Page 1 of Preacher

Chapter One

Trent

“I didn’t take it!” I hollered, but Hammer didn’t care. He shoved me into the brick wall so hard I couldn’t catch my breath then followed with a fist to my chest to make sure my lungs stayed empty. Stars flickered across my vision as I struggled for air.

Perfect. This was how I died—behind a dumpster in a filthy alley, courtesy of some asshole who thought I’d stolen his product.

His hand shot out and squeezed my throat, nails biting in just enough to remind me how quickly things could get worse. “You think you can run from me and I wouldn’t find you?” he snarled. “My boys say you took my shit.”

I croaked out, “It wasn’t me,” but Hammer wasn’t interested in my innocence. He needed someone to blame, and lucky me, I was his fall guy.

“Where. Is. It?” he demanded, yanking a pistol from his waistband and pressing it into my cheek. The cold steel made my knees buckle. I bit back a sob. Begging would’ve been useless, and crying like a bitch would only piss him off.

If it weren’t for my asshole brother, I wouldn’t even be in this mess. He’d given my name to Hammer’s crew and thrown me under the bus without a second thought.

Who said family wasn’t everything?

After Mike had sacrificed me, Hammer and his cronies showed up at my place one night, beat me senseless, then two days later tried to force me to kill some rando leaving the corner store.

Not a chance in hell.

Now I was their little errand boy. Employee of the Month in the getting-your-ass-kicked department. The benefits package? Nonexistent. Not even dental, which was ironic considering how often they threatened to knock my teeth out.

I’d tried to keep a low profile, hold down a normal job, stay drama-free. That plan had blown up the moment my brother opened his mouth.

Hammer pressed the gun harder against my skin. “Tell me where you stashed my shit or your brother’s next.”

Mike was a pain on most days, but I didn’t want him dead. He and Maria—who’d perfected the art of pretending I didn’t exist—were all the family I had left, shitty as they were. My mind raced as I tried to think of something, anything that would satisfy Hammer. Sticking to the truth wasn’t going to save me.

“Deluca’s,” I blurted out, naming the first place that came to mind. Hammer needed an answer. I needed to live.

Whether I’d still be breathing after we got there was another story.

Hammer’s goons at the alley entrance perked up when he called, “Deluca’s, boys.”

The pressure on my throat vanished, but freedom was a joke. Hammer yanked me by the arm to a sedan idling at the curb and tossed me into the back. Gap and Tag were already there, making just enough room for me to wedge between them.

Tag was all awkward angles, like his body had grown six inches overnight and nobody told him. He hunched forward, shoulders permanently curved, a constant bulge of tobacco pushing out his bottom lip.

Gap took up enough space for two people and smelled like he’d used roadkill as deodorant. His face made children cry, and he had an ego that said he should be on magazine covers. The dude had never seen action without paying for it first. I was sure of it. The gap between his front teeth could’ve parked a motorcycle. Hence the nickname. His parents should have never procreated.

The car door slammed, and a wall of stench hit me like a physical force. My stomach heaved. I clamped my hand over my face, which only made Tag snicker. He flashed brown-speckled teeth.

“Welcome to my daily hell,” Tag muttered, nodding toward Gap. “Dude’s got a medical condition called Never-Touched-Soap.”

Gap didn’t even flinch at the insult. The funk radiating off him had a life of its own—sweat gone toxic, like something had crawled into his clothes and died there months ago.

Hammer took the wheel with Silent Moe riding shotgun. Neither cracked a window. Christ. Maybe their sense of smell had died from prolonged exposure.

As we cruised through town, panic replaced disgust. Deluca’s Auto Repair sat just inside Temptation’s border off County Road 21. I’d driven past it a hundred times but never stopped, not even when my transmission was making those death rattles last winter.

Everyone knew Howlers Motorcycle Club owned it. The town tolerated them because they kept other trouble out, and the cops conveniently ignored whatever went down there. Probably thanks to well-placed envelopes of cash.

And you just accused them of hiding Hammer’s missing product.

Two scenarios played in my head. Either the Howlers would kill Hammer for being an idiot or they’d kill Hammer and me for the false accusation. Hammer was too stupid to understand he was walking into a hornet’s nest thinking his reputation would protect him.

The Plymouth turned onto County Road 21, and my heart wanted to crawl its way out. My mind was blank. No brilliant escape plan. Nothing. Just the certainty that Deluca would shove me into a car trunk and introduce me to the bottom of Temptation River.