Fast Lane - Kristen Ashley Page 0,23

we were all about to learn, just doing it to Preacher McCade.

I don’t know how, maybe it was the tequila and dexies, but I also forgot half the songs on the album I just played for twenty thousand people and what the words to those songs said.

About Lyla.

Yeah.

Fuck.

I forgot that too.

We’re heading out to our bus, which is not that shitty camper or the shitty RV that took its place, it’s huge and it’s pimp, the guys, the groupies, some roadies, and the path from venue to bus is lined with security holding back screaming girls.

I saw her.

Standing there.

That hair.

Those eyes.

Lyla.

Wearing a black trench coat because it was cold and rainy and Chicago. Only girl out there wearing a coat.

I saw her standing without moving surrounded by all those screaming girls, watching Preacher walk with a groupie under each arm to the bus.

I also saw Preach take Tommy aside before he got on the bus and Tommy peeled off.

That wasn’t unusual.

Ask and ye shall receive from Tommy.

I thought Preacher had seen a girl in the crowd he wanted.

At that point, I had no fuckin’ idea Preach could be that motherfucking sinister.

No fucking clue.

By now you know Tom was pretty regimented.

And he didn’t miss a trick.

Our songs on the charts, it’s their tour and the Mustangs are getting booed after our set.

And with our roadwork, we already owned the Midwest.

He had things worked out with the label.

We did not stay in the same hotel as the Mustangs because the Mustangs hated our guts.

But also, because we could not demand the biggest suite in the hotel if we did.

That, Tom had designated as the party suite.

And each of us got our own suites beyond that.

But Preacher slept in the party suite.

He just moved off to the bedroom with whoever was his chosen one that night, closed the doors on the din, and did his thing, which gave Tom the high sign when it was time to clear everyone out.

Even if it was the band.

This did not, by the way, make Josh happy.

But we were in full swing.

It was before any of us took off with our private parties to our suites.

Perfect timing.

So, I was there.

Booze. Lines. Spliffs. Girls. Roadies. All of that was there too.

Pretty sure Dave was behind the bar, pouring shots at the same time getting a blowjob.

And it was orchestrated, sister, down to the placement of each girl.

One in Preach’s lap.

One on the floor, sitting between his feet, her head on his knee.

One hanging around the back of the chair, practically curled around his shoulders.

Rock god and his harem.

And Tommy walks her in, in her fuckin’ trench coat.

Preach had told Tommy to go back and get her and then bring her there so she could see that.

See she’d been replaced.

[Off tape]

A number of women would find it flattering a man maneuvered a situation to show her that it took three women to replace her.

I don’t think Lyla was feelin’ all that flattered.

You know, you should never set anyone up to be a hero.

There are no heroes.

Men are men.

Women are women.

We’re all human.

We are all capable of doing righteous shit.

And we’re all capable of being gigantic assholes.

I was standing by the window, contemplating taking my girl to my room to party a different way when I saw Lyla come in.

She stopped dead, staring at Preacher.

I don’t know if she stood there one second or an hour.

It felt like an hour.

I just know she went real pale, didn’t say a goddamn word, just stood there before she turned so fast her hair swung out behind her and ran out.

And yeah.

She didn’t go fast.

She ran.

[Off tape]

Josh Hardy has a very different version of events than others who’ve spoken of what happened next.

Josh doesn’t know dick. Never did. Never got his shit together to learn.

It’s accepted legend that his telling of his version got him kicked out of the Roadmasters.

Rule one of any band: You’re in the band, you don’t talk trash about the band.

Rule two of the Roadmasters: You’re in the band, you don’t talk trash about Lyla.

Interviewer’s Spoken Word Notes, Transcribed:

The town is quaint.

Town square. Shops. Coffee houses. Restaurants. Bars.

Surrounded by mountains.

It used to be the capital of Arizona when Arizona was a territory.

The road that leads from the town to the property is two blocks from the square. Lined with graceful Victorian houses. Steep grades.

Once out of the city, it’s winding, mostly wooded, partly cliffside.

Quite a number of houses thins out to a very few.

Some miles in, and up, a