Read The Preacher's Son #2: Unleashed for Free Online Page A

pack everything up for me later. We showered separately, and I told Tre to dress nice, as I wanted to go on a date with him. All our time thus far had been spent in bed or at my house. I wanted to take him out, parade him on my arm, show him the big city.
    I took him to Nick's in Fondren, and we spent a long evening drinking wine, eating, and talking. I was discovering that what Tre lacked in urban sophistication, he more than made up for in curiosity, eagerness to learn, and a capacity for stimulating conversation. 
    I found myself staring at him as we talked, watching his black-shadowed chin move, watching his eyes like cinnamon-sprinkled cocoa move with restless energy, his thick, gentle fingers always tapping the table or twisting a napkin or playing with his fork. His ink-dark hair constantly fell across his left eye, and he brushed it aside with a thumb. He was wearing a short sleeve blue button-down that left his biceps almost bare, stretching across his broad chest. He'd buttoned it almost to the collar, but before we left I undid the second button, exposing a portion of his smooth chest. 
    I had been attracted to Dan, of course. He was the epitome of polished charm, calculated swagger, and sleek, expensive manners. I was, then, just an unfinished corn-fed country girl, decked out in cut-off jean shorts that Daddy wouldn't have approved of, but he was dead so I wore them to spite him for leaving me. Dan drove through Savannah, saw me lounging on a park bench, reading a book, and he proceeded to charm the pants off me, literally. He talked me into his hotel room, got me hot and bothered with well-placed hands and lips, convinced me to let him touch me, got my hands curious with his seductive words and then it was too late, he was already there, poking me with a sharp pinch and slow movements that started to feel good, after the initial pain. After that, it was easy to believe his cool promises and to be impressed by his Jaguar and his Rolex and his easy talk of million-dollar condos. I left Savannah in his Jag without so much as a note to my mother or sisters. 
    Tre...oh, Tre was different, as opposite as it was possible to be. He wasn't at all polished, and he was unsophisticated in the ways of city life. He stared at the buildings and the people, fascinated by a place as tiny and backwater as Jackson. I imagined him in New York, or Paris, or Beijing, or Johannesburg, and I smiled at the idea. He was so genuine, though, his inherent kindness shone through in everything he did. He was prone to thinking before he answered, and his responses were always well-phrased and articulate. His father, for all his hard-headed, hard-right morality, was an intelligent, educated man who had passed this quality on to his son. There was ruggedness to Tre, though, a wildness to him. He would be at home on a horse, or a hiking trail. He had shown a dangerous side, too, when he punched his father, who wasn't a small man by any means. I thought again, as we walked along the Pearl River, that Tre was wasted in a place like Yazoo City. 
    We were heading back to our hotel, passing by a narrow alley, the hour late, the city dark and quiet. A young man jumped out at us, wielding a long, wicked knife. He was maybe eighteen, white, his dirty, ragged, appearance, track-scarred arms and rail-thin, gaunt frame proclaiming him a drug addict. He jabbed the knife at me, threatening rather than attacking.
    "Give me money," he said, showing yellow, rotting teeth. "Gimme all your money, or I'll kill her."
    Tre shifted subtly in front of me, and I willingly moved behind him. 
    "Why don't you put the knife down and we'll talk," Tre said, holding his hands in front of him. 
    He sounded calm, but I could see the tension and fear in the curl of his shoulders, the coiled-spring way he stood. 
    "Shut the fuck up!" Fear, desperation, and raw hunger blazed in the addict's eyes. "Shut up! Money, or you die!"
    "Listen, we'll help you," Tre said, taking a slow