Preacher (The Untouchables MC 5)

“Walking you home? It’s not safe.”

“I’m not your responsibility,” she grumbled.

“You don’t like me.”

She kept walking but I saw her tense up. Now we were getting somewhere. I knew I should leave well enough alone, but I wanted to know why. Fuck it.

“I don’t know you.”

I looked at her, considering my options. The benefit of tequila was that it had lowered my resistance to this crazy fascination I had for the girl. I was interested. More than interested. Borderline obsessed. But I also knew she was way too young for me.

She was way too good for me, too.

I was trying my damndest to think of her as a coworker. But I was failing. I would just have to bide my time. See if I could cure myself of this impossible to ignore attraction I was feeling toward her. She would be better off in the long run, even if she didn’t laugh in my damn face.

“That’ll change,” I predicted.

We passed a happening little bistro on a corner near her street. I cleared my throat, feeling like a bit of a jackass.

“Are you hungry?”

She looked at me in surprise. Then she nodded. Just like that, we were about to break bread together.

“I could eat.”

I had to school my features to stop the wide grin that wanted to spread across my face. I opened the door. It was time to wine and dine the lady. Even if I didn’t get in her cute little pants, looking at her while I ate was sure to be fun. And this would give her a chance to get to know me.

Of course, if she got to know me too well, I was well aware that she would know without a doubt what a degenerate I truly was.

Let the chips fall where they may, you old dog.

I pulled her seat out for her and decided to do just that.

Chapter Ten

Cynthia

Am I… on a date with Preacher?

I looked down at menu, then back up at the man sitting across from me. He was so big he made the seat look like a kid’s chair. I almost giggled at the thought.

What is it that is so compelling about the man? I wondered. He’s a foul-mouthed degenerate.

But he’s gorgeous. And honest. And he cares, a more traitorous voice whispered.

He scowled at the menu, and I resisted the urge to laugh again.

“Forgot your bifocals?”

He winked at me with those crazy beautiful eyes of his.

“Everything is in working order, darlin’.”

My cheeks turned pink at the double meaning. He was telling me he was still virile. Good Lord. How was this brooding, wicked, eerily handsome man supposed to take the place of Reverend Paul? I couldn’t make sense of Paul’s thought process.

Unless . . . he meant for us to save Preacher.

“How did you guys meet? You and Paul,” I asked once we had ordered. I decided to live a little and get a glass of red wine. It was good for your heart, I reasoned. I hid my smile when Preacher ordered the same, even though I was pretty sure he preferred whiskey. Or tequila.

“We grew up together. Poorest part of town.”

“Were you always friends?”

He shrugged.

“We were more like relatives. Same block. He was always around. And then we both decided to go to the seminary at the same time.”

It was hard to imagine.

“You were religious?”

“I was,” he said, tearing off a piece of bread and slathering it with butter. I raised my eyebrows. He just grinned and took a big bite. “Still am. I was just more traditional then. Good as gold,” he added with a wink.

“Really. You consider yourself religious?” I said with a raised brow.

He nodded.

“I talk to the big guy all the time. He just might not like what I have to say.”

“Right. The whole ‘angry’ at God thing. It made you, what, go off the beaten path?”

He chuckled.

“That’s one way to put it.” He gave me a shrewd look. “What about you? I doubt many bright young women are chomping at the bit to work at their local church.”

“I grew up here,” I said with a sigh. “I didn’t have a lot growing up. Single mom, and . . . well, things got messy. Reverend Paul was always there for my mom and me. He started a lot of programs for the neighborhood. Eventually, I ended up helping him expand the youth program. And then when I started school, I was able to do some of my work here for credit toward my degree.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“I’m impressed. How close are you to graduating?”

“Only a couple of classes, but it will take another semester to finish. I can only manage one or two classes at a time.”

“What then?”

“Grad school,” I said proudly. “I already started my application.”

“Where?”

“Here. I don’t want to leave.”

“Why not? You got people here?”