Page 31 of The Preacher's Pet

And maybe, if we’re together somewhere, he’ll kiss me again, because right now, that kiss was the sole greatest experience of my life, and I can’t wait to do it again. From the way he’s looking at me—as though he can’t see anyone else in the room—he feels the same way.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Camile grabs my arm and angles her body slightly to block out Malachi. He’s still well within hearing distance, though.

“Is that a good idea?” Camile says, keeping her voice low. “The Preachers can be kind of freaky.” She shoots Malachi a look.

Cain is one of the Preachers, I reason to myself. And Cain is my friend, which means Malachi is Cain’s friend. So really, it’s like I already know Malachi.

I try not to think about the other one, the tall, brooding blond who warned me away from Cain. His energy was so scary, and he seemed determined to stop me being around his friend. My fizzy, bubbly, happy mind doesn’t want to think about that.

I flash Camile a slightly drunken grin. “But I’m kind of freaky,” I declare happily.

“Don’t worry, Camile,” Malachi says, clearly having overheard her. “I’ll take care of her.”

Camile rolls her eyes and mutters something along the lines of, ‘why do I always end up feeling like everyone’s mom?’ Then she turns to me and says, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ll be fine.” I smile back over at Malachi. “He’s gonna take care of me.”

“You’re a grown up,” Camile relents. “Do whatever you want.”

She spots someone she knows over my shoulder and lifts her hand. Then she leans in and air kisses me, but hisses, “Be safe,” in my ear. “Call me if you need me. Make sure to keep your phone on you, and anytime you want out of there, just use it.”

Then she’s gone, leaving me alone with a man dressed fully in black, with tousled dark hair, and a voice that could surely lead me down to hell all by itself.

16

MALACHI

I takeOphelia’s hand and lead her from the bar.

Camile’s words stick in my mind. That we Preachers are freaky. She’s not wrong, I suppose, but I liked Ophelia’s reply. That she’s a little freaky, too.

She seems different tonight, and not just because of the way she’s dressed or that she’s wearing makeup, though she does look incredible. The denim dress reveals her delicate, bare shoulders and collarbone, and her silky white-blonde hair flows down her back like water. It’s mesmerizing to me the way it moves when she turns her head this way or that. Her strange, dual-colored eyes are bright and defined by mascara, and her lips are shiny.

But the change in her looks is not the most striking thing about her tonight, it’s the way she seems like a different person, almost. She doesn’t have that haunted look and seems like a confident, happy girl. I know she’s been drinking; I could taste the alcohol when I kissed her. I don’t know if the change is just because of the vodka, though.

Maybe the music has opened this new side to her. When she sang, it was like she came to life, and I understood that part of her, because it is something I feel as well. It’s the reason I go tothe bar occasionally, to sing in front of people. Because music is something that needs to be shared. It’s the great connector. It’s the reason every bar had a piano back in the old days, and why people sing hymns in church, and concerts sell out within minutes.

I want the music to be what she remembers about tonight, and not the alcohol. I want her to feel good because the song…and maybe I…made her feel that way. I know how dangerous it can be to use booze as a crutch, and if Ophelia has been floundering, but finds new confidence in a bottle of vodka, that can be dangerous in itself.

That I’m worrying about her wellbeing surprises me. I can’t remember the last time I worried about someone who wasn’t either myself or one of the other Preachers.

We leave the college building and take the track heading into the woods. It’s dark, and the creatures of the night have woken and are moving around us, calling in hoots and screeches, while the cool breeze rustles the branches overhead.

Ophelia shivers, her pale skin prickling in goosebumps.

“You’re cold,” I say.

“A little.”

I quickly shrug off my leather jacket and drape it around her shoulders. She flashes me a grateful smile that just about melts my heart.

“Thanks.”

Damn, this girl’s gotten to me. What I’d do to see that smile again.

I think of Roman’s words, warning me away from her, and quickly push them away. He won’t be happy about me taking Ophelia to the water tower, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He’ll still be geeking out in his stupid history club. History is important to him. He believes we’ll build our futures correctly if we learn about the past. I guess he has a point. Roman issmart, but that doesn’t mean he’s right about everything, and staying away from Ophelia is definitely something he’s wrong about.

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