He didn’t look at me as he set the glass aside, took up the prescription bottle, threw it in his carryon bag that was on the bed—the bag he kept with him, the bag it was not okay to let out of his sight in case someone lost it—and turned his back to me to zip it shut.

I walked his way, set my makeup tote aside and moved in behind him, sliding my arms around to the front.

I rested my cheek on his back and asked, “You okay?”

“Yup,” he answered, and I heard the zip close.

“You sure?” I pressed.

“Yup,” he repeated and straightened in a way I knew he wanted me to let him go.

Yes.

I needed to figure out what was going on with Preacher.

I held on and told him, “You know, if something’s on your mind, you can always talk to me.”

“I know, and if somethin’ was on my mind, I’d talk to you about it. But seein’ as nothin’s on my mind, I just told you I was fine, I don’t know why you’re sayin’ that shit to me.”

All right, from that response, I knew even more than I already knew that I needed to do this.

Right now.

So, I waded in.

“It’s just that, last night…”

He turned in my arms so abruptly, I had to lean back, or he’d slam into my face.

Then he stared down his nose at me.

“What about last night?” he demanded curtly.

What about last night?

Well, what about it was that, last night, and the night before, and the night before that, you made love to me and you did it by rote. Like you were performing a duty, not having sex with the woman you love.

And then you rolled over, and because you were drunk, and whatever else you were on wore off, you passed out.

You didn’t hold me.

That was what about last night.

I stared up at him, having these thoughts, and I knew by the closed-down but still pissed-off look on his face that I could not tell him any of that.

I could not tell a man, or at least not this man, that for the last few nights, I’d had to work for my own orgasm.

And last night, for the first time ever, he didn’t bother giving me one.

But he knew that.

That was why he was staring at me, closed-down because he did that to me and pissed-off because I was bringing it up.

And now he was taking four pills instead of two to face the day and that tweaked me right the fuck out.

“Lyla,” he gritted.

I wasn’t speaking because I didn’t know what to do, what to say.

The tour had started great.

So great, I wondered why I hadn’t gone along before.