Page 24 of Preacher Man

Preacher kicked his gaze down the long table, on the far right at the end sat Reaper in his usual spot. He never deviated from that chair, if a brother was sat there when Reaper sauntered in he'd just look until the guy moved. It was Reaper's seat, the motherfucker had some OCD shit going on with where he parked his ass.

Sometimes Preacher even forgot the man existed, he rarely talked even when spoken to. For six months Preacher had thought he was mute until one day Reaper had asked Preacher for the time. Scared the bejesus out of him, and only then did he realize the man had a New Zealand accent. Now though, he knew the guy only talked when he had something to say. If Preacher judged his brothers for all their defects, for a better word, they wouldn’t get along as they did. None of the club members were perfect, but they were dependable, which counted in his book.

So, what if one was a self-imposed mute, Snake talked enough for all of em. As he knew, like clockwork Reaper nodded, but didn’t acknowledge his directive with any noise. He gulped on his coffee and brushed the hair out of his amber eyes. The wedding band on his left hand no one knew why he wore glinted under the luminous bulb up above.

Brex was the current mayor, going strong with his third term. Crooked as a paperclip. He regularly took advantage of the bunkers to store sensitive documents he wouldn’t want his office to lay eyes on. Hey, for a price, Preacher would let that bent politician keep his granny down there. When you joined ranks with outlaws you knew everything had its price.

Everything.

Why was it everyone from the Russians to the Mexicans and neighboring rival MC’s wanted a piece of Armado Springs? That was easy. It was prime real estate for the likes of the criminals they all were. It sat in the heart of the mountains, away from CCTV and prying city eyes, with only a skeleton crew of law enforcers who were more prone to deal with a missing dog than anything else. Plus, it had the back roads leading to and from the mountains, those roads and those mountains that Rider and their MC ran were what everyone and their fucking mother wanted a piece of. It was like guarding Willy Wonka's chocolate kingdom at times.

Now that Hades had gone right to hell, the deals he had going with the Russians were null and void, making thosebratvadickheads a little-pissed off. It was why they were trying to put the pressure on Rider to accept a new deal with them. The underground bunkers, all hush-hush as fuck, surrounded by forest were a high commodity, it had been there since the first president had the good business mind to dig that bunker himself and rent it out to the highest bidder.

The MC knew some shady people. And profited from that association. Cha-ching, you crooked shitheads.

The door to the church burst open, it was automatic for each of them to pop to their feet and reach for their guns. Curses blistered the air, adrenaline flooded through like a tidal wave. Realistically the MC was hard to penetrate, and the boys would have had some notice had it been a raid, but habits were hard pressed to think about logically when danger came through the door like a damn tornado.

Or not.

Arson, that dickhead, raised his hands in the air striding in one legged gait in front of the other, his swagger on form, grinning like a fool who was almost swiss cheese.

“Goddamn, Arson. You’re late.Again. You either rock up to church on time or you better walk in here dead. Last fuckin’ warnin’.“ Growled Rider.

Butts hit chairs again. Weapons were slid away.

“Sorry, Prez. What happened was---”

“You were under somemujercita.” Guessed Capone.

Arson grinned and took his seat next to Lawless. If Hawk were at his chair next to Rider their fucked-up family would all be here in attendance. If there was ever a poster boy for one percenter outlaws, then Arson had the face. Pretty fucker with the ink, face scruff, flannel and denim, and manly jewelry, he was under more women than Preacher was, and that was a hard record to beat, but Preacher never let his dick run his life, or get in the way of the club. Fucking bonehead was running on fumes with Rider’s patience.

It was Snake's turn to butt in when he added “We can smell the pussy on your face. Use soap for god sake, Arson,” everyone laughed and the tension was gone.

“Now, gentleman. Let’s talk money.” Texas cleared his throat.

And so, church went on for another hour.

I’m going to fuck you.Wasn’t far from his mind. Soon. He hoped soon. He had a hunger and only Ruby could fill it.

Preacher got word later that afternoon that the sheriff was back again at the gates. Since he was the most senior member around able to deal with him, he tossed a wash rag on the workbench and strode outside, nodding to the prospect to open the gate and let the law-man in. A smile pasted on Preacher’s face he met him halfway, didn’t offer to shake his hand.

“Hey there. Got a minute, Preacher? I called, but someone said Rider was busy.”

“I suppose I got a minute if you continue insisting. What keeps you sniffing around us, sheriff? Keep in mind I’m not as fair going as Rider is and rarely swallow bullshit lies,” he said like a joke, a tight smile on his weathered face.

“That sounds like a threat.” Charlie’s jaw tightened. He could glare all he wanted, Preacher wasn’t afraid of the law. Most were bent bastards, this guy, however, according to Rider, he was alright, but it was a pain in the neck having the enforcers coming around all the time, having to play nice and genial to keep them from smelling the real secrets Renegade Souls MC had under their hat.

Charlie thrust a sheet of paper out expecting Preacher to take it. He didn’t. Only stared at the face of their last enemy, may he rot in hell. “I know what the ugly fucker Hades looks like. So, what? Good riddance to him, you should be glad he’s skipped town, sheriff, one less loser off your books, isn’t that right?”

“Have you seen this man?” Preacher blew out a sigh at the question he’d been asked four times in total, knowing his brothers had endured so much more questioning these past months.

“Nope, not since the last time you shoved this under my nose. And if I did I’ll be sure to tell you law keepers.”

“Do you have any information regarding this man?”

“Again, nope. We’re not friends. Nor do I like the bastard. He has shifty eyes. Look at them, too close together, that inbred shit-stick has secrets if you ask me, probably that his momma is really his sister-auntie.”

“Should I be asking you, Preacher?” The hero-cop chose his question well. Preacher grinned and coasted a hand down his beard, let go of an expletive or two.