Consumed (5 page)

“Thank you. Thank you for asking me to watch.” My voice is shaky, and there’s a moment of silence between us. I grip the swing’s chain, to steady myself, even though there’s no threat of falling. “Looks like we might be seeing each other soon.”

When she responds, she sounds surprised. “What?” 

“The YTS tour . . .”

“Ah,” she murmurs, the single word drawn out. 

“Lucas didn’t tell you he invited me?”

She lets out a low whistle. “No, it’s not that. I knew he was planning to try and convince you to go. The thing is . . . I’m not going to be going on tour with the guys this time.”

I sit up on the swing so fast it makes me dizzy. “Seriously?” Kylie has been Lucas’s personal assistant for years, so I expected her to be with the band every step of the way during their tour. 

“I can’t be around Wyatt—not in that type of environment at least. Not if we’re going to keep making things work.” 

Wyatt McCrae, Your Toxic Sequel’s bass guitarist.

Making things work.

This is definitely new.

“Did you dump the new guy?” For the past couple of months, every time I asked her about her love life, she’s vaguely mentioned some guy she met at a music awards show. 

 “Look, Sienna, I—” Kylie starts and then she groans. “Screw it, I guess I might as well tell you. Wyatt’s the guy I’ve been living in New Orleans with.” 

And then she tells me everything. How Wyatt had shown up in New Orleans while she was on vacation several months ago. How he’d demanded a second chance. How he ultimately screwed up.

What was with the guys in Your Toxic Sequel with their massive screw-ups and showing up at women’s doorsteps unannounced?

Kylie continues her story, but while she tells me about the road trip she and Wyatt took back to Los Angles, my front door opens. “Hold on,” I say as Gram pokes her head outside. She mouths that dinner is ready, and I give her a thumbs up. “Just a second, Gram.”

“Tell her I said hello,” Kylie trills, and I comply. Once my grandmother goes back into the house, though, I reiterate to Kylie how confused I am. She takes a long pause before she answers. “We got back together a few weeks after I left New Orleans back in February.”

“And the guy at the awards show?” 

“Well hell, I guess you and Lucas didn’t talk very much while you were in the mountains.” She releases a sound. “Sienna, that’s just the bullshit I’ve been telling almost everyone so Wyatt and I can have a chance to . . . adjust.”

Adjust? My breath hitches. “Kylie, are you pregnant?”

Kylie makes a noise in the back of her throat that sounds like a sob.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” she says, and this is when I realize that the sound she’s making isn’t crying but laughter. “I mean yes. I’m fine. The no was for the pregnancy question. I’m not knocked up. God, that’s the first thing people say.” 

“Then you’re . . .?”

“Married. After an award show back in late April,” she explains. “Well, the morning after an award show. We’ve been pretty quiet about it because we want to make it work. Hell, I
need
this to work.”

I don’t know much about Wyatt McCrae—I haven’t spent enough time around the band to form solid opinions—but I do know that his history with Kylie is tumultuous. I know that the last time I saw him, back in February and right before he went after my friend, he was cozying up with an assistant at the studio where the band recorded tracks for their upcoming album. 

And now—now he’s married to a woman I care about just as much as my own family. 

I massage the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “Congratulations.”  

Kylie releases a deep sigh. “Thanks, it means a lot to me that you’re not pissed that I kept it from—” I hear something buzzing loudly on her end, and she groans. She mumbles something about fire extinguisher and dinner and tells me she’ll be right back. When she returns to the phone nearly two minutes later, she’s out of breath. 

“I blow at cooking,” she explains. “We’re just now getting around to telling most people that we’re married, so please don’t think I kept you in the dark for too long.”

I can only imagine the way she broke the news to her brother.  

“Today you need to call the head of your record company. Go to a photo shoot at 2:30. Buy a wedding gift for Wyatt and me—oh, by the way, Lucas, I married him back in April.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Everyone taking it okay?”

The silence that immediately takes over the conversation is a good indicator that her answer is going to be no. I don’t nudge her to speak this time, but after thirty seconds of a quiet hum on her end, she laughs. “Just about. Lucas shocked the hell out of me because he’s been the most supportive. Sinjin, on the other hand . . .” 

Just hearing the drummer’s name makes me uneasy. He had confronted me while he was high back in February. It ended badly, with Lucas furious and Sinjin going back to rehab. 

“He’ll be fine,” I tell Kylie, my voice tight.

“He’s worried Wyatt is going to screw up and hurt me. I worry too—don’t get me wrong—but I want it to work. I don’t need the people closest to me making it worse.” 

This I completely understand. The last thing I want is to decide to go on the road with Lucas and then have my family and friends tell me what an idiot I am. 

“What matters is you’re happy.” I dig my heel in between two of the porch’s wooden floorboards and rock the swing back. “Sinjin will get over it.”

“He will,” she agrees. “Thanks for listening. And I know it still doesn’t make sense why I won’t go on tour with you guys, but I just can’t. It’ll cause too many problems and jealousy issues. It’s just best if I sit this one out.”

“You’re making it sound like I’ve already decided to go.” And after this conversation with Kylie, I wonder if I should step a foot on that tour bus. 

When I say as much to her, she pulls in a breath. “Shit, babe. Please just ignore everything I just said.”

“I’m still shocked he showed up. I don’t even know what we are yet, but I know I don’t want to backtrack just because I have to see him around a bunch of horny groupies.”

“Lucas isn’t like that at all, I swear it. Not when he’s in a relationship, and that’s what you are to him now. You don’t have a damn thing to worry about.”

There’s another awkward pause in our conversation, and once again, she’s the one who breaks it by saying she has to go. For the first time since I began talking to Kylie on a regular basis a few months ago, I’m actually eager to get off the phone. She’s given me a lot to think about in a fifteen minute phone conversation, and there’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll be up late tonight, gazing up at my ceiling with a hundred and one thoughts hurtling through my head. 

“I’ll talk to you soon, okay?” 

“You know it. Look, Sienna, think about the tour long and hard, okay?” She pauses. “Ugh, I just heard you snort, you dirty bitch.”

“I did no such thing.” 

This time, she snorts. “Whatever. But, back to what I was saying—I swear the bus isn’t just about tits and ass.” Before I have a chance to call her bullshit, she amends her statement, “I swear my brother’s part of the bus won’t be about tits and ass. Better?”

“You have no filter, do you?”

She laughs. “Filters are for pussies.”

“Good night, Kylie. And, seriously, take care of yourself.”

She promises to call me in the next few days, after she returns from her weekend getaway, and then hangs up. I remain on the swing for a few more minutes before I wander into the house, where the aroma of chicken teriyaki immediately greets me. My grandmother is already in the dining room, so I slide down into the seat across from her. 

“His sister called to talk you into going on tour with that band?” she asks.

I blow a few strand of hair out of my eyes. “She’s not even going.” Gram’s brow knits together over her bright blue eyes in confusion, and I add, “She married the bass guitarist a few months ago and doesn’t want to be on the road anymore.” 

She chews an oversized bite of chicken and broccoli slowly, carefully considering what to say next. “So, now that you know she won’t be going, what do you think you’ll do?”

“I’m going.” Even if it does scare the hell out of me. If Kylie is willing to give Wyatt McCrae another chance, I can deal with being on tour with Lucas. “At least I’ll go for a couple of weeks.”

I ignore that little voice in the back of my head warning me that a couple weeks may be all it takes for Lucas to tell me to fuck off again. I ignore it because if I listen, I’ll never be happy. 

Gram wipes the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “It’ll be good for your career. Good for you, too.” 

I give her a little smile before I pop a forkful of stir-fry into my mouth. “Let’s hope so.”

Later, after Gram has gone to bed for the night, and I’m lying in bed worrying over the wardrobe job I’m scheduled to do in less than ten hours, I call Lucas to tell him that I’ve made up my mind. His phone goes to voicemail after a few rings, so I end the call, lying my phone face down on the bed next to me. It’s 1:19 in the morning here, which means its 11:19 in Los Angeles. There’s a chance (and it’s a really small one) that he’s already sleeping or that he hasn’t made it home yet from his flight. I consider sending a text but then I decide against it—this is something I need to say to him. I want to hear his voice, his reaction. 

I redial his number to leave a voicemail.

This time, he picks up on the second ring. At first all I hear is the deafening sound of rock music in the background, but then his voice comes on the line, a sexy growl over the music in the background. “Couldn’t stay away?” he asks, and I laugh past the lump forming in my throat.

God, how am I going to survive being on tour with him when I turn into an emotional mess just by talking to him?

“Is this a bad time?” I ask.

There’s a scratching sound on the other end, but after a few seconds it’s gone, and the sound of the music has just about disappeared. “Sorry, couldn’t hear for shit in there. You made up your mind?”

“Yes, I—” I start, but then I hear a husky female voice say something to him. The scratching noise comes back—which I easily recognize as him covering his phone’s receiver—and then he comes back on the line. “Do you need me to call you back?”

“Why the fuck would I want that? I need as much of you as I can get.”

“You sound busy,” I say, each word clipped.

“Ah Red, don’t tell me you’re already letting your imagination run wild. Promise there’s no woman tied to my bed right now.” I make a noise—one that I’m not entirely certain is relief or surprise—and he lowers his voice. “I’m at Wicked Lambs’ release party.”

Sitting up, I bring my knees to my chest. If there’s one woman out there who loathes me as much as Lucas’s ex, it’s Cilla Craig, the lead singer of Wicked Lambs. She’s known Lucas for years and made it clear to me last winter that she’s in love with him. Lucas had made it just as clear that Cilla’s just the woman he grew up with—that she would never be me. Still, I’m only human, and hearing that she’s around manages to bother me.

“You there?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m here.” Even though the late July heat makes my upstairs bedroom an inferno, I drag my old, hibiscus-print comforter up and over my knees, tucking it under my chin. It’s comforting—the same thing I would do as a child after my mother freaked out on me. I squeeze my eyes shut. “I called to tell you yes.”

It sounds like he drags a breath in through his teeth before he says, “You’re fucking sure you want to come with me?”

Of course I’m not. I’m scared to death of things not working out.
“Very.”

“I—” He starts but then the scratching noise returns. “Wyatt and Cilla want you to know they’re happy you came to your senses.” He covers the phone once more, and I purse my lips. “Fuck, they’re killing me here. They said they’ll see you in a week.”

My lips part to answer him, but then I pause and mouth what he just said several times. “What do you mean
they’ll
see me?”

“Have you—you don’t know much about the tour, do you?” There’s the faintest tinge of surprise, not to mention hurt, in his voice. It catches me off guard. When I don’t answer—or make any noise for that matter—he repeats his question, this time sounding like the ridiculously confident man I fell in love with. “I’m shocked, Red. Don’t you Google shit before you get yourself into it?”