Fast Lane - Kristen Ashley Page 0,77

didn’t work with Preacher McCade.

Now Preacher wants me to go with him?

Which could put me in the same awkward position?

I knew why.

He wasn’t talking to anyone in the band, and if he had me around, he’d have his side there.

Or his shield.

Things hadn’t been good since Phoenix. And between Phoenix and here, they’d done two shows in Vegas, one in Salt Lake City, Boise, and now we were in Seattle.

That’s a lot of time not to talk to your best friends who you worked with, traveled with and essentially lived with.

“You should consider going clean like the rest of the band,” I said carefully, watching him toss back however many pills dry.

Thus, when he swallowed, this was visible, and when his gaze settled on me, it was unhappy.

“Stupidest fuckin’ shit they coulda pulled,” he declared.

What?

Was he serious?

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’d be wrong,” he said and walked from the living room of the suite to the bedroom.

I watched him thinking I could not imagine how, in this day and age, someone could think kicking pills and booze and illegal stimulants was stupid.

It was always the right thing to do.

And I was proud of the guys.

I was also cutting back, on all of it, not only because the guys were, and I thought it was smart.

But because Tim sang that song.

I didn’t want that song to be me and Preacher.

It hurt, just the idea Tim thought that was me and Preacher.

As was his way, Preacher had not missed I was doing this.

But he hadn’t said anything about it.

And although I probably shouldn’t have said anything when he was about to walk out the door in order to see to a commitment, something needed to be said.

What Tim did was messed up.

His message was not lost on me (or Preacher), but it was messed up how he communicated it.

That didn’t mean that message wasn’t delivered.

At least to me.

And it was important.

Because of this, and the fact Preacher was always busy, there was never a good, solid, lengthy amount of time where I had his undivided attention when I could get into this with him.

So maybe I should make the time.

I put my book aside, took my feet, walked into the bedroom and saw Preacher shrugging on his leather jacket.

“Honey, I think we should talk,” I said.

“Got no time to talk,” he replied.

“I think maybe you should make the time,” I told him. “It doesn’t have to be now, but it has to be soon. And I think you know why.”

His eyes leveled on me and he said, “Lyla, do not pull this shit.”

“It isn’t shit,” I said quietly.

“We’ll talk when we have time to talk, after the tour is over.”

“There are six more dates for you to do.”

“Yeah, and the last of those is in LA so we’ll be home. Ten fuckin’ days,” he stated walking my way and I knew how he was doing it he had no intention to stop. “You can wait ten fuckin’ days to nag my ass.”

Okay.

Now I was getting angry.

I was not a nag.

Though I had to say, maybe I was becoming one.

But only because he was turning me into one.

“I’m not nagging.”

He stopped midway across the living area and turned to me.

“You’re gonna tell me shit I don’t wanna hear knowing I not only don’t wanna hear it, I don’t agree with you. You’re the one with the degree, babe, so maybe I’m wrong, but that seems to me like the definition of nagging.”

You’re the one with the degree?

Preacher never said things like that.

He not only never made mention that he thought that I thought I was better than him.

He definitely never insinuated he thought I was better than him.

“Preacher—”

“I gotta go.”

He turned again to the door.

And it was then I realized he was going to leave without kissing me.

To say our sex life had taken a turn for the worse was an understatement.

We used to have sex at least once a day.

This was because we loved each other, and we did this deeply.

The feeling of not being able to get enough didn’t start and stop that first time for me, and he’d indicated quite strongly, for him as well.

We clicked that way.

Sex was as natural and essential as breathing to us.

Sleeping.

Eating.

And it came just as easy.

The attraction, the desire for it never waned.

I could be in the kitchen, making a cake, and Preacher would come in and kiss my neck and that would lead to him fingering me to an orgasm or lifting me