Fast Lane - Kristen Ashley Page 0,67
and singing Rick Astley songs.”
I’d laughed at that.
Was he so funny and sweet just weeks ago?
Why did the shit times drag on forever and the good times go by in a flash?
The voices stopped, the doors to the bedroom opened and Preacher took two steps in and stopped.
“Goin’ down to breakfast, cher, ready?”
Now I wasn’t “babe” or “Lyla” but “cher.”
“Not being a bitch or anything,” this meaning I was totally being a bitch, “but I’m really not hungry.” Though that last was the truth.
I was avoiding his eyes and reorganizing my jewelry in my jewelry bag.
It took him a second to speak again and he did this to say, “Okay then, come down and have coffee.”
I zipped in some earrings and looked up at him.
“I’m good.”
“Lyla—”
“I’m not a puppy who follows you around, Preacher.”
His head twitched and he started to look a mixture of angry and uneasy.
“’Course you’re not,” he mumbled.
“And I’m also not a dog you can kick when you’re in a bad mood,” I went on.
That erased the angry and all there was left was uneasy.
“Baby,” he whispered.
“I’m not saying this to piss you off. I did that once, not purposefully, and I should have talked to you about it then, but I didn’t. That was the wrong decision, so I’ll tell you now. It scared the shit out of me. I’m just saying, I know there’s something wrong and I can’t see to you unless I know what it is.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said.
Fast.
He was lying.
To me.
“Right,” I replied softly.
He changed the subject.
“What’s your take on Leeanne?”
I shook my head. “Oh no, Preacher. Tommy’s not gonna drag me in and you’re not gonna drag me in either.”
Though I should probably see about taking care of the situation that seemed to be Leeanne.
I just didn’t know how to do that at the same time dealing with Preacher.
“You don’t like her,” he murmured.
“Is this my man, Preacher, standing in the room with me?”
He looked puzzled. “Always.”
“Then between me and my man, talking about a friend we have concerns about, I will tell you what you already know. Leeanne is trouble. If I’m having a conversation with Preacher McCade of the eponymous Roadmasters, I didn’t say that.”
His lips ticked and he muttered, “Eponymous.”
I read. I’d studied to be an English teacher. My mother and grandparents taught us how to use our words. I had an expansive vocabulary.
Preacher’s parents didn’t bother sending him to school most the time, and other times, they purposefully kept him out of it.
He always got a kick out of it when I used what he called “big words.”
Though he always knew what they meant.
And I always got a kick out of him getting that same thing because I knew this came from a feeling of pride.
I was glad his mood had lifted.
But I was scared as hell.
“I can’t tell a man who he should share his bed with,” he said.
“Then don’t,” I returned and looked back to my jewelry.
“Lyla. Baby.”
I drew breath into my nose and turned my eyes back to him.
“We good?” he asked.
We were not.
“I don’t need you in order to live my life, Preacher,” I told him.
He looked like I’d walked right up to him and slapped him across the face.
I powered through that and how hard it was to see and carried on.
“I need you. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
“Yes.”
That came fast too.
I let out a huge breath saying, “Go have breakfast with the band.”
His face got soft.
“Kiss me before I go.”
Lyla:
I kissed him before he went.
I’d fallen in love with their music by then.
Obviously, after Audie and Lynie Live On.
[Smiles sadly]
But I think it was more.
I was getting older, maturing.
Preacher matured when he was nine years old.
It takes maturity to write the songs he wrote.
And it takes maturity to understand the stories these people tell.
You have a pen and paper. [Nods head to interviewer] I know you’re taping this but to make it easy, write these titles down and go to your hotel and listen to them tonight. You’re into music, so you’ve undoubtedly heard them before. But this time, make a note of what they make you feel, if anything at all. What you think they mean.
Don’t look it up. Don’t read what someone else thinks they mean. What they make someone else feel.
Only you.
Then keep those notes, and when you run across those notes again, listen to those songs before you read what you wrote and see what you feel then versus what you felt when you