Page 8 of Preacher

ChapterTwo

Rian

Time moves in a slow haze of medicine, bandage changes, and rest. Sleep is a refuge I seek eagerly to escape pain, discomfort, and the powerless situation I’ve landed in. During moments of wakefulness, Preacher is always there. It’s endearing him in a way I shouldn’t allow. Currently, he’s one of the things standing between me and freedom. Does the why truly matter? Propped up in bed, I study the room and wait for his return. A non-descript beige, the walls boast a black and white Sinners flag with the club logo and photos of Preacher with his brothers. I’m in his room. The thought leaves me tingly and curious. Is the Florence Nightingale act a throwback to his Navy training or something a little more personal? Why am I even worrying about this?

I have enough trouble to sort through. Still, I can’t stop the warmth that spreads through me when I recall Preacher’s care. Swallowed in the folds of his oversized Sinners shirt, I’m nestled in clean sheets and clean because of the sponge baths he’s ordered. What would he say if I asked him to bathe me personally? Amused, I giggle at the thought.

Knock. Knock.

I clear my throat. “Yes.”

The door opens, and the silver-haired devil haunting my every waking moment and following me into dreams enters.

“You’re awake.” He smiles, showing a row of white teeth with two crooked eyeteeth I find charming.

“I am.”

“How are you feeling?” Stepping inside, he shuts the door behind him, placing us in our own world.

“Stiff, ready for a real shower.” I bite my bottom lip. “And news from the outside. Since I’m stuck in this cell.”

“Queenie,” he chides.

“Oh, I’m free to go now?” I arch a brow and cross my arms, wincing at the pain that flows through me.

He sighs, bowing his head. “You know I can’t make that call.”

I snarl and look away from him.

“We need to talk about recent developments.”

My stomach bottoms out. “What happened?”

He clears his throat. “I thought you might like a real shower and a change of clothes.” He pulls a bag from behind his back.

I can’t resist the carrot he’s dangling above my head after days of being sedentary in the same space. “You don’t fight fair.”

“No, when it’s important, I fight to win.” He flashes a roguish grin.

I make grabby gestures with my hands as his rich chuckle washes over me, and he walks closer and hands me the white bag with slanted black font.

“Are you saying I’m important to you, Preacher?” I rummage through the bag, refusing to look up as I hear his quick intake of breath. I pull out a lavender, velour tracksuit and a soft, cotton shirt of the same color. I trail my fingers down the material. “It’s beautiful.”

“I thought you might like it.”

I look up, stunned. “You picked this out?” He’s paid enough attention to me to know what I’d wear?

“Everything in that bag was purchased by me.”

“Why?”

“Because while you’re here, I’m the one taking care of you.”

“Is that what we’re calling this?”

He walks to the bed and sinks onto the edge of it. “I only want to help.”

“Then you’ll let me make a phone call.”

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