Fast Lane - Kristen Ashley Page 0,62
face closer to his. “But you know me, honey. I have to do something and not just be Preacher McCade’s girlfriend.”
“You aren’t just my girlfriend, Lyla, you know that, I know that. Even all those assholes know that.”
I had to admit, this was true.
“They wouldn’t be askin’ Tom to approach you about pushing their shampoo or whatever the fuck if you were just my girlfriend,” he went on.
Yes, what he said was true.
I was probably the only woman in the world who had zero desire to be a model.
But I was a definitely a woman who had zero desire to be a model.
Though, with the number of offers Tommy was constantly turning down, this didn’t seem to be getting through to people.
“You can get a job after the tour,” he declared.
Was he high?
Wait, he was.
But still.
“The tour lasts a year,” I reminded him.
He put both hands to the sides of my head and said, “Baby, you need a second. You need to chill. You need to take a breath. You need to figure it out. You’re bouncin’ from one thing to the other because you think you’re lettin’ your mom down. Audie. And it burns in you, thinkin’ you’re disappointing them. Now, I didn’t know your mom, but I knew Audie, so I don’t think I’m wrong in sayin’ the only thing they’d want is what you want. They’d want you to do something you dug and something that makes you happy. You can’t figure out what that is, latchin’ onto whatever comes at you and tryin’ to force it to work then takin’ another hit when it doesn’t.”
His hands at my head gave a little squeeze.
“Take a second,” he urged. “Figure it out.”
He was the one who needed a second.
To have a moment to breathe.
Still…
If I was on the tour, I could look after my man.
And I could hang with the guys.
“You know, that isn’t a bad idea,” I muttered, and he smiled.
“I’m not just a dumb rock star.”
I pressed my lips to his, pulled away and said firmly, “No, you’re not.”
I was losing his cock, so he lifted me up, adjusted my panties and then helped me into my seat beside him.
He righted his trousers, did the whirring thing with the screen between us and our driver and called, “You can take us to the place, Rudy.”
“Gotcha, Preach.”
The whirring came back, the screen went up, and when it was up, I curled into Preacher’s side, tucking my head into his shoulder and neck, and wrapped my arm around his stomach.
He did what he always did.
He reciprocated the gesture, curling an arm around my waist and holding me close.
“So, you goin’ on tour with me?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I told his chest.
I felt the warmth of goodness invade the limo and knew I’d made the right decision because I’d made Preacher happy.
One tour.
It’d be fun.
And he was right.
Take a breath, be with my man, look out for him, have this, for him.
For me.
I’d figure my stuff out after.
I had my whole life to figure it out.
This tour would only happen now.
Or, that was, when it started in two months.
“Give me another bump, honey,” I muttered.
“You just had one,” he said.
I felt his chin coming down, so I tilted my head back to look at him.
“Yeah, and you also just made me come and when you do that, all I wanna do is curl up and take a nap. You’re way too good with your fingers, sweetheart, and I have to get through this night. I need another bump.”
He gave it to me, took one himself since it was out, and not long later, Rudy delivered us to the venue.
Before the door opened, Preacher mumbled, “I hate this shit.”
“But you’re so pretty.”
Someone opened the door just as Preacher burst out laughing.
He kept doing it as he got out and continued doing it as he helped me out.
The flashbulbs were popping from the moment the door opened.
They were blinding from the moment Preacher appeared.
But I’d learned by then how to keep my head up as we walked through the onslaught.
Though that night, the smile I usually pinned to my face was genuine.
Preacher walked with me tucked close to his side, as usual, ignored the screams of our names, as usual, and he proceeded with his eyes aimed straight ahead in order to tell them without words he couldn’t give two fucks and they were less than meaningless to him.
As usual.
Lyla:
Brad and Gwyneth weren’t there.
[Laughs]
And I don’t know how long after it that