If he wanted to “take care of business,” he could do that in the shower.

He was being crude to push me away.

“Please stop talking to me like that,” I whispered.

“Like what?” he asked.

“And please stop playing dumb, when you’re not.”

That got him turning toward me.

“No,” he grunted. “I’m not.”

“Okay, we agree on that,” I said quickly, latching onto it, willing to latch onto anything even remotely positive. “Let’s sit down and talk some things out.”

“Might be able to carve some time in as I recuperate once you finish sucking me off.”

“Preacher!” I snapped. “Stop it.”

“Lyla, I’m bein’ very serious.”

“You’re deliberately being an asshole because this is not you.”

“Right, so I’m bein’ an asshole who’s very serious about what he’s saying to you.”

What was serious was that it was seriously time to move away from this topic.

“Why are you pushing me away?”

His brows shot up. “I just told you I want you to blow me. How is that pushing you away?”

“You know what I mean, Preacher.”

He went back to pawing through his bag, muttering, “I know I don’t have time for this shit.”

All right then.

Fine.

He was going to be like this?

I was done.

He wanted it his way and was willing to take it this far to get it, he could have it.

But I wasn’t getting dragged along for the ride in the meantime.

I’d go to LA and talk to him when he got home, after the tour was over.

“I’m going home,” I announced.

He pulled out a pair of jeans and again turned to me.

And it was then, he did it.

It was then he did far worse than being vulgar and an asshole.

It was then he threw his own grenade.

And I wasn’t collateral damage.

He was aiming at me.

He did this by asking, “Yeah? How you gonna do that, Lyla? Commandeer my label’s plane or charge it to my credit card?”

That cut so close to the bone, it was so vicious, it happened before I knew it was happening.

My hand just flashed out, striking him across his face.

I’d never slapped anyone. I didn’t know if it was the force of the blow or the surprise of it that had his head snapping to the side.

But it snapped to the side.

And as I stood there, my hand still raised, staring at him in shock and disgust at myself for what I’d done, his head remained to the side.

Then he moved.

Into me.

Fast.

And while doing it, he caught my raised wrist.

I retreated as Preacher rushed me until I slammed into the wall, though it also could be described as Preacher pushing me back and slamming me into the wall.