I will say now that I knew this was risky.
Talking behind Preacher’s back.
As I’ve mentioned repeatedly, he did not like that.
But I loved him, and everything was falling apart.
Including us.
So, I had to take the risk.
[Takes very deep breath and lets it out while speaking]
You know, in the glut of cataclysms that were happening, it seems strange to say this.
But one of the worst parts about taking that risk was not what happened after.
It was that the two people I spoke to, Jesse and Tommy, who were the two people Preacher was closest to, even more than he was to Shawn at that time, knew Preacher would not take too well to me approaching them why I was approaching them, and both of them encouraged me to go direct to the source.
They refused to talk to me, they didn’t give me that first thing.
I didn’t know until later this was not only because they really did not want to talk behind Preacher’s back.
They didn’t know anything either.
And yeah.
[Pauses]
That was the worst part.
[Off tape]
You didn’t speak to Williams?
[Pauses a moment]
That’s a good question and I know that because, after it all happened, I spent a lot of time thinking about why I did not do that.
DuShawn told me we were a team, and if I needed to work things out in regard to Preacher, I should go to him.
I really didn’t know how important this was at the time, and obviously later.
And after that situation in our first house in LA, Preacher never gave me a reason to call on my teammate.
But it wasn’t that I forgot.
Oh, no.
[Shakes head]
I did not forget.
This is where I fucked up.
Because, you see, I didn’t go to Shawn for altruistic reasons. Because I was protecting him.
Looking back, I realize I didn’t go to Shawn because I was terrified of what he might say.
So, I took the risk…
The wrong one.
Then I took the next one.
And failed spectacularly at both.
On every level.
I was sitting cross-legged smack in the middle of the 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 charge it to my credit card?”
That cut so close to the bone, it was so vicious, it happened before I knew it was happening.
My hand just flashed out, striking him across his face.
I’d never slapped anyone. I didn’t know if it was the force of the blow or the surprise of it that had his head snapping to the side.
But it snapped
to the side.
And as I stood there, my hand still raised, staring at him in shock and disgust at myself for what I’d done, his head remained to the side.
Then he moved.
Into me.
Fast.
And while doing it, he caught my raised wrist.
I retreated as Preacher rushed me until I slammed into the wall, though it also could be described as Preacher pushing me back and slamming me into the wall.
He pinned me there with his body and he pinned my hand to the wall with his fingers wrapped bruisingly around my wrist.
But his face was so close, there was nothing in my world but his enraged brown eyes.
“Do not ever touch me like that,” he snarled.
OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod.
What had I done?
I knew.
I never thought in a million years I would need the reminder, much less be right where I was right then—and why—this being how I got that reminder.
Because I knew.
“Prea—”
No more came out because he released my wrist but repeatedly slammed his opened hand into the wall beside my head so hard, I worried his hand would go through it or he’d harm himself.
OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod.
What had I done?
“Do not ever put your hands on me like that,” he rumbled.
“I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry,” I said swiftly, lifting my hands to rest them lightly on his chest. “So, so sorry.”
He wrapped his fingers around my wrists, tore them from him and instantly let them go.
He was no longer touching me at all, but he was still pinning me to the wall with his body.
“You can’t go home, Lyla, you don’t have a fuckin’ home,” he told me.
Okay.
All right.
Handle him.
Shawn told me when the wild came out, I had to learn how to handle him.
And it was me who’d drawn the wild out, and I needed to rein it in.
“Preacher, we both need to calm down.”
“You wanna know why you don’t have a home?” he asked.
“Please, just take a second. Take a breath. Think before you say any more,” I begged.
He did not take my direction.
“Because I paid for the fuckin’ house you live in. I paid for the bed you sleep in. I pay for the clothes you wear that everyone thinks are the shit. I pay for you to get your hair cut and I pay for the gas you put in your car that yeah…I also paid for. Your food. Your shampoo. Your…fuckin’…tampons.”
“Please, please, please, please be quiet,” I whispered.
“I pay for all of it, all you got, Lyla. So, you go home when I say you go home not only because you don’t have two fuckin’ pennies to rub together and you can’t get home without me. But because I bought you, I paid heavy, so I own you.”
I stood there, pressed against the wall, staring up at the love of my life who’d just eviscerated me, and I did not move. I did not speak.
I just hurt.
And the pain was agonizing.
“Now, I’m guessing a blowjob is out of the question,” he noted.
I simply continued to stare up at him.
“And I just had a run, so I need to eat,” he finished.
He then moved away from me and walked back to his jeans, which in the drama, he’d dropped.
He tugged off the towel, dropped it to the floor and yanked the jeans on without underwear. He found a tee and tugged that on. Then he put on a pair of his running shoes.
After that, he started to walk out but stopped and turned back to me.
“And if you ever, fuckin’ ever, Lyla, go to Tom or Jess about me again, we will be so done, you won’t even be a fuckin’ memory.”
Then, after that, without a backward glance, he walked right out.
Lyla:
Outside Preacher saying those things to me, the most humiliating thing I’ve ever experienced in the whole of my life was calling my sister to ask her to buy me a plane ticket and then stealing cash out of the wallet Preacher left behind because I didn’t have any on me.
[Shoulders slide forward]
Strike that, I just didn’t have any.
I didn’t leave him a note.
I didn’t know what to say.
I flew to Indianapolis, and the next day, my aunt was up from Georgia.
She picked me up and she drove me back down south.
My family was having an expensive week, seeing as I’d barely driven away with my aunt when Sonia and Julia were off to the airport to fly to LA to get my stuff.
And I’ll note they got my stuff.
My high school yearbooks and the plastic talcum powder box Mom used to keep her jewelry in, pictures, scrapbooks.
The clothes, the shoes, the handbags, even stuff I came into the relationship with, they left behind.
They boxed it all up, posted it home and got back on a plane.
I was unsurprised that Preacher and the band finished out the tour.
Tommy wouldn’t allow it to happen any other way.
Jesse:
I don’t think I gotta tell you, we were all freaked way the fuck out that Lyla was gone.
The band slid straight into a détente the minute we realized she’d vanished.
And I’ll tell you what, the minute Preach gave the slightest inkling he was open to a reconciliation, we all woulda been there.
The problem with that was, Preacher had no idea we were in a détente.
And if he did, he wouldn’t care.
Because he had other things on his mind, seeing as he was in hell.
Tommy told me later that when whatever went down between Preach and Lyla went down, and Preacher got back to his room, he had no clue she was gone.
She’d left all her stuff.
As in all her stuff.
Even her purse.
He thought she was off somewhere, cooling off after whatever went down.
It was when he grabbed his wallet and saw his money gone that he went to her purse and saw that everything was in it but her wallet.
She’d taken her wallet, but then he noticed her credit cards were on the nightstand with her room key.
That was when shit got real.
I probably should not have told him that Lyla was worried about him.
But I did.
Tommy told me later that he did too.
We both knew Preacher wouldn’t like that she came to us about him, but what the fuck?
I mean seriously.
Everything is disintegrating because one guy’s got something up his ass?
And he’s not talking to anyone about it?
Not even Lyla?
I thought he’d hate the idea that Lyla was worried about him, worried enough to come to us, and he’d do something about it.
I needed him to do something about something.
And I guess [shrugs, mouth going tight] he did.
[Off tape]
The band were all completely unaware of what was happening?
Yes.
Including Mancosa?
[Nods]
Him too.
And I know, that’s a surprise.
The thing was, Lyla’s dad had reared his ugly head again, so with the band acting up, us deciding to go cold turkey after years of self-medication, Preacher being how he was being, Tom had his hands full.
But in the end, it was just that Preach hadn’t ever told anybody.
Except me.
And Lyla.
We finished out our dates, the last two gigs in LA.
Except onstage, it was the arctic if we were around Preacher, and that was coming from him.
He didn’t even ride on the plane with us. He rented a car and drove from Portland to San Fran. He flew commercial to San Diego. And he took a limo back to LA.
Yeah, I remember all of that.
I remember the minutia of that time.
Five years of recording
and touring is a blur.
When we’re young and hot and the world is laid out before us, ours for the taking, I gotta work hard to recall the goodness.
But that time and what came after.
Fuck, man.
Crystal-clear focus.
Do you know in this time if he ever tried to reconcile with Lyla?
I didn’t know it at the time.
Tommy told me later.
Preacher thought she went home to LA.
Tom himself took a day and flew down to go talk to her, take her pulse and set her up for Preacher’s return or make the call that Preacher needed to go down himself and sort shit out.
But she wasn’t there.
There was nothing disturbed, that he knew or could see.
It was a fluke that he saw Lyla’s house keys and car keys sitting on the kitchen counter.
I guess Tommy went back and told Preacher and Preacher told him to find her, and it took a bit, but he did.
She was staying with one of her aunts in Georgia.
I’m not a betting man, I worked too hard for my money.
[Smiles weakly]
But if I’d known what was happening, I would have put money on him walking offstage after our last gig in LA and going direct to Georgia.
He didn’t.
He went home.
That being to his and Lyla’s pad.
In LA.
You didn’t ask, and maybe you already guessed, but in the days after Lyla took off, no one in the band, including me, manned up to try to reach him.
It’s no longer about the problems with the band.
This is Lyla and Preacher, or a Preacher without Lyla, and we already know he’s got something eating at him, without Lyla to balm that hurt…
[Draws a long breath into his nose]
And not one of us even attempted to make an approach.
He wasn’t inviting that but…
[Lengthy pause]
Still.
It took me two days to go see him after the tour was over, and I went because Tom had come to me and this was the “later” I keep mentioning.
This was when he told me all this shit was going down.
I was tweaked way the fuck out.
Lyla’s disappearance from the end of the tour had been noticed. People were whispering about it. Our PR folks were getting calls.
Fast Lane Page 23