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“Fuck you.” Race got up, his wet shirt plastered to his body. It hadn’t registered just how cold he was until now. He turned to leave, spotted his gun on the deck close to the stairs and scooped it up. Fuck, he was freezing. As he trudged across the yard, it hit him that Bellamy hadn’t thanked him for looking out for her by stopping an intruder from breaking into her house. Ungrateful woman.
He stomped up his back deck steps, opened the door and was pushing it closed when Preacher pushed in after him. “Please, by all means, come inside,” Race voiced snidely. He hit the light switch next to the door. “I’m changing my clothes. Help yourself to a coffee.”
“Can I get a shirt? And maybe some pants?” Preacher asked before he could get away. Race’s only response was a grunt as he took off down the hall. He could hear Preacher opening and closing cabinet doors looking for the coffee pods and cups. Race wasn’t worried. Preacher would eventually find it.
He stripped everything off and threw his clothes on the bathroom floor. Taking a towel out of the bathroom closet, he ran it over his hair enough to dry most of the water out of it. His image in the mirror caught his attention. The sight of red marks on his sides and jaw didn’t surprise him. As he probed the areas, he discovered tender spots and knew by morning he’d have bruises. He grunted and went in search of dry, warm clothes.
From his dresser he found a pair of sweats and a long-sleeve shirt and pulled them on. Deciding to poke a little fun at Preacher, he dug around his drawer until he found the perfect shirt for him and a pair of sweats. He started to leave, but backtracked for the towel he’d used on his hair. No point in dirtying another towel when this one was just fine.
He found Preacher standing at the sink, his back to the window, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. “Here.” He tossed the clothes and towel at the man’s chest.
“You can change in the hall bathroom.” Race pointed him in the right direction.
Preacher nodded and went to change.
While Race’s coffee was brewing, he pulled a bottle of whisky from his cabinet and added a shot when it was done. He took his coffee and the bottle to the table, then went to his freezer and pulled out a bag of vegetables for his jaw.
Seeing Preacher coming back to join him, he waved a bag of frozen french fries at him.
“Yes, please.” Preacher pulled out a chair, reached for the whisky, then added a shot to his coffee. He took a drink and closed his eyes. “Ahhh. That’s perfect.” He took the french fries and held it to his left cheekbone. “Damn. You throw a mean punch.”
Race snorted. “Yeah, you, too.” He held his vegetables to his jaw.
“Oh, and by the way, what the hell, Race? Really?” Preacher held his arms open wide, looking down at the t-shirt Race scrounged up for him to wear.
“I think it looks pretty damn good.” Race chuckled and took a drink. He’d found an old black long-sleeve t-shirt with the Sons of Redemption MC logo in hot pink with a pink ribbon on the front. The fact that it aggravated the other man to be wearing a SORMC shirt almost made up for the punch he’d taken to the jaw. That one he wouldn’t be able to hide from his brothers. They would inevitably ask questions he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer. “It’s a Breast Cancer Awareness shirt. We were helping to raise money for the local hospital. I would have thought you’d complain about the sweats being two inches too short.”
Preacher shook his head and laughed to himself, as he leaned back and made himself more comfortable in his chair. One side of Race’s mouth kicked up, wondering what the man would do if he knew his sister had been fucked right where he was sitting. It dropped just as quickly as he thought about what the man would do if he knew how Race had treated her afterward.
He worked his jaw side-to-side as he gingerly sat back in his chair. “Why is it no one knows you have a sister?”
Preacher stared at Race a moment, seemingly trying to take his measure before he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “As I’m sure you are aware, I have many enemies and nothing would please them more than to discover I have a weakness.”
“Bellamy.” Race finished off his coffee then poured straight whisky into his mug. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what Preacher was going to say.
“Yes. Bellamy. We have the same mom, different dads, so we have different last names. I’ve tried to bury any connections between us as deep as possible. Any one determined enough could eventually find out that Bellamy is my sister.” He tossed the rest of his coffee back then waved his cup for Race to pour whisky in it. “I only have one other relative. My Grandma Martha.”
“Martha is your grandmother?” Race’s brows lifted in surprise.
“You know about Grandma Martha?” Preacher frowned.
“Yeah, I’ve met her in fact.”
“You’ve met her? How?” Preacher’s lips thinned and his eyes flashed. It would seem the crime lord was very protective of his family.
“She stopped by Bellamy’s while I was working on her hot water heater and checking out her fridge.”
Preacher rubbed at his eyes. “Why didn’t she tell me she needed something?” He appeared to be asking himself and not Race, but he answered him anyway.
“Maybe because I’m her landlord and she knew I was responsible for fixing it.” Race adjusted the way he was sitting, trying to find a better position to sit that didn’t hurt as much. Fuck he was sore.
“The woman is too damn stubborn and independent for her own good.”
There was a lull in conversation as each man debated on what to say next. Preacher broke that silence when he said, “Thank you, by the way.”
Race’s head jerked back. “For what?”
“For seeing Bellamy might be in danger tonight and coming to her rescue.” Race grunted again. Hell, any man who saw a woman in danger and didn’t help was a worthless piece of shit in his mind.
