Fast Lane

by Kristen Ashley

  And Tom is there, but Simone is not.

  So, since Shawn doesn’t want to be puking and hallucinating when he’s getting zero sleep and has a newborn at home, and Tommy’s happy as fuck the band’s back together, but he doesn’t want to draw this shit out unnecessarily because he kinda likes his wife and wants to get back to her, and I lost interest in tripping when I was about nineteen and Preach never tripped, peyote was voted down.

  We’d all been writing, though Shawn had nothing to contribute to the album since he records his own shit then loses all his money to couture houses to clothe Vanessa so she could be appropriately attired when she was on his arm when he raked in all his awards.

  [Laughs]

  Though no one had been writing as much as Preach.

  I mean, seriously.

  We’re sittin’ around, takin’ a break, and as usual, Dave’s the first to bring it up.

  McCade:

  [Eyes aimed straight ahead at the shelves behind the bar]

  Well, what can I say?

  I had something on my mind.

  Something to relate.

  [Turns head to me]

  And that was my medium to do it.

  Jesse:

  Preacher wants to title the album Follow Your Star.

  And Dave is literally physically averse to callin’ it that. I mean, literally in the proper sense of the word literally. The man nearly upchucks every time he says those three words.

  So, he asks how fixed we all are on the name.

  McCade:

  For my part, I’m very fixed.

  Jesse:

  Preacher tells Dave he’s pretty firm on this idea.

  Dave tells Preacher that he’s pretty sure, we name an album that, people are gonna think we got Celine Dion featured on one of the songs.

  McCade:

  Right, if you’re gonna dis someone, pick wisely.

  Celine Dion is not my thing.

  But I don’t hesitate to share with Dave that when the Roadmasters got an upcoming residency in Vegas in the most expensive venue in that fuckin’ town, and it was being built for us, we can flip the bird at Celine Dion.

  Jesse:

  So, Tim might have spent some time reflecting, getting his shit together, learnin’ with hands-on experience to be a great dad and finding a good, decent woman to spend the rest of his life with, but the guy’s still a dope.

  And just to say, he’s not gonna be offended by that because he knows he’s a dope.

  This he learned during his years of surfing reflection.

  [Grins]

  So, he leans to me and whispers, [starts chuckling] “Does Preach want one of the tracks to feature Celine Dion?”

  [Laughs fully]

  This is such a stupid question, I say, “Yes.”

  Then…

  [Unable to speak further due to laughter]

  McCade:

  Timmy says, “I call lead on that and I don’t give a fuck what song it is.”

  Jesse:

  Then Tim says, “I love her. Have you heard her cover of ‘All By Myself’? I mean, she kills it. She’s Marty’s favorite.”

  McCade:

  [Stares steadily, not speaking]

  Jesse:

  We all…

  [Shakes head]

  We got no words.

  So, Preach tells him…

  McCade:

  “When we do a duet with Celine Dion, she’s all yours.”

  Jesse:

  [Dissolves into laughter, it wanes, and he sobers completely]

  Christ, it felt good to be back with my boys.

  So, Dave provides the band with another Spinal Tap moment and says, “I’m gonna raise a practical question at this point, are we namin’ the album Follow Your Star?”

  [Chuckles, but again sobers]

  Then Preach says, “Those were the last words Lyla’s mom said to her before she died.”

  And well…

  [Pause]

  Shit.

  We’re still out in the desert, layin’ down the album, Preach and me at the mixing board with Danny and Hans, who came back onboard because this is a Roadmasters reunion, [grins] when DuShawn’s cell rings.

  I do not get a good feeling when he takes the call and walks outside.

  When he comes back in, he’s learned…hell, we’ve all learned, he does not delay in sharing.

  “That was Lyla,” he says. “She’s decided, and she doesn’t think it’s a good idea to come to the charity gig.”

  Now, I do not know about everybody else.

  For my part, I want them back together.

  This is Preacher and Lyla, and the band is back, but the world still isn’t right because those two are apart.

  The rest of the guys, I can’t say.

  But I know there’s uncertainty, and I know it because I feel that too.

  He fucked her up when he disappeared.

  And for a long time, it was not good.

  That said, my way of thinking, this is Preacher.

  He built a band that made the big time, he kept us together, and he put two murderers in prison.

  He could win back Lyla and do it right.

  Or I hoped like fuck he could.

  When DuShawn says Lyla isn’t comin’ to the gig, Preacher just stares at him.

  No words.

  But Shawn mutters, “On it,” and takes his phone back outside.

  It’s the next morning, Preach and me are at the studio, rappin’ about a fade in one of the songs I wrote that we’re putting on the album, when Shawn shows.

  He gets some coffee, sits with Preach and me and says, “Vanessa talked with her and with Sonia.”

  He then takes a big breath and I know nothin’ good can come after that.

  It doesn’t.

  “She’s seein’ someone, brother,” Shawn says. “Apparently it’s gettin’ serious. She knows it’ll be a thing with the press if she shows, and she’s worked hard to get past there bein’ a thing with her and the press. She’s got anonymity now, mostly. She doesn’t wanna go back there and she doesn’t want what goin’ back there might do to this guy she’s seein’.”

  Preacher just sits there, staring at Shawn, not sayin’ a word.

  But he doesn’t have to speak.

  The vibe wafting off him tells a whole story.

  Shawn reaches out, clamps Preach on the shoulder, and goes on, “Sonia says she’s happy, Preach. She practically begged Vanessa to get me to get you to stand down.”

  His voice gets low and he finishes it.

  “China says she’s glad you’re back. She’s glad the band is back together. She’s glad we’re makin’ music again. But she just can’t.”

  I feel this for Preach.

  I really do.

  And to be selfish, I feel it for all of us.

  You can never go back again.

  I know that.

  I’m older and smarter, and at that time, closer to findin’ Natalie, so I don’t wanna go back again.

  [Smiles sadly]

  But I really wanted that for Preacher.

  I wanted him to have his girl.

  When Preach doesn’t say anything to Shawn, Shawn asks, “You good?”

  “I’m alright,” Preach tells him, though we both can tell he’s not.

  “You gonna stand down?” I ask, partly hoping he does, mostly hopin’ he’s gonna fight for her.

  And he says, “She’s happy.”

  And that’s when I know, that’s all he wants for her, and she’s got that.

  So…

  [Breathes deeply]

  Yeah.

  We were rusty.

  Shawn and Dave are makin’ music, and Timmy and me weren’t entirely away from it, but I cannot sit here and tell you the Roadmasters got back together and it was like we’d never been apart.

  It was not.

  The thing is, we were not only out of practice as a band, we had to find our new groove.

  We had to find out who we were
together with all that had come in between.

  We had to do somethin’ we knew how to do.

  Work hard at it.

  [Smiles largely]

  And we found it.

  [Off tape]

  Follow Your Star not only never received any flak about the sugar-sweetness of the title, it went on to achieve overarching critical acclaim. When it was released, it was widely heralded as your best work to that date.

  At the time, there was discussion that the generosity in reviews had something to do with all that had been learned about McCade, all that had happened with the trials, his subsequent disappearance, and a relief that he was back and doing what he was so good at doing.

  But time has told this was not true.

  The album was just exceptional.

  And although this, nor any of the following efforts of the Roadmasters achieved the commercial success of The Cycle or even Some Like Yesterday…, it is commonly agreed that Follow Your Star heralded a new era for the Roadmasters that wasn’t solely about your reunion or being in a new millennium.

  The depth and poetry of the lyrics, the wisdom and resonance of the music would go on to define the band, not overshadowing what had come before, but instead cementing your place in the industry, in the genre of rock, and declaring that you were an enduring act who could grow together as a band and stand the test of time.

  Well…

  Yeah.

  [Grins]

  Of the ten songs on the album, only five of them were written by McCade. There are two by you, one written by Clinton, one by Townes, and one that’s the first genuine songwriting collaboration for the Roadmasters, this between you and McCade.

  Unh-hunh.

  Even so, from start to finish, it was not lost on anyone that every song was about Lyla.

  No.

  [Shakes head]

  I suspect it was not.

  [Grins crookedly]

  I was driving home from work when I saw him.

  Parked in front of my condo, a big truck.

  And leaning against the grill…

  Preacher.

  My heartrate spiked and my fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

  And after I got over the shock (and, okay, thrill) of seeing him again, all that was in my head was that I didn’t think he’d do this.

  I really didn’t.

  I’d told Shawn no.

  And I was torn between fury that he did and relief at seeing him standing there, looking healthy…

  And alive.

  But as I drove closer, I hated that I liked the longer beard with the shorter hair.

  I hated how much I liked how his jeans bunched around his crotch with the way his legs were crossed at the ankles.

  I also hated how sinewy his forearms were, crossed on his chest.

  And I hated that it was one hundred and ten degrees outside, and he could lean against a truck in jeans, boots and a tee and look like he was hanging out on a breezy, seventy-five-degree day.

  I hit my garage door opener, tore my eyes from him and turned into my driveway.

  I parked, shut her down and got out of the car as fast as I could, walking swiftly down a drive Preacher was walking up.

  And yes.

  Oh yes.

  I hated that I loved the way he moved.

  I’d always loved the way he moved.

  The sway of his hips and shoulders, the languor of his gait.

  Damn it.

  We met in the middle of the driveway.

  And, oh yeah.

  Being five foot nine, I hated how freaking tall he was.

  “Preacher—” I started to launch in.

  “Hey, cher,” he said softly.

  At his words, those words, I closed my eyes, and if I wasn’t wrong, I might have swayed.

  “Baby,” he whispered, and I felt his fingers wrap around my upper arm.

  Yep.

  I’d swayed.

  I opened my eyes.

  “We’re not doing this,” I told him, gently pulling my arm from his hold.

  “Can we go inside?” he asked.

  “No,” I denied.

  “Lyla, there are words to be said.”

  “No, there aren’t.”

  His jaw worked then he said, “You need to listen to the new album.”

  Oh shit.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You do, before it drops.”

  Oh shit.

  “Preacher—”

  “Baby, press release went out that the band’s back together, the album is coming and we’re launching a tour with Shawn’s legal aid gig. The band’s back. I’m back. And we’re standin’ in your goddamn driveway.”

  I got his point.

  I didn’t like his point.

  But I got it.

  Preacher was a magnet for paparazzi even before he was making a comeback after one of the all-time most shocking and heart-wrenching stories of personal trauma hit the mainstream.

  And I wasn’t kidding myself.

  I was a magnet too.

  Especially if he was anywhere near me.

  And for the first time in six years, he was.

  I made a huffing noise that, to protect my ability to keep my shit together, I had to ignore made his lips quirk, and then I turned and prowled up my driveway.

  I not only heard the dull strikes of his boots on cement, I actually felt him follow me.

  Preacher there.

  Not but a few feet away.

  Following me.

  The garage led into a tiny utility room with a stackable washer and dryer and minimal storage, and that led into a small galley kitchen.

  It wasn’t much, say, a massive kitchen done all in white that leads to a colossal living room also all white with views to LA or a cozy, rustic but also massive kitchen with an island in the middle so large, you could lie fully back on it so your man could eat you out.

  But it was mine.

  I halted the train of my thoughts and turned on Preacher.

  “All right, let’s get this done, whatever it is,” I said.

  But he was looking around and I had to shift out of his way as he walked by me to get to the small dining room that had a circular table with four chairs, off which there was the living room.

  I gritted my teeth and followed him, stopping in the arch between dining and living when I saw him standing in front of my couch in the living room.

  His eyes stopped taking in his surroundings, this precisely being after he’d lingered on a picture of Gram and Gramps I had on my bookshelf by the TV, a photo that used to sit in much the same location in our family room in LA, his attention came to me.

  “It’s you,” he said.

  “Yeah, it is. All me. And all paid for by me.”

  He winced.

  I wanted to enjoy landing that successful blow, no matter it was low, but dammit, I just couldn’t.

  “I deserved that,” he said.

  He did.

  And with what he’d been going through at the time, he didn’t.

  I wasn’t going to get into that.

  “Preacher, I’m seeing someone,” I said.

  “I know. Shawn told me.”

  I would imagine Shawn did.

  However, knowing Shawn did made me even angrier.

  “Then why are you here?” I asked.

  “I’m here, cher, but just sayin’, you gotta have a lot of other questions that you don’t know the answers to.”

  “This is not the time to be smug, Preacher.”

  “There are a lot of things I’m feelin’ right now, Lyla, and smug sure as fuck is not one of them.”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  His expression changed and I threw up every barrier I’d started fortifying from the minute I heard he was back to guard against the beauty of it.

  “We needed that time, baby.”

  Was he…?

  Was he serious?

  I stood motionless and it took a grave amount of effort
to get my lips to work.

  “We did?” I drew in breath so I wouldn’t pass out from lack of oxygen and demanded, “We did? We needed six years apart?”

  He started toward me. “Lyla—”

  “No!” I shrieked, and he stopped dead.

  I’d never shrieked at him.

  I’d never shrieked at anyone.

  I’d never even raised my voice to him.

  Or anyone.

  “You do not get to make that decision, Preacher,” I snapped.

  “Lyla—”

  “You tore me apart. You ripped me to shreds. Six years. Six years!” I shouted. “And you think you can show up and tell me you did it because it was what,” I thumped my chest with a flattened hand, “I needed? That it was good for me? For us?”

  “You were drowning, Lyla.”

  “Yes, in your shit that was heavy and terrifying and sad, and I could have helped you navigate it if you’d have let me. I wanted…no, I needed to help you navigate it, but you wouldn’t let me.”

  “No, Lyla, you weren’t drowning in my shit. You were drowning in me.”

  “Of course,” I retorted. “From the very beginning. That was the way it was. That was us. That was what I wanted.”

  He shook his head. “No, baby, it wasn’t that way from the beginning, and it wasn’t us. It was you.”

  I shook my head too, faster and shorter shakes than his.

  “You know, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I also don’t care. It’s done. It’s been done a long time. You made that decision and you had your reasons. You understand them and that’s all you need. I had no choice, but that doesn’t matter now. It’s over. So over. And like you said back then, we’re moving on. And I know that because we’ve moved on, or at least I have, and I’m good where I am.”

  “You needed space,” he returned. “You needed time. You needed to breathe. You needed to figure out who you were.” He threw out an arm to the living room and then toward me. “And you did that.”

  “I could have done that with you.”

  “No, you couldn’t have.”

  “You know, you keep saying ‘no.’ Everything I say, you say ‘no.’ Like you know me better than me. Like you can make the decisions about what’s best for me.”