The Preacher’s Daughter


I’ll tell you man, it was those fucking eyes. It all went south for me when I first looked into those dammed blue eyes.

Hey…can I get a smoke?


Yeah man, it was those Cocaine eyes of the Preacher’s daughter. She was hot man, don’t get me wrong, but one look into those baby blues and I was hooked. Hell…any boy would have been.

I ran into her one night on the Boulevard. You know Saturday night, just a bunch of us kids cruising up and down the strip. Drinking, smoking a little pot, harmless stuff really, I had an old Dart that my Grandma left to me when she died. Some buddies and I did some wrenching on it in auto shop and made it bad ass. It was a real fire breather that old car.

Anyway, some kid comes up in his dad’s new Camaro and he starts talking shit. One thing led to another and we drove out behind the airport, had a quarter marked out on the pavement all ready to go. This pretty blonde comes up and tells me that she really likes my car, wants to ride along. Long legs, a short skirt and high heels, hell man, I couldn’t say no to that.

She asked if it was scary and I told her no, just hang on. Before I could get in the car she was trying to figure out the harness in the passenger seat. I reached over and helped her get it fastened.

Did we run ‘em? Hell yes we ran them. Some chick standing on the yellow line dropped a little hanky and I dropped the hammer. Man that old Dart came to life. I put my foot into it and started to see that Camaro fading back in my mirror. This girl is yelling and smiling all the while. I pulled off the road right before the stop sign and the other kid just kept going, she leaned over and kissed my cheek.

Yeah, well, after that she wanted to ride around with me for the night. I didn’t have any problem with the idea of having this cute little blondie next to me. Iron Maiden came on the radio and she turned it up to ten. This girl was a lot of fun and her perfume smelled great. After all of these years, I can still remember that smell.

A couple of passes through town and my old car started heating up. I took it out to the country to get some air going through it. This girl wants something to drink and I told her that I wasn’t old enough to buy. She tells me that she can take care of it and I start to turn back for the city.

She says no, there’s a little store up the road where the night guy knows her. I figured she had been there before. Hell, I was only seventeen and she couldn’t have been any older than I was?

We pull into the lot and she gets out with this big fucking smile on her face. Grabs her purse and starts in. I follow along, just a dumb shit boy with a smile. I should have put that fucking car in reverse and left her there.

She has me carry a twelve pack up to the counter and the dude asks to see my ID. She says that she’s buying and begins to reach around in her purse. Studded leather, matched her shoes and belt, like that fucking matters.

Pulls out this little pistol and cocks the fucking thing. I’d heard the expression before, but I literally shit my pants standing there next to her. The guy shakes his head and she eases back the trigger. The guy rolls his eyes and slides down the wall behind the register. She winks and grabs the beer.

I was shaking so badly I dropped my keys trying to get the car started.

Well, that’s it man, you asked, that’s my story. I’ve sat in this shithole for the last ten years for the preacher’s daughter and a twelve pack of beer neither of which I got to enjoy.

~ fin ~

Christopher Davis is a native of central California and the grandfather of three rambunctious little ones. When not tending the herd, he writes Civil War, Western and Crime fiction sometimes enjoying Makers Mark over ice and British Heavy Metal turned way up, (both of which find their way into his stories from time to time.)