Fast Lane Read online

  Fast Lane

  Copyright © 2019 by Kristen Ashley

  Cover Art by:

  Asha Hossain Design

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Table of Contents

  FAST LANE

  Dedication

  Encouragement

  Acknowledgments

  The Story

  THE 80s

  Nicky and Ricky

  Tommy Mancosa

  Lyla

  The Roadmasters

  Chicago

  The Cabin

  The Reunion

  Josh and Bobby

  Christmas

  DuShawn

  THE 90s

  The Blur

  Young and Beautiful

  The Tour

  Trelane

  The Fast Lane

  Bobby McGee

  Seattle

  Portland

  Los Angeles

  Aftermath

  THE AUGHTS

  The Bar

  Charity Gig

  The Boys

  China

  Jesse

  The CD

  THEN

  The Interim

  NOW

  The Family

  About the Author

  Books by Kristen Ashley

  Connect with Kristen Ashley

  To two people who have gone quietly into the goodnight.

  Gram and Gramps.

  Thanks, Gramps, for “saving” me from that turtle.

  WHERE

  The maturity and professionalism I read in Lily Guthrie’s articles,

  that her proud momma and my friend Shayr shared with me,

  were the inspiration behind my out-of-scene character of the interviewer.

  So, for Lily I’ll just say…

  You’ve got this.

  Follow your star.

  Many moons ago, I had the occasion to really listen to the song “Life in the Fast Lane” by The Eagles.

  I’d heard it before, tons of times.

  But on that listen, something struck me.

  Being a romantic at heart, a romance novelist and addicted to romance for as long as I can remember, that song captured me as lyrics often do. Especially if a love story is told. Any kind of love story. Even the ones without happy endings.

  Maybe especially ones without happy endings.

  So much said in a few spare lines. So many emotions welling. And as is the magic of music, on each new listen, it happens again like you’d never heard that song before.

  I became obsessed with it, inspired by this cautionary tale, and determined to find the right story that would fit that inspiration.

  It was something I thought I’d fiddle with “someday,” which is where a great number of my ideas or inspirations are relegated.

  Then I read Taylor Jenkins Reid’s Daisy Jones and the Six.

  I have never, in my life, put down a book because I was loving it so much, I had to draw it out for as long as I could. And then, weeks later, I picked it up, only begrudgingly, because I knew opening that book again would mean finishing it, and I never wanted it to end.

  The fresh, unique way TJR told that story as an oral history of a 70s rock band blew my mind.

  The no-holds-barred, warts-and-all, brave, open, honest characterizations gripped me.

  I was in love with Daisy on the first page.

  My adoration of Billy swiftly came after.

  I was enthralled by a band and a story that wasn’t even real, but it felt like it was.

  Oh yes, it felt like it was.

  Right in my gut.

  I was what you should be with a piece of art.

  Obsessed by it. Gripped by it. Moved by it.

  Changed.

  It was then it happened.

  Slotting into place, these two inspirations worked so beautifully together—an epic 70s rock song, an innovatively-told fictional tale about a 70s rock band…

  As Stephen King said, “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”

  My world opened upon reading Daisy Jones and the Six in more than one way, and I thank Taylor Jenkins Reid, and, of course, The Eagles, to the marrow of my bones for being the impetus for this happening.

  I would break the bounds of my very own writing to explore new ways to tell a story. I would tackle difficult subject matter. I would present myself with a new challenge in a way I haven’t since I first started writing to share a raw, emotional story, break even more rules, rip the lid off creativity, make my story immediate to my readers, and I wouldn’t hold anything back.

  It wasn’t that I wasn’t doing this before.

  It was that I’d quit pushing the boundaries because I found my happy place in my writing…and I liked it.

  But after reading Daisy Jones and the Six, I knew it was time to push down the accelerator, flip on the turn signal, and hit the fast lane.

  [Off tape]

  Just talk like you’re telling a story. But please do it clearly so the recording can pick you up.

  [Jesse Simms, founding member and bassist of Preacher McCade and the Roadmasters clears his throat. There is a long pause.]

  I know it’s a long story to tell, and some parts are difficult, but…

  Jesse:

  I didn’t know at first.

  [Another long pause]

  [Off tape]

  You didn’t know what at first?

  Jesse:

  That it was her. That it was Lyla.

  That once he met her, it was and always would be Lyla.

  Jesse Simms, bassist, Preacher McCade and the Roadmasters, formerly Zenith:

  It was my band. A lot of people don’t know that. It’s been in a few articles. A few books.

  Everyone thinks it was Preacher’s band.

  But it was me who started the band with Tim in my garage when I was sixteen.

  Tim was lead guitar and lead singer. I was bass. We used to fuck around on our guitars a lot before we picked up Nicky and Ricky Pileggi. The twins. They were the rhythm section. Nicky on guitar, Ricky on drums.

  Nicky and Ricky are lore though.

  It’s funny, and you’ll see I’m not laughing, how everyone knows the story about Nicky and Ricky and not many know it was my fuckin’ band in the first fuckin’ place.

  Not Preacher’s.

  I see the look on your face.

  And yeah, it became his band and not just because the name was changed. I know that. I knew it all along. I knew it when he took over my band. I wanted him to take it over. He was…he was…

  He was Preacher McCade, man. Even before he was Preacher McCade, you know what I’m sayin’ to you?

  A man like that, his looks, his talent, the way he was, especially the way he was, in that way, if a man like that wants your band, you give it to him.

  But Preach and me, we got tight.

  I mean, he changed my life even before it all went down, you know?

  So it wasn’t that he was a badass. It wasn’t that he was a mean-as-a-snake motherfucker.

  It was his talent, man.

  I knew.

  I knew with that man in my band, my band was going to be something.

  And
we were.

  You hear that song “Click Click Boom” by Saliva?

  That was way after us. But the minute I heard those lyrics, hey.

  That was me. As a kid.

  Everyone else was listening to Culture Club and Duran Duran and Kaja-fuckin’-googoo.

  I was listening to Metallica. AC/DC. Iron Maiden. Whitesnake. And what I thought of as the “oldies.” Led Zeppelin. Pink Floyd. Rush.

  And, man, from the beginning, Prince. I mean, overall, he was not my jam, but that dude could play a fuckin’ guitar. He could frame a song.

  Fuck.

  Sitting in my bedroom, plucking on my bass, listening to that music, dreams of being a juke box hero in my head.

  So, I started a band.

  And I had bad acne. Bet you know that. Everyone fuckin’ talks about that thanks to Nick. So, I couldn’t get a girlfriend or get laid if I made a deal with the devil to do it.

  Nope, [shakes head] wrong about that.

  Guess I made a deal with the devil in the end.

  A devil named Preacher.

  [Laughs]

  Yeah.

  Anyway, seein’ as I couldn’t do what every other sixteen-year-old boy wants to do, find some girl and fuck her, or at least hold her hand, I started a band.

  But it was about the music for me too.

  Yeah.

  Totally.

  All I wanted to do was rehearse and find gigs.

  Nicky and Ricky, they’d rehearse all right. They weren’t as into it as Tim and me. But they were down to get good enough to find some gigs. Get paid in six packs. Get laid after.

  We scored some basement parties. A few gigs out in some cornfields with generators and kegs and no one listening to a note we were playing because they were all smokin’ pot or feelin’ each other up.

  Then we scored that girl Heidi’s party.

  You know, for the life of me, I can’t remember her last name. I know she was the middle of five hot sisters. Everyone in school knew about Heidi and her hot sisters.

  And it’s weird, man. That I still don’t know. [laughs] I should grab a yearbook, except I don’t have any yearbooks. Burned all of mine.

  Figure you know why.

  You’d think Heidi whoever-she-was would come forward and say it was her. It was her party where it came together.

  Though she and her sisters probably got that house cleaned up and her parents never knew.

  Her dad was a cop, a cop with five hot daughters. [chuckles] Got my girls now and they’re beautiful so I know what kind of hell that guy lived.

  But everyone knew about Heidi and her hot sisters and everyone wanted in Heidi or her hot sisters’ pants and everyone was scared as shit to try anything with Heidi or any of her sisters because her dad would fuck you up.

  So, maybe even now, years later, that guy was such a hardass, they do not want their dad to know Heidi threw a rager while they were out of town.

  What I do know is that I’d turned seventeen and the band was closing in on being nearly a year old and I thought that meant something.

  Bands don’t last long. You seen The Commitments? [laughs] That’s every band’s story right there, man. One way or another.

  One lives.

  And a hundred die and the deaths are always ugly.

  I also know that the band’s shit was coming together, we’d been at it so long, we’d gone from being bad to being alright.

  And I remember that, right before that gig, Ricky had painted this kickass logo on his bass drum that dulled the sound of that motherfucker, but we didn’t care.

  We were the Zeniths and that logo with the back of that long-haired dude with his ripped arms opened wide and the stars all around, like he’s got the heavens under his command.

  Man, that logo was the shit.

  Someone got hold of that drum kit, you know. I lost track of it, but someone got hold of it and knew what it was. Sold it. Made twenty-five thousand at some auction.

  Can you believe that shit?

  [Shakes head]

  Crazy.

  [Clears throat]

  I also remember that Heidi’s oldest sister came home from a date in the middle of that party and she lost her goddamned mind.

  I remember playing and watching those two fight. Heidi was drunk off her ass, it was kinda funny, especially with her sister screeching in her face.

  And while this was happening, her date was leaning against an archway, arms crossed on his chest, boots at the ankle, watching us play.

  I caught a load of him, and he gave me a shiver, man.

  I saw why she’d want some of that…but, fuck.

  He gave me a shiver, that guy was so intimidating.

  It was Preacher.

  Preacher McCade.

  Heidi’s sister closed shit down. She was a ballbuster, that one was.

  But, [laughs] oldest of five hot sisters, dad a cop, she’d have to be a ballbuster.

  She could let loose, and I had occasion to be around Preach when he got done with her, so I know she did and she’d have to, to keep her hooks in Preach.

  But she wouldn’t let any of her sisters let loose.

  It was when me and the guys were loading up our gear. Nicky, Ricky and Tim had gone in to grab more shit, I was stowing my amp. I was in the back of Tim’s dad’s pickup that we used to haul our shit to our gigs.

  He’d have to steal it, Tim did. But his dad would be passed-out drunk, so that wasn’t hard.

  I heard a thump on the side of the bed and looked down to see a fist had landed there.

  I looked and there was Preacher, standing by the side of the truck, looking up at me.

  I did not want to be alone with this dude. That was my first thought.

  It didn’t get better when he started talking. And I remember every word he said like it wasn’t over thirty fuckin’ years ago.

  Like it happened an hour ago.

  “Your drummer sucks,” he said.

  I didn’t say dick, part because he was flipping my shit, part because I knew he was right.

  “Your rhythm guitarist works,” he kept going. “Barely,” he said.

  I just stood in the bed of that truck, staring down at this guy, saying nothing.

  He didn’t quit with our first rock review.

  “Your lead’s alright.”

  Yup.

  You guessed it.

  I still didn’t say dick.

  “You’re a rock star, brother.”

  That was what he said.

  He looked right in my eyes and said, “You’re a rock star, brother.”

  My parents fought. They did it loud. But they loved me, you know? Both of them did.

  Dad was kind of a wuss, but he was a decent guy. Mom was pushy, but she could be sweet a lot. It wasn’t all roses at my house, but, you know, I had love.

  Me and my sisters were tight.

  And we had love.

  I had no idea why they stayed together since it seemed most the time, they hated each other’s guts, but that didn’t leak to me. Mom could be hard on me. Mom could make Dad lay down the hammer on me. But I knew others had it rougher.

  Tim’s shit at home was whacked. He’d do anything to escape it.

  And when I learned Preach’s story…

  [Trails off]

  But yeah, man. Yeah.

  [Quietly] Yeah.

  When Preacher said that to me, I grew two stories tall. I was goddamn Superman. I could conquer the world.

  “Got a pen?” he said after that.

  Hell no, I didn’t have a pen.

  But you better fuckin’ believe I found one.

  And with Tim and Ricky staring at us, Ricky not looking happy, Tim already fucked right the hell up in hero worship like me, Nicky walking up to us carrying Ricky’s snare and stand, doing that with his mouth hanging open, Preacher wrote his number on my palm.

  When he was done, he said, “You wanna do somethin’ with that shit, call me.”

  Then he walked away.
r />   I’ll tell you what, I got home, and I wrote that number down on a piece of paper so fast, scared that shit would smear, my hand had to be a blur.

  Bet if I still had that piece of paper, it’d go for a million.

  No joke.

  I’d never sell it though.

  Frame it, yeah.

  Sell it?

  Not for a million dollars.

  Okay, so me and Tim were seventeen, Nicky and Ricky already eighteen, Preach was twenty. I mean, [laughs] he’s like, adult to a seventeen-year-old, you know?

  But he strolled into my garage in that way he moved for his first jam with us and Jesus.

  Shit.

  Just watching him move?

  I could practically see the groupies straining toward us, screaming our names.

  But then he played.

  And sang.

  Shit.

  We had a band meeting after he left, and Ricky did not like Preacher at all. Wanted nothin’ to do with him.

  “What’s an old guy like that want with us? It’s creepy, dudes,” he said.

  Preacher was two years older than Ricky.

  I gotta say, hindsight.

  [Long pause]

  “He’s totally gonna edge you out, Timmy,” Rick told Tim.

  If I remember, Tim shrugged.

  Everyone talks about it. How Tim was the light to Preach’s dark.

  Man, when we…when we.

  [Pause]

  Preach stage left.

  Tim stage right.

  The fuckin’ bass, me in the middle.

  Caught between light and dark.

  My parents’ love for me. My sisters. Their hate for each other.

  Then the band.

  And then there was Lyla.

  Caught between light and dark my whole life, you know?

  Tim was not an attention guy. He wanted to play his guitar. He was more into the music than me. Definitely more than Nick or Rick.

  I mean, he didn’t talk much, but you got him rapping, it’d be about music. And he’d go on about shit I wouldn’t get until later.

  About Bowie and Ziggy Stardust and how that shit was beyond. He was into Petty. And Springsteen. The dude listened to Joni Mitchell and Carole fuckin’ King. Stevie Wonder. Johnny Cash. Jackson Brown. Patti Smith.