And that chill got chillier because that was not Tommy or Preacher, to have a word outside the rest of the boys.
The band was the band. They talked. They argued. They hashed things out. And they did this together.
They did not talk behind each other’s backs.
Preacher, specifically, had an issue with this.
Even if you had a beef with him.
You were up front with Preacher, always.
“I’m not feelin’ good about this,” Preacher unsurprisingly replied, and at his voice, I moved to the doorway to the living room.
I stopped in it and leaned against the jamb, seeing it wasn’t only Tommy there, but also DuShawn.
“Hey, China,” Tommy greeted, and I noted how he noted that I did not come into the room and go to Preacher.
“Hey there,” I replied quietly then looked to Shawn. “Hey, darlin’.”
“Hey there, baby girl,” he muttered, also eyeing me where I was standing removed.
The looks on their faces matched the feel of the room, this not (totally) about my distance, and I tasted something weird in my mouth I’d never tasted before, and I really did not like the flavor.
“Well?” Preacher prompted, gaining the men’s attention.
“Band’s goin’ clean for the rest of the tour,” DuShawn announced.
Uh-oh.
I looked from DuShawn to Preacher to Tommy to Preacher.
DuShawn and Tom had assumed determined, even pugilistic expressions.
Preacher’s was the same but add incredulous.
“Have you lost your minds?” he asked. Yes. Incredulous. “We’re smack in the middle of the tour.”
“Don’t know why where we’re at has shit to do with it,” Shawn said. “It’s getting out of hand.”
“It’s not out of hand,” Preacher retorted.
“It’s outta hand, Preacher. I had trouble waking Dave up this morning,” Tommy told him, and my middle moved like I’d been punched.
He’d had trouble waking Dave?
“What?” I asked.
Everyone looked to me.
But Tommy spoke.
“Scared me shitless. Shook him. Smacked him. Had to toss a glass of cold water in his face to get anything from him. He’s in his room with a huge pot of coffee and we’ll just say he didn’t like it when I told him he couldn’t sock back his Adderall.”
“He’s a grown man, Tom,” Preacher stated.
“He’s got a problem, Preacher,” Shawn decreed.
“When’d you earn your medical degree?” Preacher jibed.
Oh no.
You did not take a jab, verbal or otherwise, at Shawn.
“You’re handin’ me that shit, brother, ’cause you know we’re startin’ with Dave and then we’ll be talkin’ ’bout you,” DuShawn returned.
Oh no!
If this needed to be done, and I was worried it needed to be done, I needed to do it.
Not Shawn.
We were a team, but I handled Preacher in life.
Shawn handled him in the band.
And neither of us stepped over that line.
Ever.
“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me,” Preacher snarled.
Shawn crossed his arms on his chest. “And while we’re on touchy subjects, I’ll throw out there that something’s gotta be done about that bitch who’s doggin’ Tim’s every step. Haven’t seen him out from under that pussy except onstage in two weeks.”
This, I could see.
Okay, the other I could see too.
But truly, the woman Tim had brought along on the tour…
She wasn’t right.
I did not like her.
Preacher hated her.
And I knew all the guys felt the same even if not a one of them had said a word.
She hadn’t been with us from the beginning, though Tim had started things with her in LA before we left.
He had not been at one with her coming along.
She’d talked him into letting her join us.
Something I was noticing she had a scary-good ability in doing.
“So, you’re not only down with tellin’ a man how he goes about his day, you’re also good with tellin’ him who he can fuck?” Preacher asked Shawn.
I stared at him because not two days ago it was the fourth, maybe fifth time he had eyes on Leeanne and he’d said, “That woman’s not right.”
And now he was okay with her?
“You cannot stand there and tell me you don’t see she’s bad news,” Shawn returned.
“I can stand here and tell you it’s none of my damned business,” Preacher shot back. “Or yours.”
“Preach—” Tommy started.
“No, Tom,” Preacher bit. “This is not how we do shit in this band. You got a problem, you bring it to breakfast or we call a sit down. We do not sneak.”
“We came here because when we go to the band, we want you behind this,” Tommy replied, then he looked at me. “And you.”
Oh shit.
I shook my head, but before I could get words out, Preacher spoke.
“Do not look at Lyla. She’s got nothin’ to do with the band.”
At his ugly, dismissive tone, I felt my head jerk as I blinked.
He was right.
I didn’t.
I was careful with that.
Even between me and Preacher, when the guys weren’t around, I was careful with it.
The band was his. His and the boys’.
There were many reasons I did this, not least of which was that I didn’t want to be forced into the position of the go-between. The middleman. Cast in the role of the speaker for one side or the other. The peacemaker. The deciding vote.
None of that.
Because I was Preacher’s and it wouldn’t be fair because I loved all the guys, but my mind would always be on what Preacher would want.
But more, as noted, the band was Preacher’s.
I’d watched my grandparents, and Gram had her thing, Gramps had his. They both golfed and they both liked to travel. They both worked, different places, different work friends and colleagues. To relax, he liked to stretch out in front of the TV or read. She liked to go shopping or lunch with one of her cronies or lay out in the sun.
They didn’t get along every second.
But they had their life together and their times where they did their own thing.
And they had the strongest marriage (by far) I’d ever seen.
I wanted to build that with Preacher.
This was one of the reasons why I was struggling to find my thing.
I could not also be all about the band no matter how many factors out there were trying to drag me in.
Last, and oh so not least, there was one little way I took care of the guys.
I didn’t let them get jacked over by women.
So actually, he was wrong.
I did have something to do with the band.
It wasn’t a big thing.
But it was a thing.
So him saying that like he just said that.
It hurt.
“You best be careful, brother,” DuShawn said low, jerking his head my way.
“Great, now you’re gonna tell me how to handle my woman?” Preacher asked.
Handle me?
“I think perhaps I should finish packing,” I put in.
“Yeah,” Preacher said to me. “You do that.”