Preacher (The Untouchables MC 5)

It could have been so much worse, Cynth, I reminded myself.

I shivered, trying not to think too much about that. He was coming home. He was alive. He would rest and recuperate. He would heal.

Or that’s what his ass would be doing if he knew what was good for him when they released him later today. I would be more than happy to tell him where to go if he didn’t follow the doctor’s strict orders to rest and recover.

Yeah, I was still angry enough to curse him out. I’d been practicing. I’d even picked up some new ones from Clarice.

Meanwhile, Preacher’s buddies had been staying in a no-tell motel, which was not okay with either one of us. He said they were low-maintenance, but the only motels in the area were frequented by hookers and burnouts and rented by the hour. Even with a whole case of cleaner and scented candles, it didn’t sound very nice. Not for his ‘brothers’ who had come so far to help him out. To help us out.

So they were coming to stay here and that was the end of it. I’d put my foot down and stared down four giant, unusually good-looking men announcing that Preacher’s family was not staying in a roach motel one night longer. They’d all laughed at me but had finally agreed.

Only after explaining to me that yes, they were family but not by blood. The motorcycle club was a big family. Technically, they were from two different clubs that were practically on either end of California, but they were connected too.

And anyway, they would make excellent chaperones, I decided. Preacher had been trying to get into my pants non-stop since the first day in the hospital. I rolled my eyes. Even injured, the man was a relentless sex machine. He kept trying to get me to sit on his lap and wiggle around, which I had to admit sounded like fun.

I’d told him I’d be happy to do it, if only he hadn’t been such a dumbass!

Despite his threats to spank me when he finally woke up, I hadn’t stayed away. I’d gone home to sleep a few hours here and there. I’d slept in a chair in his room, too.

It had been a really, really long week. Nine days, to be exact. I was glad it was over.

To tell the truth, I was beat. I hoped Preacher would sleep a lot, because Lord knows, I needed to catch up on some rest myself, too.

A soft knock on the kitchen door made me look up. I recognized Marcus just from his silhouette against the faded curtain covering the glass panes in the door. He had a uniquely energetic yet slouchy way of moving.

“Hey,” I said with a smile, opening the door. Marcus was one of my first students when I’d started the dance troupe. I was definitely attached to him. I freaking loved the kid.

“Preacher here?”

I shook my head.

“Sorry. He will be here in a few hours. What’s up?”

“Wanted to talk,” he said with a shrug. But I could tell there was more to it. He was about to leave, still carrying some sort of heavy load. I pinned a casual, not-at-all-worried-about-him-even-though-I-was smile on my face.

“How about I stand in for him?”

He bit his lip and nodded. I held the door open, and he slouched his way inside, sitting when I pointed to a chair.

I sat across from him, carefully acting like nothing was wrong. I found that teenagers were like puppies and kittens. Move too suddenly or stare too intently, and they would disappear.

I was pretty sure they could sense it when you worried, which was next to impossible not to do, especially in this neighborhood.

“You need something to drink? Eat?”

The kids showed up hungry for dance sometimes, so I always had snacks on hand. I knew it made them uncomfortable if I made a fuss about it, so I never did. But the snacks were gone by the end of each practice session. I’d just stocked the fridge and pantry in anticipation of a house full of large men. Marcus shook his head and shifted his eyes away.

“What’s up?”

“The one who shot him,” Marcus said softly. “That’s my cousin.”

My mouth opened slightly. I shut it right away before he could see. Keep it cool, Cynthia, I reminded myself.

“Your aunt’s son? The one you live with?”

Marcus’s mother had lost custody a couple of years ago due to drug and alcohol abuse. He’d been shuffled off a few blocks over to his aunt’s house instead of getting put into the system. But the truth was, his aunt wasn’t much better.

She was just better at hiding her addictions.

And now, apparently, her son, who I knew Marcus looked up to, was the thug who had shot my man. But this wasn’t about the kid or the aunt. It certainly wasn’t about me.