Page 26 of Preacher Man

The last time they’d been in the same place they’d beat ten shits out of each other and Red Light had taken to the roads as a nomad rather than stick around the Colorado chapter issuing he left or he’d kill Preacher. Preacher had walked away from that brawl with two busted ribs, a face that looked like he’d used a cheese grater to shave and he’d limped for a week. Rider had almost bounced both their asses out of the club for it. He got word that Red Light didn’t fare much better when he’d gotten on his bike and took off he’d only got as far as the next town before his broken body had to stop. The Butcher had met him at a motel, patched him up, stayed with Red Light for two nights and when he could ride again he had taken off.

“Good to see you, too, Red. How’s it going?”Keep it civil, he warned himself. Bygones-be-fucking-bygones for Christ sake.

Red Light didn’t get that memo. His lip sneering.

He was a big guy. Stockier than Preacher was, wide in the shoulders, he'd always worn his muddy blonde hair short and slicked back for as long as Preacher had known him, and the wide black gauges stretching out each earlobe, tatts going down both arms in vivid black ink, he lived at the gym, or at least he used to, who knew what had changed for the guy, they weren’t exchanging Christmas letters.

“It’s going.” Was his clipped response. “Don’t know what you’re doing here, we can handle this ourselves.”

“My president begs to differ since he sent me here at H's request.”

“You’re a waste of fucking time.” Red stared. Provoking.

Because Preacher knew first-hand what was Red Light’s problem and had one time deserved the spewed hate he could see where the guy was coming from. Didn’t mean he’d take being treated like a fucking dog. He arched a brow, stepped forward, a shift of his bones in warning.

“Fortunately for us all, you ain’t the man in charge, you get no say in what I do. So, to save us all some time, I’ll tell you, Red. I don’t take orders from you, I answer to Rider and Hawk alone. While I’m here I’ll defer to H’s running his club his way. Again, I say I don’t take orders from you, you got that? I have a job to do, I’ll be doing it.“

The way Red tossed down the wrench he was gripping, the metal clanging on the ground. Preacher was sure they were about to throw down like teens and what fucking timing when he was gone tired.

He could often go without sleep when he was on assignment in the army, days and days, fatigued and sweating bullets under the sun. He had his PTSD to thank for needing sleep on the regular, the moment he got himself all out of sync his body went into agitated manic mode and did crap he’d rather not happen while he was away from home and people he trusted to see him through it.

Inhaling, calling on Jesus for a shred of patience, his hands shoved into his lined jacket pockets, showing Red he had no desire to fight him. “So, this is how it’s going to be between us, still, Red?”

“Fucking A, Preacher. What, you dumb enough to think all is forgotten?”

“It’s been a long time, brother.”

“I ain’t your fucking brother. You saw to that,” he spat out, eyes full of hatred. Fucks sake. Preacher had known terrorists with better manners and less hate-on to kill him.

One mistake and he’d made an adversary for life. No one put that on the brochure, maybe if they had then Preacher would have taken notice years ago. As it was he could give Red Light all the reasons he had back then and see it wouldn’t make a lick of difference.

The man hated him.

He had to take it on the chin. But it prickled underneath his skin. It fucking stung if he was truthful. By no normal standard was Preacher considered a stand-up guy, outlaws had reputations the public thought was all fiction when in reality, ninety-nine percent of the time all the bad things people whispered was all true about every last MC. That didn’t mean he was a bastard with his brothers, he had their backs, even now, with this big idiot boring bullet holes into Preacher’s forehead with the ugly sneering, he knew he’d still go to bat for him if the situation called for it.

If the boot was on the other foot? He smiled ruefully to himself. Red would see Preacher dead in a ditch before he lifted a hand to help.

Yeah, fucking stung.

There was no making up for what he did.

Time didn’t heal wounds.

Friendships couldn’t be fixed

Move on, fucker. He told himself.

Well, enough of this meet-cute before he got down on one knee and proposed marriage from all the love coming his way. He walked around his bike to head into the clubhouse to let H know he’d arrived.

“Good seeing you, Red.”

“Yeah, whatever, motherfucker.”

Coming to a halt halfway towards the hatch that led into the club, Preacher’s eyes flared, he backtracked, boots scuffing the floor with how fast he strode over to Red, the roar of his blood matched the grind of his back molars, getting into Red Light’s face like he was about to lay the lips on him.

He’d take a lot. He’d taken all the bullshit, knowing how warranted it was at one time. But he wouldn’t take that. No way, no how. He didn’t lay a hand on Red but he made his point clear with the vicious stare. Enough was enough. Two powerhouses eyeballing the hell out of each other. Preacher’s shoulder blades tightened with the familiar sensation of preparing for war.

“Piece of advice, you get to say that only once to me. I’m done enabling your little boy tantrums. Get the fuck over it already and stay out of my face while I’m here, or I’ll put you in the goddamn hospital.“