time, I’ll tell you, Red. I don’t take orders from you, I answer to Rider and Hawk alone. While I’m here I’ll defer to H’s running his club his way. Again, I say I don’t take orders from you, you got that? I have a job to do, I’ll be doing it.“
The way Red tossed down the wrench he was gripping, the metal clanging on the ground. Preacher was sure they were about to throw down like teens and what fucking timing when he was gone tired.
He could often go without sleep when he was on assignment in the army, days and days, fatigued and sweating bullets under the sun. He had his PTSD to thank for needing sleep on the regular, the moment he got himself all out of sync his body went into agitated manic mode and did crap he’d rather not happen while he was away from home and people he trusted to see him through it.
Inhaling, calling on Jesus for a shred of patience, his hands shoved into his lined jacket pockets, showing Red he had no desire to fight him. “So, this is how it’s going to be between us, still, Red?”
“Fucking A, Preacher. What, you dumb enough to think all is forgotten?”
“It’s been a long time, brother.”
“I ain’t your fucking brother. You saw to that,” he spat out, eyes full of hatred. Fucks sake. Preacher had known terrorists with better manners and less hate-on to kill him.
One mistake and he’d made an adversary for life. No one put that on the brochure, maybe if they had then Preacher would have taken notice years ago. As it was he could give Red Light all the reasons he had back then and see it wouldn’t make a lick of difference.
The man hated him.
He had to take it on the chin. But it prickled underneath his skin. It fucking stung if he was truthful. By no normal standard was Preacher considered a stand-up guy, outlaws had reputations the public thought was all fiction when in reality, ninety-nine percent of the time all the bad things people whispered was all true about every last MC. That didn’t mean he was a bastard with his brothers, he had their backs, even now, with this big idiot boring bullet holes into Preacher’s forehead with the ugly sneering, he knew he’d still go to bat for him if the situation called for it.
If the boot was on the other foot? He smiled ruefully to himself. Red would see Preacher dead in a ditch before he lifted a hand to help.
Yeah, fucking stung.
There was no making up for what he did.
Time didn’t heal wounds.
Friendships couldn’t be fixed
Move on, fucker. He told himself.
Well, enough of this meet-cute before he got down on one knee and proposed marriage from all the love coming his way. He walked around his bike to head into the clubhouse to let H know he’d arrived.
“Good seeing you, Red.”
“Yeah, whatever, motherfucker.”
Coming to a halt halfway towards the hatch that led into the club, Preacher’s eyes flared, he backtracked, boots scuffing the floor with how fast he strode over to Red, the roar of his blood matched the grind of his back molars, getting into Red Light’s face like he was about to lay the lips on him.
He’d take a lot. He’d taken all the bullshit, knowing how warranted it was at one time. But he wouldn’t take that. No way, no how. He didn’t lay a hand on Red but he made his point clear with the vicious stare. Enough was enough. Two powerhouses eyeballing the hell out of each other. Preacher’s shoulder blades tightened with the familiar sensation of preparing for war.
“Piece of advice, you get to say that only once to me. I’m done enabling your little boy tantrums. Get the fuck over it already and stay out of my face while I’m here, or I’ll put you in the goddamn hospital.“
Red Light laughed without humor. His face twisted holding Preacher’s stare. “That is your specialty, hm. You’d like to think you can.”
“It’s a promise. We’re done here.”
He made his feet move before he lost his self-control and did as he promised to a brother who wore the same patch he did on his vest. Rider was vocal on never turning against a brother, the moment one member went up against another it brought about diversion in a club. He’d kick Preacher out.
“And you stay the hell away from me,” Red growled.
Preacher threw him a middle finger over his shoulder. Kept on walking.
Welcome to Nebraska.
It was going to be a long trip.
CHAPTER NINE
“What kind of sister are you if you won’t help me?” – Rita Maddox
Ruby woke thinking of Sebastian.
Missing him.
Over the first coffee of the day she let her mind allow Preacher in for five minutes. Any longer than that and she wouldn’t get anything done today and she already had a long list going. Hunched over the kitchen counter, chewing on the end of a pen she underlined ‘find a fucking job asap’ three times. Surely that would help. If not she could revisit a second chat with God, as yet, no miracles had happened, she figured he was busy with world domination from whatshisname.
And If all that didn’t have a significant and fast impact, then she knew a good street corner to stand on. Really, it was perfect, it got the sun in the morning and shade in the afternoon, any decent hooker worth her fake Louboutin’s would appreciate that prime real estate.
Just kidding. Maybe. It was an option. She had great blowjob skills, so her last boyfriend would tell her, but then he was a cheating asshole, so his opinion couldn’t really be taken seriously.
Ruby wasn’t ten minutes into her cleaning routine, keeping her shithole of an apartment spotless, elbow deep in a mountain of old Vogue magazines, her attachment was real, but they were taking up space and needed recycling when the phone rang.
The thing about being broke as a fucking nun was that he
r belly dropped at first, it could be the bank to say she was overdrawn, maybe the power company letting her know she was late again with the payment, it was only thanks to her mom’s debts she’d never succumbed to a credit card, because they’d be on her back twenty-four seven wanting payment. If things continued to go as they were she was seriously thinking of applying for one.
Last resort. Right after hooking on a street corner.
“Sis. I need some extra this month, the damn pig of an ugly landlord has hiked up the fucking rent like he thinks I’m made of money.”
And that was how Rita started all her conversations. I want. I need. No, how are you, sis. What's going on with you, sis? Nope, always with need and want first and foremost. Ruby sighed, plonked herself down on the coffee table. This phone call wouldn’t last long, they never did, but it would wear her out.
“Hey, Rita. I’m great, thanks for asking, how are you, found a job yet?” Short answer; no. Of course, she hadn’t. Rita believed in welfare and sitting on her lazy ass all day long puffing and snorting anything and everything. Why would she want to work and contribute to life when the state and the bank of Ruby would always bail her out. Rita had it damn good.
Phone calls with her sister continuously left Ruby with a slick greasy unease in her belly, she tensed and the beginning of a headache began to brew in her skull. She knew what she wanted to say to her sister; get the fuck off your own ass and take care of your own damn self. But she knew she wouldn’t.
Sibling guilt gnawed at her. Rita was the baby of the family at twenty-five, had never held a job for longer than two months, even then she bitched the entire time. Both sisters had been dealt the shitty hand with parents, they were the type of people who should never have been allowed to breed, ever. But there came a time you had to stop blaming everything on a dysfunctional upbringing and make the most for yourself. Ruby had. No matter what she persisted.
