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“He is, Kathy. He’s been married for decades. I’m sorry.” I put an arm around her and walk her back across the parking lot. “You should go home and get some rest.”
“I can’t.” She sniffles. “Even if you’re right about Frank, Gia is still missing.”
“I’ll find her and make sure she calls you. I promise.”
She sniffles again, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Thank you, Preacher. I was mean to her because I’ve been so worried about Frank. She’s a mess with the drugs and all, but she didn’t deserve it.”
“You’ll have a chance to make it right,” I tell her and hope to the heavens above that I’m not lying, that what we’re asking Gia to do won’t be her last job.
Kathy turns to me and wraps her arms around me. “You’re a good man, Preacher. Biker or not, Gia could do a lot worse than a guy like you.”
“Thanks, Kathy. And you could do a lot better than a man like Frank Braden.”
She shrugs and slips behind the steering wheel of her beat-up sedan. “I’m not sure that’s true, but I appreciate you saying it.” The engine rumbles to life, and though she’s still crying, Kathy turns the car and merges onto the road.
She’s a strong woman, stronger than even she knows because life has demanded she be. She and Gia both.
I hope she never has to find out how strong she truly is because soon enough, Gia will.
Chapter Twenty-One
Gia
I sit on the bed inside Preacher’s bedroom for about ten minutes after he leaves, still glowing and breathless from my self-inflicted orgasm, and wonder what to do next. After a quick hot shower, I toss yesterday’s clothes into his washing machine and, wearing nothing but one of his black t-shirts, begin to snoop.
I know, I know, it’s totally uncool to snoop around some guy’s house, especially after he’s been nice enough to give me a bunch of orgasms, but I’m so fucking curious about this man.
He’s a biker, and I totally dig him. I won’t hesitate to say yes if Preacher asks me to be his Old Lady. But he won’t. He can’t, not with everything that’s happened with Frank and those dirty rotten Iron Kings, but still, a girl can dream.
And she can snoop.
Preacher is one of those rare men who is actually good, inside and out, and he’s a really great fuck on top of it. He likes it rough and dirty, but like, in a sweet way that says he actually gives a damn if it’s my kind of rough too, which most guys don’t bother with. Ever. He’s something I never really believed in. A good man. And now I kind of want to keep him.
Even though I shouldn’t.
There’s a photo t of him with his arms wrapped around Coop and Joaquin pinned to the fridge with a magnet. I turn it over and pout when there’s no month or date or any important information, but it looks recent.
“Dudes,” I growl and head back to his room to snoop through his drawers in search of any piece of information, a half a joint, or a bump of nose candy, but I don’t find anything juicy.
“Damn, he really is this good,” I say out loud, my voice thick with disbelief.
Preacher’s house is totally dry. Not one speck of illicit substances to be found, which means I have to deal with my own damn company sober. It’s not so bad as I dig through the ass-end of his closet in search of photographs of old girlfriends, love letters, or mementos of relationships past.
Nothing. Nada. Zip.
The man is either a fucking ghost or a robot. No one discards everything from their lives before the present. Do they?
I have movie stubs, restaurant napkins, and coasters from Homecoming dates I no longer remember, prom dates that ended horribly, and all kinds of other dates with men who’s faces are nothing more than a blur. None of it matters to me, but I still have it, which begs the question: why.
Maybe Preacher has it right. Move on to the present by getting rid of remnants of the past.
His fridge has two bottles of wine, one red and one white, and I pop the cork on the Cabernet and chug the first glass with a satisfied sigh. The buzz of the washing machine brings me back to the laundry room to transfer the load of laundry to the dryer before I return to my wine with thoughts of Preacher on my mind.
Why did I have to meet him now, when I’ve got one foot outside the city limits of Angel Harbor? More importantly, why do I want to stay so badly? He’s given me no indication that he wants more than a few hot fucks, and here I am weaving fairytales in my mind.
“Idiot,” I say to myself and finish off another glass of the Cab.
I should stop at two glasses, but halfway through the third glass, I decide to do something that I know—going in—is totally ill-advised. I shouldn’t do it, but Preacher’s laptop is just sitting there all pretty and unused. It beckons me to dig deeper into this man and his life.
