Preacher (The Untouchables MC 5)

But he wouldn’t. My inner voices all knew he wouldn’t. Even mama.

“And he said he wanted to knock you up?”

I nodded again. I wasn’t sure what to say beyond that. Preacher had seemed very pleased about the chance that I might be pregnant. In fact, I’d never seen him so happy.

He’d looked like a kid on Christmas morning, for crying out loud!

“That’s hot. What?” she said in response to my incredulous look. “That’s some caveman shit right there. And your caveman just happens to be a badass and a man of God, too. He’s a catch, girl. Silver fox and all.”

I hid my face in my hands.

“Ugh. I never thought I’d be saying this, but you’re right. He is a catch. Just nothing like I would have dreamed up.”

“Dreams are for little girls, sweetheart. You’re a woman now.”

I sighed.

“I don’t know what to do, Clary.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Yes. I mean, it’s more than that. But not all the time. Sometimes, I want to smack him. I did smack him,” I remembered, my cheeks going red.

“Oooeee, I wish I had seen that.”

“I wish . . . I shouldn’t have hit him. I know he’s a good person. He didn’t deserve the way I treated him when we met.”

“He pissed you off at first, huh?”

I peeked out at her. Today, she was dressed in a hot pink and lavender track suit with platform sneakers. I knew it was not easy to find stuff in her size, but she did it. And if she couldn’t find it, she made it.

“He challenged my preconceived notions,” I admitted.

“The motorcycle and tats? Hell, that’s all mainstream now anyway, chica.”

“Well, it wasn’t when he got them! He was trying to be bad!”

Preacher had told me about leaving the seminary and getting his first tattoo drunk out of his mind. He’d let his hair grow out for nearly thirty years since then and had covered most of his chest and arms in ink. And he kept company almost exclusively with outlaw bikers, some of them not far from murders, though he seemed to think that sometimes, that was necessary.

He’d told me how he went ‘bad’. He’d even dragged out an old photo of him with Paul in the seminary, both of them looking clean-cut and earnest. So I knew he had changed. And I suspect that whatever had happened had also changed Paul to be what some would consider an extremely liberal Christian.

But he still hadn’t told me why.

“Well, he is bad to the bone, but he’s a good man. You know he is.” Her eyes twinkled at me. “And you know he’ll be a good daddy.”

“I know.” I groaned. “But I’m not ready to stop being mad yet.”

She sighed dramatically and glanced at her watch.

“How about now?”

“No. But soon, maybe. I just . . . I would have liked to do something like this on purpose. I’m not a teenager who doesn’t know better.”

“Yeah, well, you guys clearly need to work on communication. Or were you too hot and bothered to think straight?”

I shrugged, but she had it right. I’d been angry, and with one kiss, that anger had translated directly into hot, unrelenting lust. Lust that had been simmering under the surface since the moment we met.

I had a feeling that’s why Preacher had made me so mad to begin with. I’d wanted him, but I hadn’t understood why.

“Shoot,” she said, reaching into her stray tote bag. She’d hot glue gunned about a dozen plastic butterflies onto it. And glitter. Lots and lots of glitter. “Well, look at that. Your man is texting me.”

She preened, reading the screen and pretending to be shocked.

“What did he say?”

“He wants to talk,” she said, giving me an arch look. “Better not stay mad too long. He might be looking for female companionship. And you know I’m a whole lot of woman.”

I threw a pillow at her, and she caught it, making a whole lot of noise to show her annoyance.

“Girl, you know I’m playing. That man is whipped. He is 100% a one-Cynthia man now. But if I had met him first? Oooeee, we coulda had some fun!”

“You are so bad.”

“I kid because I love, sweetie.”

“I know,” I said, giving her a quick hug. “I love you, too.”

“Has he said it yet?”

I nodded.

“Yes, but I haven’t. I’m . . . I wasn’t sure he meant it.”

“Oh, he meant it, all right. I know the look,” she said as she stood, tottering toward the doorway in her platform sneakers, somehow managing to look graceful.

“How does it feel to have a lapdog that’s so big and mean-looking? Hmm, hmm, must be nice!”

I shooed her out, giving her a quick kiss. I had a lot of work to do. And even more soul searching.

A baby with Preacher. I could see it in my mind. A little girl or boy riding on his shoulders, cuddled up to his big, broad chest, him cradling our newborn in his leather-clad arms . . .