The Preacher's Daughter

  The Preacher's Daughter

  Rough Riders MC

  Shelly Morgan

  Copyright © 2017 by Shelly Morgan.

  All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition

  Published by Shelly Morgan on Smashwords.

  Editing & Proofread by Rebel Edit & Design

  Cover by Graphics by Shelly

  Formatting by E & F Indie Services

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  I want to dedicate this book to all my readers.

  To my longtime readers, thank you for sticking with me through thick and thin. I know that waiting for the next book is always hard—I know this from experience—but to wait so patiently, it means the world to me. Thank you for everything, you truly are a blessing! I love each and every one of you.

  To my new readers, I want to thank you for picking up one of my books. Whether you liked it or hated it, I want to thank you for your support. I don’t care if you binged on one of my series, or have only read one, it means the world to me that you gave me a shot. I hope I can keep you as a reader. Thank you for everything, and I love each one of you, just as I do my longtime readers!

  So, here’s to more nights with my book in your hand (if I can be so lucky) and to long nights of me writing the next story for you.

  <3 <3 <3

  Prologue

  There is always something that defines you in life. It could be your looks, the way you talk—anything that makes you stand out to others.

  Like my best friend, who moved away a year ago. She was known for her voice. She got an opportunity of a lifetime to move to Nashville and record her very first album. Or Jimmy from school, who’s known for his hair. It always looks like he stuck his finger in a light socket, but it looks great on him.

  And then there’s Marybeth, who always speaks her mind. People either love her or hate her, but at least she’s known for something.

  I wish it was like that for me. I’d give anything to be known for personality, attitude, or even my looks, but in a good way.

  I’d even take the reputation of Veronica, the school slut.

  But instead, I’m known based off who my parents are. No, scratch that. I’m known for who my father is. The town preacher.

  It doesn’t matter how good my grades are or the things I’ve done for my community. Nor does it matter that I want to go to school to be a dancer. I love expressing myself through dance and music, but none of that means diddly squat.

  I’m the preacher’s daughter.

  Chapter One

  Angelica

  High school graduation is only a week away, and I still haven’t told my parents I won’t be attending the college they worked so hard for me to get into. Notice how I said my parents worked hard, not me?

  At the beginning of freshman year, they had already picked out the school I would attend for college and what my major would be.

  The school they picked is a Christian college—Olivet Nazarene University. It’s only a half hour away from home, which they believe is perfect because I could continue to stay with them. They said it was a waste of money to live elsewhere, but that’s not the real reason. They don’t want me to live my life. They don’t want to risk me doing something that will shame them in some way.

  But I want to live on campus. Isn’t that a big part of the college experience? Being an adult for the first time? I don’t even like living with my parents now, so why would I want to after high school?

  The major they picked for me is Early Childhood Development. To be honest, I think the whole career is a joke. It’s just a glorified title for a daycare worker. I mean, how hard can it be to create a lesson plan for teaching kids their colors and the alphabet?

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against anyone who wants to go into that career field, and I believe we need people like that for the children, but it’s just not for me. I don’t even really like kids, so why would I want to spend every day with them?

  After they informed me of their decision, without discussing it with me, I tried fighting them on it. I thought if I could get my own place, maybe I could go through with attending the college of their choice. I tried bargaining with them, explaining just that, but they were adamant.

  So, for the next year I dropped it. I figured maybe they’d come to their senses and I could prove to them I could live on my own, or that I’d be better suited with a different major—a major of my choice.

  But again, when I brought it up at the beginning of my senior year, they shot me down. They told me they had already sent in my college application and that I was accepted. They also told me they had already paid for my first year, so it was a done deal.

  I was pissed that they went behind my back and did it. Isn’t it against the law to fill out an application for someone else? Didn’t I need to sign the damn thing to make it legit? They probably just forged my signature because they knew I wouldn’t sign it myself.

  After that, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to get through to them. But I was not going to attend that school. Come Hell or high water, it wasn’t going to happen. I just had to find the right time to inform them of it.

  I know they won’t like it, but I’m hoping they will understand eventually. I’m their daughter for goodness’ sake. It’s not like they can disown me.

  I’ve been living my whole life for them. They tell me what to wear, how to speak, and how to act. I’ve always complied, even though I hate doing so. But it’s time to cut the cord and leave the coop. I’m done.

  Being the daughter of the town’s preacher, there’s a high level of expectation to uphold. But I could care less about any of that. It’s not who I am. I can’t be the real me here, and it kills me.

  My mother picks out all my clothes, which are usually plain, ugly dresses. They’re drab and lifeless, covering both my arms and legs.

  I long to wear those colorful, short dresses that I see all the other girls at my school wear. They would allow me to show my personality and feel free. Instead, I feel I look like her mini-me, and it’s suffocating.

  My hair is blonde and falls just below the middle of my back. I wish I owned a curling iron so I could put some life into it, but my mother forces me to wear it up in a sophisticated bun or down. I hate it. It’s ugly, and makes me feel ugly. I know that’s horrible of me to say because I of all people know that it’s not what you look like on the outside that makes you beautiful. But just once, I’d like to feel beauty on both the inside and the outside.

  Maybe if I wore a little makeup it would make feel better about myself, but that’s not allowed either.

  Last week, when I was at the mall picking up a few things for my mother, I walked by this store that sold all sorts of different kinds of makeup. There was this eyeshadow that stood out to me. It was a shimmery brown color, with a little bit of red mixed into it. I walked in there, just to look. As I was, the sales clerk gushed about how it would look on me and make my green eyes pop.

  I didn’t have any money, since my parents only sent me with enough to get what they needed. I told the lady that
maybe I’d come back for it when I had more time, but as soon as she walked away, I snatched it up and put it in my pocket before hightailing it out of there.

  Of course, being the good girl that I am, I felt a little bad about what I did, but it was a rush! It felt so good to do something that I knew was wrong, and that my parents wouldn’t approve of. Plus, I’m always doing good for other people and my community. I give and give and never receive. I deserve to have something so small and meaningless, right?

  Well, none of that matters anyway, because I now have the eyeshadow and I can’t wait for the day to come when I can actually put it on and show it off. Lord knows I’ve put it on every night since I got it before I go to bed. I’ve sat in front of the mirror and daydreamed about where I would go, and who I would see. I imagine meeting a guy who would complement my green eyes and tell me that I looked beautiful.

  “Angelica! Get down here,” my mother yells from downstairs.

  I’ve been up in my room since I got home from school today. Usually, I’d sit down at our dining room table and do my homework. They like it when I do that, but today, not only did I not have any homework to do since I was graduating soon, but I couldn’t pretend for them. I can’t act like everything’s all hunky-dory. I won’t. I haven’t since I finally came to terms that it’s a done deal for them.

  All they want to talk about is what a good school it is, and how I’ll make lots of friends. That being a teacher will be a great way for me to land a husband, as if it’s part of my bride-to-be resume. That’s probably what marriage for me is for them—a business deal. They want me to marry someone worthy of them, preferably a man with money and known in the community. Doesn’t matter if I love him or not, as long as he looks good on paper.

  Blowing out a breath, I try my best to tamp down my bitter feelings. I hate that I loathe my parents because a child should never feel that way toward someone who brought them into this world. But what else am supposed to feel for these people? They don’t love me. And if they do, they have a shitty way of showing it. They’ve always treated me as a nuisance, or a way to gain more leverage in our small town by parading me around like the perfect little daughter. With their guidance, of course.

  I take my time walking down the stairs, thinking over what I’ll say to them in any given scenario. It’s like I have a well-orchestrated script in my head that I go off of. I have everything categorized for each topic they want to talk to me about; school, friends, appearance, or my marriage to a suitor that has yet to be chosen for me.

  A few steps from the dining room, I plaster on a fake smile, then remember that I don’t care. It falls off my face just as I make my way into the room.

  “Yes, Mother?” I ask

  “When were you going to tell us that you applied to other colleges?” my father asks in a tone that tells me he’s not happy. What’s new?

  I forgot that I sent in my application to a few other colleges—ones of my own choosing—so I wasn’t watching the mail. I can’t believe I was so stupid! I wanted to see what my options were, then tell my parents after I’d made the choice of which I actually wanted to go to. If I was accepted, that is.

  One application I sent in was to a college an hour away. It’s known for its dance program, but I thought if that was the one I picked, maybe they wouldn’t be so mad about it since I wouldn’t be too far away. Hell, I may even tell them I’d continue living with them as long as they allowed me to go.

  The other one was to a college a little over four hours away. I really liked this option because I could stay away longer and live on my own. But I knew it would be the one they’d have a problem with the most.

  I think about what I should say before I open my mouth. Should I play dumb? Or should I tell them the cold hard truth?

  Deciding to go with the truth, I answer back defensively. “Why wouldn’t I apply to other colleges? Or let me phrase that better. These were the first applications I actually sent.” I can’t help the bitter tone that shines through when I speak, or the nasty look I’m sure is gracing my face. Who can blame me? What they’ve done is absolutely ridiculous!

  “You already got accepted into Olivet. There is no reason you should be applying anywhere else,” my mother says, speaking to me as if I’m a child. Like she has to speak slowly so I can understand her or something.

  “No! You got accepted into Olivet! Not me. I don’t want to go there—I won’t.” There, I said it. It’s on the table and there’s no going back now. I’ve been trying to please them my whole life, but no more. It’s time to live for me.

  “You are going and there will be no more talk about it,” my father growls before ripping the paper he’s holding in half.

  At first, I’m completely flabbergasted. I don’t even know which college it was for or if I was accepted, but it’s too late now. I guess I could call both schools and ask, but what’s the use? There’s no way they’re going to allow me to go, and I can’t do it by myself. Not without a job or a car. I know they wouldn’t help me financially, and I don’t even know if I’d get financial aid.

  After the shock wears off, I turn on my heels and leave the room without saying another word. It would just be a waste of breath and time.

  Heading straight for the front door, I slam it on the way out of the house. I have no idea where it is that I’m going, but I can’t stay here. I need to be away from them, somewhere quiet and where I can be alone so I can sift through my life and all that’s happened. I need time to think and possibly plan. But one thing is for certain—I’m done following their rules. This is my life. It’s time I start living it.

  ***

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been walking, but I’m starting to get cold. It’s almost summer, but in Illinois, it can still get cold as the sun starts to set.

  Wrapping my arms around myself, I look around at my surroundings for probably the first time since leaving my parents’ house. I wasn’t concerned with where I was going, just as long as I was away from them. But I wish I had, because I’m now in the shadier part of town.

  I live in Linksburg, which is a small town in Illinois, and just like any other town, you have your good and bad areas. That’s where I find myself now. It’s not as hardcore as I’m sure Chicago is, or some other bigger city, but it’s still not a good place for a girl to be, especially at night. There are drug dealers and other bad people here.

  Turning back around, I start to head back the way I came when I notice a man walking toward me. I don’t like being judgmental and say he’s a bad man because he’s in this part of town, but judging by the way he looks and the way he’s looking at me, I can’t help but think just that.

  Even in the dark, I can see the leering look and cruel smile on his face. I’m easy prey, and he’s not wrong. I’m a girl out of her element. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to fight back if that’s what it came down to. He could take me, rape me, or worse, kill me, and there’s not a dang thing I could do about it.

  For a brief moment, fear paralyzes me. I can’t move my legs. I know I need to run or scream, do something. But I can’t move.

  Then, when the man is within a few feet of me, my brain finally sends the message to my legs to flee. I don’t waste any time. I turn around to run, but it’s already too late. I feel a sharp pain on my scalp, then I’m falling backwards. But instead of hitting the ground like I’d expect, my back hits the chest of the man I saw.

  His arms wrap around me from behind, and I feel his breath by my ear. “Looks like it’s my lucky night,” he whispers, then licks the outer shell of my ear.

  A shiver racks my body, but this time, fear doesn’t consume me. I’m still afraid, but I know I need to fight. I need to get away, because if I don’t, I’m a goner.

  I wiggle and try to pull free, but his grip around me tightens.

  “Where do you think you’re goin’, sweetheart? The fun hasn’t even started
yet.”

  I fight harder. “Let me go!” I yell, realizing that I’m not going to be able to get out of this on my own. It’s time to get help. I just hope someone will hear me.

  “HELP! Please, somebody hel—,” I scream, but before I can get the rest of my plea out, a large hand clamps down so hard on my mouth, I taste blood.

  “Shut up,” the man seethes, angry from my outburst. “No one can hear you. No one’s comin’ to help you.”

  I start to cry, knowing he’s right. Even if someone did hear me, the people around here probably wouldn’t help anyway.

  Feeling my defeat, the man loosens his hold on me—but only marginally—then spins me around to face him. For the first time, I get a good look at my worst nightmare.

  Standing just a little taller than me, he’s got dark blond hair and brown eyes. But what has me gasping isn’t the look in his eyes, or the sadistic smile on his face. It’s the long, angry scar on his face that runs from one eyebrow, all the way down to his chin. I don’t know what, or who, could have made that cut on his face, but I doubt it was by accident.

  The fear I’m feeling finally gives me a little strength, so I grab hold of it and do everything in my power to get out of this. Or die trying, which is actually pretty dang possible in this situation. Maybe death would be the better option though, seeing as how he’s looking at me, undressing me with his eyes.

  It all happens quickly. One minute, I’m being held by this awful man, and the next, I’m stomping down on his foot. I don’t know where the move came from or how I got the courage to do it, but I’m glad I’m doing something to try and save myself.

  The move is hard enough for him to let go of me, giving me enough time to kick him where the sun doesn’t shine.