Page 26 of The Preacher's Pet

I clench and unclench my fists again. I love that man like a brother, but the idea of him having feelings for Ophelia makes me want to rearrange his face. Shit, I need to get a grip. I need to fight, to take out my anger and frustration on someone. They run fights here at Verona Falls, but they’re overseen by the staff. They can get pretty fierce but definitely aren’t what I need right now. I need something where there are zero rules, and where the audience is out for blood.

Luckily for me, I know just the place.

It’s an underground fight club located in a disused building about ten miles outside of Verona Falls grounds. Not many people at the college are even aware it exists, but people travel from all over to attend the fights. They drink and gamble and get so close to the ring they feel the blood spatter on their faces. They love it, especially some of the women who turn up in their finest dresses. They seem to revel in the violence and the bloodshed. One time, I punched a guy, and his blood hit a woman like a shower of red rain over her face. She’d smiled, poked out the pink tip of her tongue, and licked some from her lips.

I’d been hard at that, but I’d not acted on it. Not least because she’d been with one of the organizers, but also because of the promise I’d made to the other Preachers.

Anyone can show up to fight. You just have to challenge the reigning winner. Because the only rule is no weapons allowed, there aren’t exactly willing competitors lining up to take part. I know if I show up there this evening, they’ll get me in the ring.

I haven’t told either of the other Preachers where I like to go sometimes. We’re best friends, but we don’t own each other—something Roman seems to have forgotten lately. They know I come back to Verona Falls with the occasional black eye or split lip and busted knuckles, but I just tell them I got into a bar fight. They know what I’m like, so it’s not as though my story is unbelievable. Fighting is sometimes the only way I can cope with the rage buried deep inside me without losing my mind.

I grew up unable to fight. As Ophelia pointed out, I was a skinny kid. Any time I did something my father didn’t like—which could be something as simple as stacking the dishwasher the wrong way—he took off his belt. I still have the scars across my back from the beatings he gave me. I lived in constant fear of him. Before I met Ophelia, I’d just run off into the woods and hide. I’d find a bush to crawl beneath or a tree to climb, and doze off, sheltered in its branches. But then I’d met Ophelia that day at the river, when she’d been cursing out her attempt to build a dam, and she’d become my new safe space.

Of course, I hadn’t stayed small. I’d grown, naturally, and I realized I had some control over my size. By the time I hit my teenage years, I started spending more time in our home gym—always when my father wasn’t home—and I learned what weights to lift and what I needed to eat in order to build my muscle. I got bigger and bigger. Soon enough, my dad realized I was too big for him to raise his belt to, but that didn’t mean I forgave him. I never forgot all the years of me cowering in terror in a corner while he rained down lashes with that goddamned belt. The man was a fucking bully, and he still is, even if he knows he can’t take off his belt for me anymore.

I leave the grand building of the college. I need to waste some time before the time comes to leave for the fight, but I’m unsure where I’m even going. Normally, I’d head to the old water tower, where we all hang out, but truthfully, I don’t want to see theothers right now. They might want to talk about Ophelia, and I’m not sure what to tell them.

I remember that tonight is Roman’s night for the history club he goes to. It’s such a geeky thing; it always makes me smile because it’s at such odds with the way he is in general. It means if I go there, it might just be me and Malachi, and I don’t want to bump into him when it’s only the two of us after that conversation with Ophelia. I need to work some aggression off before I ask him about their encounter.

I’d prefer to pace around the woods, lost in thought, until the time arrives to go to the fight. Taking out my phone, I message them both and say that I’m going into town and won’t be back until later. Then I walk farther into the forest.

From here, you can only catch glimpses of the main Verona Falls building, but you can still see its towers. It looms over the land, gothic and imposing. The place is kind of creepy, but I love that about it. There’s not an awful lot I like about college, but the history and atmosphere of the building is one of them. The other students are mostly total dicks, and the classes are boring.

We Preachers already have our futures decided. One day, we will build something together that will rival all our families’ businesses. Roman will be the brains of the operation, and I’ll be the brawn, and Malachi will provide the cunning. Together, we are stronger than we were apart. They might annoy the fuck out of me sometimes, but I’m glad I met them and that we became so close.

I care more about them than I do my own flesh and blood.

The wind whips through the trees, and I shiver. I glance at my watch again and decide it’s late enough for me to head to the fight. Jogging toward the tree line, I head around to where I’ve parked my vehicle. Next to my old truck is a Bugatti. I stare at it and shake my head. Fucking flashy idiotic status symbol. I overheard one of the girls in the bar once say she thought anyguy who needed his car to be his status symbol had to have a small dick.

I bet Lex has a small dick. Saint, too, since he’s Lex’s twin. Zane, probably not. He gives off big dick energy. He’s the only Viper I don’t actively disdain.

Maybe it’s because we both understand sign language, and sometimes we’ve had short conversations. Zane doesn’t use full American Sign Language. He uses a bastardized form he’s taught the other Vipers, but it contains the basics. Enough so we can communicate.

I push the thought of why I can sign out of my mind, because the reason behind it ramps my rage up to unprecedented levels. The only rule of the fight club is don’t actually kill anyone. If I think about my brother, I will probably end up breaking that rule. Then I’ll be in deep shit.

I blow out a long, steady breath and focus myself. Climbing into my truck, I turn on the engine and smile as it rumbles to life. This vehicle feels like my second home sometimes. It’s familiar and comforting.

I leave the grounds of Verona Falls, lifting a hand in a wave to the guards on the outer security gates. They recognize both me and my truck and are used to seeing me coming and going. Not that we’re prisoners here at Verona Falls. We can leave whenever we want.

The drive to the underground club passes in a blur, my mind on autopilot. I’ve got some music on, and the window cracked, and my mood has improved some. I still find my thoughts snagged on Ophelia, though. My heart is cracked at the change in her personality. It’s as though the feisty, robust girl who I’d once known no longer exists and now she’s this fragile, damaged creature.

Could she still be in there? The old Ophelia. With the right people and environment, could she be coaxed to the surfaceagain? I’ve never been someone who needed to fix other people, but I can’t help wondering about this one. She said her parents sent her to Verona Falls to get used to being around people again. Does that mean she’s been isolated? Or does it just mean people like us?

I want to help her, but I don’t know how. I itch to talk to the other two Preachers about her, but I’m not sure if I can. If Malachi wants to get in her panties, then I shouldn’t involve him, and as for Roman…well, who the fuck knows what’s going on in his head half the time.

The minute I arrive and park in the lot, I get that sense of excitement and buzz that only fighting can give me. Well, maybe fucking would, too, but I’ve sworn off that for now. I wonder if Roman would approve of this and imagine not. I bet he’d say I was giving my power away by doing this. See it as a cheap indulgence. Well, tough shit for him, because I love it and I’m not going to stop.

The elevator down to the basement level of the big old building the fight club is held in seems to take longer than usual, but I think it’s just because I’m so ramped up and ready to fight.

When I step out, the crowd is chanting loudly enough that I can hear it all the way back here in the corridor. I turn left to find Eric, the man who runs the fights. He’s always in his office when they take place, watching on the monitors. I approach the office door, and the two huge security guards on either side of it give me a nod. I’m here often enough that I’m familiar with them.

One of them takes out a phone and sends a message. A moment later, his phone beeps. He glances down and then looks up at me. Without saying a word, he opens the door and gestures for me to walk in.

I enter the large but plain room. There’s a huge flatscreen television on one wall, a long bar curved around one end of the room, with four bar stools on this side, and a row of shelves withtopnotch liquor on the other side. Beneath the egress basement windows positioned high in the wall is a large desk with two chairs in front of it. Behind the desk, watching me, his fingers steepled, is Eric.

He’s a small man, quiet, and pale. The exact opposite of who you’d expect to run a fight club, but no one messes with Eric. The rumors are that if you do, you’ll find yourself disappeared. Or worse.

One guy who allegedly had a beef with him was found dead, his tongue cut out.

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