Preacher (The Untouchables MC 5)

Paul was one of the good ones. He’d tried to help. He’d held my little sister the night she died. And he’d held me back from murdering the drunk driver who’d hit her. He made the world a better place.

Paul wasn’t supposed to die. Not yet.

“Definitely,” he agreed.

“Doctors don’t know everything,” I said roughly, my voice thick with emotion. We’d never lost touch. Not really. I sent him a postcard now and then. But he was right. We hadn’t had a phone call in a long ass time.

“Well, they seem pretty sure. I waited too long to go in. Probably wouldn’t have made a difference either way.”

I said nothing. I would go see him, of course. I was already mentally mapping the fastest route to Oregon.

“They have this experimental treatment. I was thinking—”

“You should do it, man. I’ll drive you there myself.”

“All the way to Mexico?”

“Hell, yes. I’ll go anywhere for you, man. You know that.”

And it was true. I’d known him most of my life. The bonds we’d formed growing up in the hood and then later when we were both destined for the cloth . . . they would never break. He’d tried to save her. He’d seen the car, tried to leap in front of her. But he’d been too far away. We both had. I could still see him, his hands caked in her blood.

“I’m glad to hear you say that . . .”

I waited for the other shoe to drop. He had a funny sound in his voice. He was about to say something that I wasn’t going to like. I knew it. But I didn’t hesitate.

“Name it.”

“I need you to take over my flock.”

“Your . . . what?”

I pried the lid off another bottle of tequila, taking a deep swig of it. I had a feeling I was going to need the extra booze to get through the rest of the conversation.

“My flock, John. I want you to take over for me. Hopefully, temporarily, but just in case.”

“Is it brain cancer? Because I know you haven’t forgotten what I look like. Or my beliefs.”

Six two. Covered in tats and scars. Tanned and craggy and mean-looking.

Not to mention my long ass hair, motorcycle, or the fumes of alcohol that were permanently etched into my flesh. I rarely wore a shirt under my motorcycle jacket, and my jeans were so old they could legally drink.

“It’s a nontraditional church. We cater to the disenfranchised. You’ll fit right in.”

I cursed a blue streak, not holding a damn thing back. By the time I finished, Paul was laughing. He had me and he knew it.

“So, you’ll do it then?”

“Fuck you, you cancerous fuck.”

“How long will it take you to get here?”

“Can you give me a couple of days? I can fly, but I’d rather ride.”

“A couple of days I can do. I fly out on Sunday.”

“You rangy bastard. You knew I would say yes.”

“You’re a good friend, John. And I know you’ll do me proud.”

“Just don’t complain if the place is shut down by the time you get back.”

“I won’t. And it won’t be. We have state funding.”

“You are a laugh riot, you know that?”

“I know. I look forward to having a drink with you, old friend.

“I’ll see you soon.”

“John? Just don’t die before you get here, okay?”

I knew it was his ass backward way of asking me to drive safely.

“You either, you sly old dog.”

He laughed again and started coughing. But I could still hear what he had to say before he hung up.

“Takes one to know one.”

He was right about that.

Chapter One

Preacher

“You sure you should be drinking that?”

Paul stared at me across the table. I’d ridden hard and been put away wet all week to get here. I hadn’t touched a drop until now. To see my old roommate, the nicest damn guy in the entire world, pull out a bottle of booze had surprised me.

“I’ve been saving this,” he said, and I could hear it. I could hear how weak he was becoming. I’d prepared myself. Told myself that no matter how bad he looked, I wouldn’t bat an eye. But nothing can prepare you for seeing someone you’ve known most of your life disappear in front of you.

“You look like shit,” I said as he cracked the seal on a bottle of twenty-five-year-old scotch.

He laughed and poured us each a glass. We were in the parsonage’s kitchen. The two-story house was small and made of the same stone as the church. But it was well-built and cozy, with only two bedrooms. The kitchen was small and old as dirt, with an original stove that looked like it was from the 1940s. The fridge was about the same age. It was cleaner than any kitchen I’d ever had. I looked around approvingly. I liked it.

“Everything works,” Paul said, noting where my eyes fell. “I wouldn’t stick you in a hovel.”