Fast Lane - Kristen Ashley Page 0,52

fuckin’ moron so I never went in ungloved. But once we know I’m clean, it won’t matter, ’cause it’s you and it’s me and that’s all it’s ever gonna be.”

There it was.

That’s all it’s ever gonna be.

He’d mentioned decorating a bedroom for our girls like Mom did for Sonia and me.

And I knew it to the depths of my heart that was where we were at, and, as crazy as it seemed, I knew this from the very beginning.

And I loved it that those words came out of his mouth.

But I could not bask in that considering his tone, his expression, and his dark, heavy mood that seemed to shadow the bright room.

“I know, honey, but—”

“But what?”

“But—” I tried again.

“But nothin’. What? Are you sayin’ I got permission to step out on you when you’re gone and you the same?”

No, I was absolutely not saying that.

I shook my head and opened my mouth to speak again but his arms tightened around me so tight, my mouth snapped shut.

Because I realized this wasn’t bickering with Preacher.

This wasn’t even an argument with Preacher.

This was something else entirely.

And it was beginning to scare me.

“So, we’ll be careful when we’re fuckin’ other people so we don’t catch something’?” he went on. “Is that the motherfuckin’ bullshit you’re sayin’ to me right now, Lyla?”

His arms around me nearly hurt.

“Preacher, you’re holding on too tight,” I told him.

“Answer me,” he bit and did not loosen his hold.

I blinked.

Except in Chicago, even when we argued, his tone was never biting.

And even in Chicago, it was more cutting than it was biting.

“Of course not,” I snapped. “But I don’t know what the incubation period is for some of these things. So even if you get tested, we should be careful, just in case, you know, something rears its ugly head later and I get an STD even though I’ve only ever slept with you. Only when we know the coast is clear should we have at it.”

He scowled down at me another long beat before he relaxed.

“Well then,” he murmured.

“And that wasn’t cool,” I spat.

He tensed again instantly. “It wasn’t cool thinking you were suggesting we fuck other people either.”

“I’ll point out, I wasn’t suggesting that.”

“I know, but if you listened to what I said, I said it wasn’t cool thinking you were.”

“I heard you, Preacher,” I retorted, pushing against his hold.

“Calm down,” he growled, holding me even tighter.

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” I returned, still struggling. “And let me go!”

“Calm the fuck down, Lyla!” he exploded.

I stilled.

“And you didn’t finish what you should have said,” he declared. “Even though you’ve only ever slept with me and only ever will fuckin’ sleep with fuckin’,” he put his face in my face, “me.”

Only then did he let me go and he did this to roll out of bed, snatch up his jeans from the day before off the floor, tear them on, the same with his tee and then he nabbed his running shoes.

And as he was stalking out, he clipped, “Now I’m going to the goddamn store.”

Then he was gone, slamming the bedroom door behind him.

I stared at the door in shock.

And I was not recovered when I, too, rolled out of bed, and automatically decided against the shorts and tank I’d worn when I thought I was going to the store and pulled on a white one-piece bathing suit with a short caftan over it.

I wandered out of the room and down the hall, seeing Shawn sitting on a stool at the kitchen island.

His back was to me, but he was looking over his shoulder, watching as I walked to him.

He was alone, which I vaguely thought was weird, unless he was there to get provisions and take them back to the pool house.

But if he was doing that, why was he sitting a stool?

And when I rounded him, I had another question, wondering why he was drinking coffee instead of also taking two of those to the pool house.

“You need a warmup?” I asked.

“Come here, baby girl,” he murmured.

I looked to his face.

He turned his stool my way.

I went there.

He pulled me between his legs, took up both of my hands and held them against his bare chest (he was only wearing track pants).

“I think you know, Preach is an edgy guy,” he began.

I snapped to my current situation and moved my hands as if to pull them away.

But he whispered, “Whoa,” soothingly like I was a skittish horse, and he held on, even if