Preacher Read online

  Preacher

  Joanna Blake

  Preacher

  Dirty mind. Filthy mouth. Pure heart.

  I’m a man of the cloth. But in my case, the cloth is leather. I’m wild and free but one look at her and I’m begging to be tied down.

  I provide spiritual guidance for clubs up and down the West Coast. Biker weddings, funerals and everything in between. I get paid in cash, tequila and favors.

  I’m living the good life until an old friend from my days at the seminary calls in a favor I can’t refuse.

  I trade in my leather for long black robes. I do my best to behave around her, but the temptation is too strong. There’s no stopping nature when our worlds collide.

  The Sunday School teacher isn’t having it. She’s too young and way too pure. My primal nature kicks in when I’m around her. She makes me want to sin and atone, all at once.

  Can she save my soul, or will we both give the devil his due?

  Copyright © 2019 by Joanna Blake

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Acknowledgments

  Edited by Valorie Clifton

  Cover art by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Formatting by Pincushion Press

  Photo from Deposit Photos

  For my reader group, Blake’s Bombshells—in particular, miss Cynthia, for whom our heroine is named!

  Contents

  One week ago

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Nine months later

  Sneak Peak of Tony Margarell’s Story

  About the Author

  One week ago

  Preacher

  The sun was just rising over the Pacific as I finished the last dregs of the bottle in my hand. I wasn’t worried about running out. I had a case and a half of the stuff fewer than twenty feet away. I savored the last mouthful of the tequila and swallowed the worm. Anything else would be disrespectful, I always said.

  I raised a hand to the fishermen dragging their boat to the water nearby. Every morning, they came at the ass crack of dawn. I was usually still up drinking. We had grown used to each other over the years.

  One of them jogged over.

  “Buenos Días, Preacher.”

  “Good morning, you cheerful motherfucker.”

  Pablo grinned at me, not taking the slightest offense. I liked that about him.

  “You alone again, amigo?”

  I nodded with a shrug. Pablo liked to give me shit about the rotating group of mamacitas who warmed the bed in my falling down beach shack. Or they used to. I hadn’t been interested lately.

  I felt . . . restless.

  Maybe I was bored. It wasn’t like I didn’t have variety. I never stuck with one lady for long. Never had. But even variety loses its appeal over time.

  And I’d been at this a long, long time.

  It was probably time to head back to California, I realized with a sigh. I had shit to do. With honorary privileges at multiple clubhouses, there was always someplace to crash or some hot club girl who would inevitably invite me to her bed. If I was lucky, she’d invite a friend or two. But I was easy. I didn’t need all that. I could roll up my jacket and find a corner to sleep in until it was time to move on. In addition to my shack south of the border, I also had a place up north in the woods. Rustic was one word for it. Simple was another.

  Simple, just the way I liked it.

  So yeah, maybe the easy life on the water was getting to me. The tequila was plentiful. So were the women. But I wasn’t enjoying myself. I hadn’t been for a long time. It had taken a while to sneak up on me. Almost a month ago, I’d realized I was getting old. Hell, I was already old as dirt. For the first time, a soft, unfamiliar woman in my bed and a belly full of booze weren’t enough anymore.

  Besides, I missed the road.

  I missed the hunt.

  I missed the Untouchables. Hell, I missed all the clubs that I had privileges with. I even missed the damn Hell Raisers.

  The two I could stand, anyway. Shane, who was probably not going to stay on as the head of the Raisers. He was already more than half Untouchable. And Doc, who like me, had privileges at multiple clubs.

  People tended to be nice to a guy who would clean up bullet wounds without calling the cops. Hell, I’d seen Doc pick a bullet out of his own arm and then go back to drinking.

  I grabbed my cigar butt and the empty bottle before waving goodbye to Pablo and the boys.

  “Buena suerte, mi amigo. I might be taking off soon.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on the place for you,” he said with a grin.

  “Yeah, yeah, you can crash if you want. Just don’t shit on the bed.”

  He laughed, shaking his head at me.

  “You’re crazy, Preacher.”

  “That I am,” I said, walking back across the sand to the shack. It had been built by fishermen at least fifty years before. That made it as old as I was.

  No wonder I liked it.

  I poured myself a glass of water from the tap and sat on the edge of the bed, shaking the sand out of my jeans as I pulled them off. I lay down, buck ass naked, and watched a lizard crawl up the wall.

  That’s when I made the single most stupid move I’ve made in my entire fucking life.

  I answered my phone.

  “John? That you?”

  I sat up, instantly awake, if not completely sober.

  “Paul?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” the voice said, and I flashed back instantly. I was a young seminary student. My faith in God had been without question. And Paul had been my friend. My best friend. Hell, we were as close as brothers. “You are damn hard to get ahold of.”

  “Sorry, man. How they hanging?”

  “We don’t talk for years, and that’s what you ask me?” Paul wasn’t mad, though. He might have gone legit, but he had a sense of humor. And nuts. He coughed and said something under his breath.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘They are not hanging too well.’” He inhaled and I knew. I knew what he was about to say. “I’m sick, John. Cancer. They don’t give me a lot of time.”

  “Shit,” I said, feeling the ground drop out from under me. Death was part of being a biker. It was as familiar as an old friend. But Paul was different. He’d been there when everything happened with Janey. He’d known me before my faith . . . well, before my faith changed. He knew I had never stopped believing in God, just his rules. And while I loved God, I didn’t much like the Big Guy. Or at least, my feelings were complicated.

  Paul was one of the good o
nes. 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.”

  “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.