Fast Lane

by Ashley, Kristen

  I could do that again and again (and had), find a variety of different ways to do it, even attempting to sneak it in and catch him off guard, which made me feel like shit and made Preacher irritable.

  But it didn’t matter.

  He wouldn’t tell me.

  “Babe, I gotta hit the road for this thing.”

  Babe.

  He was calling me that a lot now.

  I still got “baby” and “cher” and Lyla on occasion.

  But most of the time it was “babe,” and he called the girl who restrung his guitars “babe.”

  I heard the sound of pills bouncing around in a bottle and I looked his way to see him tapping a few out while asking, “You wanna come?”

  Did I want to come?

  Come with him and watch him and the guys do a radio slot?

  I never did that.

  Not after the time I did it in Miami, the DJ mentioned I was there while they were live, tried to coax me to come on mic, also while they were live, and Preacher walked out, taking me with him, and the guys had to cover for him.

  Tommy had, of course, seen to things prior to us going.

  As Tom saw to fucking everything.

  Including, undoubtedly, whatever was happening in the hall.

  But Tommy had told the station that I would be there, I was just there to hang with the band and see my guy in action, I would be happy to meet the staff and take a few pictures, if that was what they’d like, but I was under no circumstances going on air.

  The DJ was trying to get an exclusive by putting us on the spot.

  He learned that 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 on the counter and going down on me.

  He could be strumming in his music room, working out a song, and I’d come in and get on my knees on the floor between his legs, take him in my mouth and take him there.

  I mean, “Musk” was no lie and it was no exaggeration.

  Case in point, the first time he played that song he wrote for me, I loved it so much, got so turned on by it, I was sucking his cock before he’d finished singing it.

  I had to admit, our activity level probably partly had to do with the fact that he was often on the road, or even when he wasn’t, he was busy.

  So, our times weren’t few, but they were interrupted, and we took advantage when we were together.

  Mostly, it was that he was hot, he was great in bed as well as anytime we got busy out of it, he made me feel beautiful and desirable, he made it clear that I did it for him, he was the love of my life and I was his.

  This was something else we were both avoiding on a variety of levels.

  This snag in our sex life.

  Preacher actually set an alarm, even when he didn’t have to, in order to get up, take his pills, and go somewhere to work out.

  He’d always maintained his body.

  But not at the expense of sleep he could have.

  And especially morning sex he could have.

  And the nights were worse, both of us falling in bed, exhausted, drunk and/or high.


  Or more recently, Preacher doing that and me lying in bed in the dark with my man at my side but also a million miles away.

  But this…

  Leaving me without a kiss.

  This never happened.

  Hell, when he went onstage for a show, the last thing he did was touch his mouth to mine, give me a smile and a wink.

  I sensed this, him leaving without kissing me, was another level of bad.

  One that we wouldn’t need to recover from.

  We’d need resuscitation and a prayer.

  I started moving quickly toward him and called urgently, “Preacher.”

  He pivoted and exploded, “For fuck’s sake, Lyla, shut the fuck up!”

  I stopped dead.

  “When I say I don’t wanna talk now, I don’t fuckin’ wanna talk now,” he snarled.

  “All right,” I whispered.

  “And don’t look like a whipped puppy. That’s bullshit and we both know it,” he continued. “You bought this. Not long ago you reminded me you weren’t my bitch to drag around and kick when I feel like it. Well, babe, I ain’t your bitch to lead around by my dick.”

  I said nothing.

  Preacher didn’t either.

  He turned away from me and walked out the door.

  And although I would never have thought it would cross my mind.

  Not in a lifetime.

  Not in a dozen lifetimes.

  I was glad he didn’t kiss me after those words came out of his mouth.

  Jesse:

  Seattle, yeah.

  [Clears throat and shifts uncomfortably in his chair]

  I remember Seattle.

  We did some radio program, and when they announced we were gonna be there, someone had gotten in touch with them, they got in touch with Tom, and Tom was all over an opportunity like that and not because of what you’d think.

  Yes, it was good PR.

  But it was also good karma.

  This being our biggest fan in Seattle who happened to be dying of Hodgkin’s.

  With the DJ’s help, this fan is gonna interview us live.

  It was a no-brainer. We got the questions in advance so no surprises. And during the visit, Tom built in plenty of time for the photo shoot and a natter off mic.

  Good deal. Lots of time with this guy. He gets his questions answered, gets to hang with the band, gets to pick all his favorite Roadmasters songs that the DJ plays for all of Seattle.

  Except for the fact this guy is clearly a good guy, a huge fan, and he’s dying, it goes great.

  And as usual, Preacher’s totally on.

  I mean, if this guy wasn’t our biggest fan in Seattle before that, he would have been after.

  Preacher even goes so far as sayin’, “Sorry Lyla couldn’t come,” when she never did that kind of thing and everyone knew it, and so Preacher never went there, never brought her up which would bring attention to the fact she wasn’t around.

  But the guy had mentioned Lyla, and he was that guy and what was happening to him was happening to him, so Preacher says that and for him, that’s goin’ the extra mile.

  And the guy says something like, “I knew she wouldn’t. I know she doesn’t do this kind of thing. But will you tell her I said hi?”

  And Preach says, “I’ll totally tell her you said hi. But you can tell her yourself seein’ as you’ll meet her backstage.”

  Then Tommy gives the guy passes for him and his whole family to the show and this guy is beside himself.

  He’s eating this shit up.

  Preacher shakes his hand, claps him on the shoulder, and he’s got a way with this kind of thing. He always did.

  It’s not the first he’s done, or we’ve done.

  But he could do that. The handshake. The clap on the shoulder. And do it without it being obvious he’s not putting his full force behind it, so they’re not reminded they’re sick as fuck and going to die.

  There were a lot of things I admired about Preach, as you can tell.

  Gotta say, the way he was with people who got a shit hand in life and they wouldn’t have the time to wait for a re-deal, that was near to the top of the list.

  We’re gettin’ in the limo after, Shawn’s in, Tim’s in, Preacher’s folding in, and Tim does this cough to hide him saying, “Faker,” and as he intended, what anyone intends with that bullshit, he meant it to be heard.

  And it was heard.

  Now, I’m pissed at Preacher but what are we?

  Ten?

  So now I’m also pissed at Tim because we got issues to hash out and it ain’t gonna happen like that.

  Preacher pulls a Lyla and gives Tim a look that would melt iron, but he settles in and just stares out the window, acting like we aren’t there, and he does not say a word.

  Shawn’s also sittin’ there, staring out the window, and Tim’s sitting right next to him, and I got half a mind to let that lie and half a mind to drag Tim outta striking distance from Shawn because Shawn’s vibe is lethal.

  The drive to the station wasn’t all that fun.

  The last week since Tim went off set in Phoenix hasn’t been all that fun.

  The last few months have not been fun.

  Now the drive back to the hotel seems like it’s gonna be even less fun.

  And Dave can’t hack it.

  So, he says, “Are we gonna talk this shit out, or what?”

  Then for whatever fucked-up reason, Tim throws at Preacher, “You know, if she wants to get clean, you shouldn’t stand in her way.”

  And yeah.

  [Lifts eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head before he again lowers them]

  Like calling Preacher’s shit out onstage, that is the exact wrong way to approach things with Preacher.

  Preacher engages to say to Tim, but, mind you, it’s a direct shot, and a successful one, a damaging one, at Dave, “It wasn’t me who gave her her first taste of that shit. I didn’t want her anywhere near it.”

  So now Dave engages.

  “Oh, was it a Preacher McCade clone that I saw all those times holdin’ a spoon to her nose? ’Cause if it is, this doesn’t make me too happy seein’ as one of you is more than enough right about now.”

  “Close it down,” Tom cuts in. “Everyone go to your corners and cool off. We’ll have a band meeting after we get to Portland.”

  “Fuck that,” Tim says.

  Now I’m engaging and I say, “Timmy, seriously. Just close it down.”

  Then Tim asks me, jerking his head at Preacher, “Wait, now you’re the boss of me after he’s been the boss of me for the last nine years?”

  And that was when Preacher lowers the hammer.

  “You got a problem with it, Tim, maybe you’ll hand over the keys to your Malibu pad and your convertible GTO and you can go back to Mooresville and flip burgers, which is where you’d be right now if I did not become a member of this band.”

  [Sits back in his chair, links fingers in front of him, elbows to the arms of the chair]

  Now, mark this, sister, with hindsight, I’m gonna make a grand statement.

  But I’ll tell you what, anyone asked, I’d have said the same thing back then.

  Tim deserved that.

  He felt like a schmuck that Leeanne had latched onto his balls and didn’t let go, he’d drifted through life on a guitar string and a surfboard with his head always in a tune or on a wave, so he let that happen and that played out in front of most of the band.

  He was probably worried about Preacher.

  He was definitely worried about Lyla.

  And he was feeling the band sinking into quicksand and he didn’t know what to do about it so he’s lashing out, settling blame.

  But we had occasion to brush shoulders with a lot of people in the industry by that time, the first bein’ Bobby Fuckin’ Sheridan.

  Okay, Lyla hates it when someone uses the term “diva” to refer in a derogatory way to a woman in entertainment.

  She says, give a diva a pair of testi
cles, he’d be called a visionary or a perfectionist, and everyone would race around breaking their necks to give him what he wanted because he’s gifted, knows what he needs, knows what he’s doing and the result will be worth it.

  And she’s right.

  But to serve my purposes for this story, I’ll use that terminology.

  We’d had our run-ins with a fair share of divas, Bobby Sheridan being our first, and I’ll tell you this, most of them had dicks.

  Preach was not that.

  And Tim knew it.

  So, he’s hitting below the belt and he’s known Preacher a long time. He knows, he breaks that particular seal, Preacher is all in for a dirty fight.

  In other words, he bought it with that “faker” bullshit and that boss comment and all the way back to going off set in Phoenix.

  The problem is, the band is unraveling.

  And the person who’s held it together since 19-fuckin’-86 is Preacher McCade.

  I’m waiting for him to get a handle on it or give Tom some sign he’s unleashed to sort shit out.

  But Preacher just turns and scowls…

  At me.

  Lyla:

  I love Jesse.

  I named my son after that man for a reason.

  But he fucked up.

  From Phoenix, even before, all the way home, he fucked up.

  And he did it huge.

  Lyla:

  We were in Seattle for two days and it felt like two years.

  I had no idea what happened when they did their thing at the radio station, I just knew by the way Preacher was acting when he got back, it was really not good.

  He wasn’t in the mood to talk because of that, but we’d also had our thing before he left, and for the first time, he does not come back after being a dick to me, remorseful and intent to smooth things out, make amends.

  So, my bad situation gets worse because things are deteriorating so rapidly, it feels like my whole life is slipping through my fingers.

  And it’s turned to sand.

  No way to grab hold.

  But I was desperate to find a way to do just that.

  So, I needed to make a decision.

  Wait Preacher out and hope things improve so he’ll talk to me, which does not seem very likely.

  Or try to find out what’s happening.