He got no further as Preacher shouldered in, and he was a big guy, I figured his shoulder could get him in anywhere he wanted to go.
No problem, an open door.
I thought this as I stared at him standing in the same room with me and tried really hard to breathe.
“Are you shitting me?” Preacher asked Jesse, but his eyes were on me.
How I knew he was asking Jesse was anyone’s guess.
But Jesse knew it too, because he answered.
“Listen, she’s just crashing on my couch until I can get her to the station tomorrow. Her train takes off at ten.”
“Get out,” Preacher ordered, his eyes still glued to me.
And again, I knew he was talking to Jesse.
So did Jesse.
“Preach—” Jesse started.
Preacher shoved something Jesse’s way. “Here’s my key, use my room, and get out.”
“Preach, I pro—”
“Get out!” he roared in Jesse’s face.
Jesse stood solid and stared at him.
Then he said, “Talk to her.”
I closed my eyes.
Boy, he gave in easy.
“Yeah, we’ll talk,” Preacher snarled.
“Get your clothes, babe,” Jesse called to Cynthia.
I opened my eyes and I watched Preacher the whole time Jesse and Cynthia did their thing.
“I don’t need clothes, baby.”
“Get your clothes.”
“I just took them off.”
“Jesus, seriously?”
“We can party here. The more, the merrier.”
“Okay, no. Grab my shirt and boots and get over here. We’ll party upstairs.”
“Gotcha.”
The second the door closed behind them, I walked to my coat.
It was ripped out of my hand the instant my fingers closed around it.
I looked up at Preacher.
And really.
Really.
It sucked he was so beautiful.
That thick dark hair, those warm brown eyes.
I was tall.
Very tall.
He was taller.
Tall and built enough to accommodate three groupies.
“I’m leaving,” I told him.
“Why, baby?” he asked, crossing his arms on his chest with my trench still in one hand. “You got me.” He jerked his head toward the bedroom. “We got the equipment. Let’s get down to why you came to Chicago.”
I had never in my life been punched.
But that felt like one.
Right to the gut.
Okay…
Why had I come to Chicago?
“Give me my coat,” I snapped.
“You can have it after a blowjob.”
I winced.
And now I had a new question.
How was I so wrong about this guy?
“Give me my coat, Preacher,” I demanded.
“Told you how you can get it.”
“Give me my coat, Preacher,” I repeated.
“All right, you suck me, I’ll eat you, we’re even. That what you want?”
I slammed my hands on my hips.
“Why are you being like this?” I asked.
He leaned into me threateningly.
“I don’t know. Maybe because I met a girl, my girl. She listened to me in the dark. She shared with me in the dark. But really, she thinks I’m a loser creep in a rock band who rolls into town and all I want’s in her pants, and she’s got no time for me. But now that I’m opening for the Mustangs, she finds her way to Chicago and all the way backstage to try and get her hooks in me.”
He.
Did.
Not.
“She died.”
He blinked.
“Headaches,” I went on. “It started with that. She just thought they were headaches. Couldn’t get rid of one for three days, she went to the doctor. In three more days, she knew she had a brain tumor. In three months, she was dead.”
Preacher stood still as a statue.
“And I’d met this guy, right? He listened to me in the dark. He shared with me in the dark. My guy.”
I pounded my chest so hard, it made a noise, and his head jerked a little to the side with his flinch.
“My guy, except he doesn’t call me. He promises he’s gonna be back for my birthday, and then he’s not. Months and months, he doesn’t call me until he rolls into town and I think he wants in my pants, except, you see, I don’t have time to let him have that because I’m burying my mother.”
I was breathing really hard as I made to move around him.
“You can keep the coat,” I spat.
And then he was in front of me.
“Baby.”
I kept going, sidestepping him toward the door.
“Keep away from me, Preacher.”
“Lyla.”
I was almost to the door.
He wrapped his fingers around my arm.
I whirled on him. “Take your hand off me!”
“I didn’t know.”
“You thought I came up here because you’re opening for the Mustangs? I hate the Mustangs. They suck. Petty wannabes. And Petty sucks!”
“Now, cher, don’t be talkin’ smack about Petty,” he muttered.
Was he serious?
“Get your hand off me, Preacher McCade.”
“Come back into the room. Let’s talk.”
“We are not talking.”
“Lyla—”
I got up on my toes, as close to his face as I could get, and snapped, “Screw you! I needed to talk to you a year ago. I needed you when she was diagnosed. I needed you when she was dying. I needed you when Dad started pulling his crap.”
“What’d your dad try to do?” he growled.
“He didn’t try to do it. He did do it. He’s got Julia.”
His face turned to stone, then it gentled, and he tried to pull me to him, murmuring, “Baby.”
I pulled hard back, got free, slammed against the door, banging my head.
And then I was in his arms.
Oh God.
Oh God.
Those arms.
Those strong arms.
They felt so good.
I couldn’t bear it.
My legs gave out and I started crying.
Bawling.
God!
He somehow got me across the room and on the couch, and I pushed at him and tried to pull away.
But he clamped on tight, fell sideways, I went with him, then he rolled on top and he was heavy.
A heavy that felt awesome.
Damn it.
“Okay, Lyla, okay, cher, cool it enough to tell me what’s happening.”
“He-he…she wasn’t even in the dirt before he petitioned for custody. G-g-gram and Gramps t-t-tried to fight him but, money was tight, and our l-lawyer wasn’t very g-good and…and…her senior year! She’s with Dad!”
I gulped, choked, coughed, hiccupped, then kept bawling.
I shoved my face in his neck and used his skin to wipe my cheeks then pulled away and looked away, straining to get out from under him.
“I was so s-stupid to think you…just, you know, would want me and that you c-cared.”
I stopped straining, moving altogether, talking and crying when his big hands framed both sides of my head and he forced it to face him.
“You know better than that, Lyla,” he bit out.
I blinked tears out of my eyes.
“I was giving you space,” he clipped.