Page 8 of Preacher

Beckett.

My son. My legacy. My biggest regret.

I should’ve done more. I should’ve known I was losing him. I should’ve pulled him back before he spiraled. I should’ve never sent him to Washington like he was some problem to be handled. My boy was drowning, and I pawned him off. I told myself it was for the best—that he needed to find his way like I had.

But he wasn’t me.

And now, he was gone.

I ran a hand down my face and let out a long breath. Dreams like this weren’t new. I had them all the time, but they never got any easier.

Hell, maybe they were more than just dreams.

Maybe it was Beckett’s way of reminding me of all the ways I’d failed him.

That weighed on me in ways I couldn’t begin to explain. I needed to shake this off and mentally prepare for the day ahead. We had a run coming up, and business was booming at the Vault. I needed to be at the top of my game and to do that, I needed coffee and lots of it.

I sat up, and as I eased the covers back, I heard the faint clatter of dishes. Soon after, I caught the slight scent of bacon. Someone was up, and from the smell of it, they were making a damn good breakfast.

With a groan, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and my joints protested the movement. I sat there for a second and shook off the last remnants of the dream.

After a moment, I pushed to my feet and started for the bathroom. I took a quick shower, got dressed, and headed for the kitchen, following the scent of bacon and the promise of a new day.

The scent of bacon and coffee grew stronger as I got closer to the kitchen, but there was still a trace of last night’s whiskey and smoke lingering in the air. Our hang-arounds were the ones stuck with breakfast duty, but when I walked into the kitchen, I didn’t find a couple of blondes with great tits. Instead, I found Goose.

He stood there with a spatula in his hand, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. He looked like a damn poster boy for trouble—young, strong, and still carrying that cocky ease that came with knowing you could take on the world. I couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of something deep in my chest.

Not jealousy. Hell, I’d never been the jealous kind. Didn’t have to be. This was more of a reminder of the time gone by. I used to look just like him. Muscled up, young, and tough, and I could turn a head or two. Now, my bones ached when I got out of bed, and I might’ve groaned a little. And there was more gray in my beard than I cared to admit.

I walked over and started pouring myself a cup of coffee as I grumbled, “Why the hell aren’t you home cookin’ at your own place?”

“Had a late night.” His smirk was all pride and mischief. “Didn’t see the point in driving back when I could just crash here.”

“You better watch it.” I shook my head. “You gonna make someone a hell of a wife someday.”

“Wife my ass and no husband either.” Goose laughed as he grabbed the plate beside him and started to pile on bacon. “I mean, come on. It’d take one hell of a woman to tie all this down.”

“Or a cattle hand,” I scoffed. “But they’d need to muzzle you, too.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” He set the plate on the counter and gave me one of his looks. “How come you never stay at your place anymore?”

“Too damn quiet.”

The words came out before I really thought about them, but they were true. My place wasn’t a home. It was just four walls and a bed I barely slept in.

Goose didn’t say anything. He just nodded like he got it. And maybe he did. The club had always been my home. It was the only thing that ever really felt like one, and I had a feeling it was the same for him. Goose was always poking fun and making jokes, but I knew it was just a ruse.

The kid had been through a lot, more than most. Hell, the kid had been chewed up and spit out by life more than once, but he kept going. Kept laughing and acting like nothing could touch him. But I saw through it. He had his struggles, but he hadn’t let them define him.

“What about you? What’s your excuse?”

“I already told ya.” He wouldn’t look at me as he said, “I had a late night.”

“Um-hmm, and what’s the real reason.”

“Ain’t much point in going home to an empty house.” He shrugged. “Nothing but ghosts there.”

“I get it. Home is where the heart is and all that.” I took another drink of my coffee before adding, “But the club has ghosts of its own. Ain’t the same kind, but they’re there.”

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