Fast Lane - Kristen Ashley Page 0,81
bed with a cold cup of forgotten coffee cradled in my hands, my hands resting in my lap and my eyes aimed across the suite.
I was waiting for Preacher to return from his run or from being at the hotel’s fitness center or wherever he was.
He hadn’t left a note.
So now it was…
No more sex.
No more kisses before he goes off and does whatever he’s doing.
And now, no more notes.
He wasn’t at band breakfast, I knew that.
He hadn’t been to one of those since well before Phoenix.
Which meant, neither had I.
I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting there, waiting for him to come back.
I did know it was long enough for my forgotten cup of coffee to get cold.
But I heard the key in the lock, the door open, and shortly after, Preacher came sauntering into view.
His hair was wet with sweat, the curls behind his ears sticking to skin, his tee was plastered to his wide chest, molding the contours, and for once I didn’t want to jump him.
I wanted to burst into tears.
He’d just recovered from wiping his face with the hem of his tee when he caught sight of me sitting in bed, waiting for him, and his step faltered.
He got it together, grunting, “Hey.”
“Hey, honey.”
His gaze moved from me as he headed straight to the bathroom.
“You don’t have anything pressing for a few hours. Can we order room service and talk for a bit?” I asked.
“Shower,” he replied.
“Preacher—”
I got no more out because the door closed on the bathroom.
And the lock went.
I closed my eyes and gave myself a pep talk
I could do this.
I had to do this.
But how did I do this?
I was running into walls at every turn.
And they were fortified.
What else might I blow up if I threw a grenade?
The door to the bathroom opened and Preacher came out, hair wet, towel around his hips.
When he did, I remembered when I first saw him in nothing but a towel.
Cynthia.
The way he was angry, but when he’d looked at me, that had faded from his face.
Right.
Grenade it was.
I pushed out of my position, set my coffee aside and climbed out of bed.
He was pawing through his bag.
I got close.
“Sweetheart, we can’t go on like this,” I said quietly.
He straightened, his side was to me, but he didn’t turn fully to me.
He looked down his nose at me.
And stated, “You’re right. We can’t.”
Sweet relief swept through me.
Finally, he was going to talk.
“Babe, I gotta get off,” he continued. “You’re not down to put out, then you need to take a hike so I can take care of business. You’re not up for participating, not feelin’ like an audience.”
He didn’t want to have sex.
If he wanted to “take care of business,” he could do that in the shower.
He was being crude to push me away.
“Please stop talking to me like that,” I whispered.
“Like what?” he asked.
“And please stop playing dumb, when you’re not.”
That got him turning toward me.
“No,” he grunted. “I’m not.”
“Okay, we agree on that,” I said quickly, latching onto it, willing to latch onto anything even remotely positive. “Let’s sit down and talk some things out.”
“Might be able to carve some time in as I recuperate once you finish sucking me off.”
“Preacher!” I snapped. “Stop it.”
“Lyla, I’m bein’ very serious.”
“You’re deliberately being an asshole because this is not you.”
“Right, so I’m bein’ an asshole who’s very serious about what he’s saying to you.”
What was serious was that it was seriously time to move away from this topic.
“Why are you pushing me away?”
His brows shot up. “I just told you I want you to blow me. How is that pushing you away?”
“You know what I mean, Preacher.”
He went back to pawing through his bag, muttering, “I know I don’t have time for this shit.”
All right then.
Fine.
He was going to be like this?
I was done.
He wanted it his way and was willing to take it this far to get it, he could have it.
But I wasn’t getting dragged along for the ride in the meantime.
I’d go to LA and talk to him when he got home, after the tour was over.
“I’m going home,” I announced.
He pulled out a pair of jeans and again turned to me.
And it was then, he did it.
It was then he did far worse than being vulgar and an asshole.
It was then he threw his own grenade.
And I wasn’t collateral damage.
He was aiming at me.
He did this by asking, “Yeah? How you gonna do that, Lyla? Commandeer my label’s plane or