Page 9 of Preacher

I thought of the ones that still haunted me—the faces and names I couldn’t shake. Some I’d lost. Some I’d let go, and some, like Beckett, I carried like a goddamn anchor. Goose finally looked up and gave me one of his smiles. “But ain’t just ghosts here. There’s family, too.”

“You’re right about that.” I reached over and stole a handful of bacon before saying, “Thanks for the breakfast.”

Without saying anything more, I turned and walked out.

The office was a mess. Papers were stacked in uneven piles across my desk, and next to the largest pile was an old coffee cup I’d been meaning to toss out for over a week. I ignored the clutter and got to work.

I started with the inventory from our last run and made notes on any changes we might want to make for the next. The mushrooms were moving better than any of us had expected. That was good news. It meant we were building something sustainable, and I couldn’t have been more pleased.

The door creaked open, and Ghost stepped in, rubbing the back of his neck like he was about to ask for a favor. “Hey, Prez.”

I sighed, setting down my pen. “What you need?”

He grimaced. “Pretty sure we got a busted pipe out back.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Cause there’s water spewing everywhere.”

“And what the hell caused that?”

“Memphis may or may not have backed over it with the track hoe.”

“Of course he did.” I shook my head. “Call Emit. He should be able to fix it without charging us a fortune.”

“You got it.”

“And tell shithead to be more careful.”

He left, and before I could get back to the books, Rusty was in the doorway, a smirk on his face and a beer in his hand.

“You got any wise words for a man who might’ve accidentally proposed to one of the girls at the Vault and forgot about it?”

“Don’t makepromises you ain’t gonna keep.”

“Fair enough.”

One by one, they kept coming.

Some wanted advice. Some needed favors.

Some just wanted to shoot the shit. While there were times when it could be exhausting, I never complained. It was one of the many nuances that came with being president. My boys depended on me, and I depended on them.

I got back to work, and it wasn’t long before Creed walked in. He was the club’s VP and my closest friend. We’d been running the club together for almost twenty years, but we’d been friends for even longer.

Creed gave me one of his looks then asked, “Another bad night?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“Might need to talk to someone about that.”

“I talked to you.”

“Not what I meant, and you know it.” He sat down in front of me as he said, “You can’t keep going like this. Beck wouldn’t want you to.”

“I don’t know. I think he might,” I scoffed. “He’d think it was Karma or some shit like that.”

“Yeah, you might be right,” Creed chuckled. “Your boy could be an asshole, just like his ol’ man.”

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