Or at least not anything but their own dicks.

Lyla sat in a lounge chair she’d pulled away from the pool, up close to the house, and every once in a while, she’d get up to take a walk and clean shit up.

Clean shit up!

[Hoots, shakes head, grows serious]

[Speaking softly] God, Lyla.

Most of the time though, she laid in that lounge chair against the house, far from the pool, you know, like…glaring at us.

Preach was an equal opportunity, benevolent almost-rock god.

I remember seeing him with his jeans bunched up to his knees, sitting on the side of the pool, his feet and calves in the water, her friends barely clothed in the water, wet and hanging off his legs and his every word, and he’d glance over at her.

When he was in the mood to spread his love, everyone was invited.

We all were nailing serious tail, but I don’t think anybody but Dave had had a threesome.

But that was not unusual for Preach.

Or more, you know?

That night, I had one girl, he had two, three were in with Tim and Dave, tripping, and Tommy was fucking another one in what we would find out later was one of the girls’ dad’s waterbed.

And looking back, I knew Preacher was more into her than the two he had.

I also got why.

Kind of.

Now, again, it was the eighties. We’re talkin’ Jane Fonda workout videos and Jamie Lee Curtis in that movie Perfect and one-pieces making a comeback because the legs were cut so far up the hips, a girl had to shave.

And Lyla was not…

[Pause]

That.

I mean, there was a reason anorexia became prevalent during that decade and didn’t let go. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t good, but it was the way it was.

But Lyla was not that way.

Tits and ass.

A lot.

Of both.

And, from what I could tell that night, bad attitude.

But fuck, the longer the night wore on, Preacher couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

She’d do a lap to clean up ashtrays or beer bottles or whatever the fuck, and honest to Christ, he didn’t miss a step.

Not that first step.

She had what they now politically correctly, but also, it’s gotta be said, just plain correctly call curves.

Freddie Mercury called them fat-bottomed girls.

But man, she was pretty.

Lotsa hair.

Perfect skin.

You know, and a way about her.

It was part that attitude.

Part the mystery.

You know, tell a man, “don’t touch, you’ll get burned,” he’ll become obsessed with the fire. It’s just how it is.

She screamed don’t touch.

And Preacher, man…

Preacher could be obsessive.

In a big way.

But it was the eyes.