Page 115 of Preacher Man

“Nope.”

Texas could literally think of a billion other places he wanted to be than here. And those included death-row and having sloppy-joes with the moron in charge of the country right now. He wasn’t normally one for sweaty breakouts, or nervous outbursts, but he was nervous and sweating under his clothes.

He was in that slither between rock and a hard place, having the life squeezed out of him.

“That’s not how this goes, Tait.” Malachai keeping his position by his car, smiled, seemingly in a sign of friendship, Texas suspected, but knew differently.

Yeah, he knew differently.

“You can keep asking, and my answer is still the same.”

“You know what I’ve done,” the smile gone, the friendly demeanor gone. “I could make trouble for theSouls, Tait. I don’t want to do that.”

Of course, you don’t.

“My name is Texas.”

The cop laughed and scrubbed a hand through his hair as the breeze picked up and blew some of the dark locks into his eyes. “Maybe you’ll tell me one day where that came from. Since you were born in Harrison. Long way to come.” The cop cast his gaze around as if he considered Colorado the back of beyond and further still. Texas didn’t show a flicker of emotion thinking of his home -not home- in Harrison, a quiet rural area of NY, he didn’t need reminders. Armado Springs was his home now and he wouldn’t let anyone, this cop included look at it like it was shit on his loafers.

“I’m not doing this again. Find another puppet.” He began to turn to walk away.

“You don’t want to do that, Tait. Think about what Addison would say if she knew you were being uncooperative.”

The name went through Texas in the same way a bullet would, ripping at his intestines leaving nothing behind. The threat halted his entire body, backed him up and before he knew it he was in the cop’s face, close enough he could see every color in the other man’s eyes, his teeth clenched, eyes blazing pure fire, his voice, however, cultured, or so his brothers called it, never raised in tone. “Ever say that name to me again, I’ll do jail time for burying you.”

“Well, well … look at this, spoken like a true Renegade Souls, I think your transformation is complete, Tait. Rider should be so proud.”

“I’ll let my president know you approve.” Composure back in place, he reached up to fix his tie, though it probably didn’t need it, his hands were shaking. “And I mean it, don’t call me again, don’t text me again.”

“You didn’t change the number.“ The cop accused in a quiet inquisitive tone. Texas hated he knew what this man was thinking about that. He'd wondered the same damn thing.

No, he hadn’t changed it. And he should have a long time ago. Texas was prone to hanging onto things much too long when he needed to rid himself of the toxic surrounding him.

Some ties were hard to break, harder to severe, devastating to forget. Texas knew, in the long run, it was best for him to do that, the last tie cut.

“You’re right, I didn’t. But I will. Thanks for the reminder.” Walking off, but as usual, Malachai needed the last fucking word.

“Aren’t you going to ask about your mother, figured you’d want to know how she is?” Smug motherfucker could land his punches like Mike Tyson when the mood struck, Texas kept on striding away from Malachai, the jump up-start-cop, and his smugness.

“Not even if it came with a free bottle of Patrn. Later, Malachai.”

The cop laughed lightly, and for a second Texas was tempted to look back, to meet the same color of eyes as his own. Nothing in him relaxed, every muscle was clenched until he felt pain in his gut.

Keep walking. Don’t look back.

“Just as well, she’s not pleased with you. Later, Twin. Talk to you soon …oh, and that info last month? You did well. Thought you’d want to know.”

Bile rose in Texas’ throat, he swallowed hard. Climbed onto his bike, started the engine.

Don’t look back. He disliked everything about this day, and everything to come, he felt like punching something and never stopping until his hands were destroyed.

Maybe he could tell Rider everything and have his president take care of it for him; namely, put Texas six feet under.

Funny, last year Preacher had assumed the club had a mole somewhere, feeding information to Hades somehow. That hadn’t panned out to be the case as it turns out.

Little did his brothers knowhewas an informer.

He deserved that pine box. He deserved an unmarked grave.

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