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?”