Page 112 of Preacher Man

If, and when he might need a hand Preacher was the guy he’d call.

Scanning the parking lot, he counted six vehicles that had driven up in the last two hours and rented rooms. It was a pervert’s cheap mecca, rooms by the hour to fuck and snort.

Hands in his pocket he took the stroll across the street, into the motel grounds, bypassing the office, he slipped up the stairs, checking subtly over his shoulder for the gray Lincoln. As he reached into his pocket for the thin leather pouch he carried everywhere with him, he slid free the long silver tool that could get him through most any locks, unless it was those fancy-schmancy high-tech key cards then he got fancy right back. Still, there was no lock he couldn’t break eventually.

Grinder crouched by her door, did a little wiggling and voila.

The room smelled like her. How he remembered.

Like fucking sin and danger.

Without permission, his cock ached and stirred.

Fucking down, fella. We’re not here for that.

Maybe he lied.Maybe.

But that wasn’t his whole reason. Maybe he’d let her beg him for a fuck before he killed her.

Maybe.

Closing the door over with a gentle snick of the lock, he halted in the middle of the room. She kept it tidy, not even a pair of errant lace panties to jack over. He poked his head around the bathroom, not expecting to find anything there, except to maybe draw her wicked scent into his lungs.

He didn’t even expect to find what he was looking for. It was all perspective.

Grinder was hungry suddenly like he was staring at an empty plate in front of him and only meat would do. The chase, couldn’t beat it.

He walked over to the TV table and ever so slightly he used two fingers and moved the thirty-inch screen towards the left on an angle and then he turned back the top cover on the bed and left a fist print in the middle of the nice once neat pillow.

She’d made the bed before she’d left, what kind of freak makes a motel bed?

Oh yeah, Luxe. Grinder was here, baby.

A small calling card to let the dirty rotten thief know someone had gotten into her place easy as breathing and it wouldn’t end there.

Nah. this wasn’t the end of him and Luxe.

It was just the start. Act III in her deviant play.

Soon, my devious Mexican bebé.He smiled that dark smile of his, leaving the motel as quick as he’d gotten in. Locking it behind him.

He didn’t want any other dirty rotten thieves getting in, now did he?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Our president is as slow as a dead snail in pig shit. All those who agree, say aye.” - Texas.

“Do you think it’s the bubonic plague, Prez? I’ve seen The Exorcist. That movie gave me intense nightmares when I was a kid, for like a month, I even slept in my parent's bed.” Asked Texas in all seriousness across the church table rubbing a hand on his unshaven chin, hair falling into his eyes he took that same hand upwards and shoved it back on his scalp.

“You’re such a pussy, Tex.” Laughed Snake. Ever the comedian, forever the member who said what everyone was thinking. Asshole. If you looked past the quick fired jokes, and his effortless smiles, you’d see someone who held his cards close to his chest and knew when to play them. That was the true Snake. Texas read people very well.

Texas flashed him a grin.

“Oh, shit. Me too. I can't watch that.” Offered up Pretty-Boy in solidarity.

“I amend my previous pussy statement. We now have two. Besides, if Z-girl had the plague we’d know about it, she’s just puking like she has it, is all.”

“Careful how you talk about my old lady, dickbags.” Warned Rider in a growl that wasn’t so much heated but Texas heard the seriousness in it nonetheless. He looked contrite down the table to the boss. And said. “I’m only saying. The way Z-girl dived for the trash can and hurled up the Tuesday tacos. She made the exorcist noises. I had horrible flashbacks.”

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