Preacher (The Untouchables MC 5)

“It’s a good place,” I said gruffly. “Better than an old dog like me deserves.”

And it was true. I’d grown up poor on the South Side of Chicago. My mother kept a clean house, but everything had been busted, repaired, and busted again. This place was an upgrade. Better than my shack or the cabin, though I was partial to my pot-bellied stove on chilly California nights. That beast was even older than this one.

“Besides,” I added, “I won’t be here long.”

Paul hesitated, then refilled our drinks.

“But if you are—”

“Don’t go there, Paul.”

He sighed.

“Things are not looking good, my friend. The people here . . . they need a good shepherd.”

I took a deep gulp and saluted him.

“They have one. You.”

“Just promise me you won’t abandon them.”

I gave him an exasperated look.

“You know I already have a flock. More than one.”

“Bikers.”

“Yeah, man. My brothers.”

“For weddings and funerals. You can still do that. Our congregation would welcome them if they wanted to come here.”

“I doubt that.”

He gave me a secret smile.

“Oh, you will be surprised. We preach tolerance here. It’s a bit of a fashion show on Sundays.”

I looked at him. I had no fucking clue what he was talking about.

“I’m just saying your leather won’t stick out.”

“You want me to . . . wear my leather?” I asked incredulously.

“It’s entirely up to you. I’m just saying you don’t need the robes. Unless you want them.” He took a dainty sip of the booze and I grinned. Paul never could hold his liquor. “They are pretty comfortable.”

I snorted loudly and dragged the bottle away from Paul when he reached for it.

“What are you doing?”

“Remember the time you got into the holy wine?”

He flushed and shrugged sheepishly.

“That was a long time ago.”

“I can still smell it,” I said. “You puked all over our room.”

“Sorry,” he said contritely. “I’ve never had a head for liquor.”

“No need to start now,” I said, pouring myself a drink. “More for me.”

He shook his head but switched to water, and as the night wore on, some sort of herbal tea. It smelled like flowers. We talked about the old days, who was still alive from the old neighborhood, and people who were gone. I wondered for the hundredth time if Paul had been just a little bit in love with my sister.

He was yawning when I stood up, pushing my chair across the ancient yellow and white checked linoleum floor.

“Getting tired?” he teased me. I shook my head and laughed.

“You need to get to bed, old man.”

“We are the same age,” he grumbled. But he got up and headed toward the stairs. He waved his hand at the living room which had a couch he had made up for me earlier. Not a pullout. Just a funky old plaid couch from a million years ago. I lay down and raised my eyebrows. The damn thing was pretty comfortable.

“They don’t make them like they used to,” I mutter, taking another slug of bourbon. I hated to finish his booze this way, but I’d been dry for eight whole days. It was unnatural.

I’d buy him a big bottle when he came home healed, I decided.

I sighed and tugged on my beard. It was early, barely even midnight. Hell, this was when the party was usually getting started wherever I was. I sighed. I was going to have to get used to things being different for a little while. I grabbed a stogie from my bag, took the bourbon, and stepped outside. There was a courtyard between the church and Paul’s house. It was cool and quiet outside.

That’s until I heard the sirens. And was that . . . gunshots? Paul had said the neighborhood was having problems. I cut off the tip with a pocketknife and fired up my cigar, strolling around the property to have a look.

There was graffiti here and there, and a few spots where you could see that someone had cleaned it off or had started to before giving up. Like so much in life, it left a scar. Even if you did your best to fix shit, some things couldn’t be fixed.

Some things just were.

I thought about my home club, my first club. I thought about what we had done last year to protect that girl. I thought about how fucked up Shane had been and how we had come together and figured it out.

There were still a whole lot of dead people. His new wife was still cut up. Still had nightmares. We stuck together, protected our own, and did our best to get past it.

But like I said, there were still scars.

Every club had a story like that. Or twelve. I had made a couple of stops on my ride up here to let everyone know I was going to be MIA for a bit. If they needed me, I’d be there. Just like always. But they might have to come to me.