Devoured (12 page)

Trust me, if your mom went to prison for one of the biggest drug busts in state history and snitches on every dealer within 20 miles . . . you’d be afraid and embarrassed when someone asks about her too. “She’s fine,” I say stiffly.

Jessica murmurs something inaudible in a sympathetic voice.

“Your parents still run that bar?” I ask and she rolls her eyes dramatically.

“I thought it would be awesome getting all the free booze, but yeah. My dad’s a fucking slave driver.” As if on cue, her phone beeps and she drags it out of the pocket of her fuchsia jeans. “And as usual, work calls. I’ve gotta pay for these and run, but if you’re not busy tonight . . .” 

She digs in her messenger bag and hands me a red and black flyer. It’s an advertisement for a Your Toxic Sequel cover band performing at her parents’ Broadway bar. I nearly choke on my own saliva.

She squeals, clapping her tattooed hands together. “Ahh, a YTS fan, I see? I adore them. My boyfriend’s in the band and they’re amazeballs—almost better than the real thing. Come out if you can. See you around,” she says, plucking her clothes off the mannequin. “And find me on Facebook if I don’t see you tonight!” she yells as she walks away.

I pay for my own selections soon after. I ball the pink flyer up and throw it in the bottom of the shopping bag.

†

Lucas has that look of worshipped star as I drive him back to the house on Green Hills, so he doesn’t complain about how the ride back is twice as long, or how I nearly run into the back of a minivan that boasts about a hundred of those kid and animal pictures on the very back. 

“You’d think they give blow jobs with photo shoots,” I say under my breath.

“What was that?” he asks.

“Nothing at all, Mr. Wolfe.”

Of course he asks to see the clothes that I’ve purchased the moment we enter the house. My head hurts from the long day spent out, so I gesture toward my room, and he follows behind me. 

“For someone who plays with clothes all day, you didn’t buy much.”

My face tightens. “I don’t play with clothes all day, Lucas. I . . . work with them.” But my voice falters as if I’m unsure of myself. 

He raises his hands up in front of himself defensively. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. I think it’s”—he pauses and bends his knees a little so his face is closer to mine—“are you crying?”

I swallow hard. “No.”

“I huff and puff and yell and you say nothing. I make a joke about your job and you cry?”

Well, at least he acknowledges that he’s a bully. Crossing my arms over my chest, I sit on the arm of the couch that’s at the end of my bed. He doesn’t move from his spot in front of me, tapping his foot as he waits impatiently for a reply. 

Sighing, I begin, “I just—”

“Don’t lie to me either,” he says in a stern voice. I glare up at him.

“My mom used to call it playing with clothes. Hell, she probably still calls it that, that’s all.” I say. Shrugging my shoulders, I slide the heel of my foot up and down the side of the couch. “I’ve got a few mommy issues.”

Shaking his head to each side, he says, “I bet.” I furrow my eyebrows, and he adds, “My mom’s never been the biggest fan of what I do. I mean, she jokes about it at Thanksgiving and her friends think me and Kylie are demons, but she’s never made me feel like what I love to do isn’t important. If she did . . . well, I don’t think I’d want much to do with her.” 

I want him to elaborate because this is one of the first times he’s given me insight into his life outside of music and fame, but he nods his head down toward the bags strewn out across my temporary bed. “Now, show me what you’ve bought for yourself.” His voice is soft now, encouraging. Just another reminder of just how puzzling Lucas is. His moods switch at the drop of the hat, and it’s suicidal to be attracted to someone I can’t predict. 

I scamper over the back of the couch, landing on my knees on the bed. He hisses in a deep breath of air, and my head pops up, red hair flying everywhere. He’s frozen in place, looking down at me with his face drawn and his full lips parted. 

“What?” I whisper.

“Don’t do things like that, that’s what,” he growls

I drag my hands through my hair, knotting it into a loose pile at the top of my head. “You’re incredibly uptight.”

“Try living with someone that’s hard to resist.”

“Or someone you want to control?” I ask.

“Exactly.”

Now painfully aware of his every move, his every inhale and exhale, I show him the clothes. He murmurs appreciatively at the piles of rocker-friendly gear, rubbing his fingertips over edgy t-shirts and vintage lace tops and the leather jacket I’d picked out. I’m folding the clothes into neat piles when I hear something crinkling.

I look up to see the red and black flyer for the Your Toxic Sequel cover band in his hand, held between his index and middle finger. When I make a move towards it, he backs up, shooing me away. I watch with my heart in my throat as he unfolds the paper. He reads it carefully, a shit-eating grin growing wider and wider as his eyes scan the page.

After smoothing out the wrinkles and folding the flyer into neat creases, Lucas drops it on top the clothes I’ve just folded. “You’re going to be my DD tonight, Sienna.”

I groan and he cocks an eyebrow at me. Plastering on a smile, I grind out, “Yes, Mr. Wolfe.” 

Lucas and I argue for what seems like an eternity before he clasps his hands together almost demurely and tells me to go pick up his dinner. By time I return from the part of town we’ve just came from, he’s already dressed to go out to Jessica’s parents’ bar.

I’ve got to give him credit—he’s managed to perfect his disguise. And I have a feeling that’s all thanks to the fact that in Los Angeles, he doesn’t get to enjoy the peace he’s found in Nashville. During the video shoot for “All Over You” there were daily incidents of fangirls (and fanboys) finding ways to sneak themselves on set to try and hook up with members of the band, not to mention the diehard Your Toxic Sequel fans who’d camped outside the studio every day to get a glimpse of Lucas and the rest of the guys. 

Tonight, Lucas is wearing his usual jeans, but instead of boots, he’s got on old school Converse shoes. A black and white Henley covers every last one of his tattoos. His messy hair is covered by an oversized black beanie and he’s wearing . . . glasses. Nerdy ones at that. 

I stand at the door to his office for a moment, taking in the sight of him. No man should look that sexy in nerdy glasses.

“Borrowed from wardrobe?” I ask, making his head jerk up toward me. He bites his bottom lip and instinctively, I nibble mine too. “The glasses, I mean.”

He beckons me to come into the office and I comply, sitting the Styrofoam platter of food on the desk. Up close to him, I realize that those glasses have to be—hands down—the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen him wear.

He laughs, “Not borrowed. A nearsighted bitch.”

“You look . . . rocker geek.”

Tilting his head to one side, he considers what I said for a moment then bites the tip of his tongue to suppress a grin. “You’re not going to take pics and send them to the paparazzi, are you?” he teases.

“Only if you’re doing this to humiliate my friend’s boyfriend,” I say. “You’re not, are you?”

He’s on his feet and towering over me an instant later, his eyes unreadable. “I’d never hurt my fans. There the reason I’m here and not in Atlanta strung out on something. But to answer your question . . . I’ve got a soft spot for cover bands.” 

“Why?” I ask.

“Google’s your friend,” he says, winking at me. “Now go get dressed—your clothes are on your bed.” 

I move to go and do what he’s asked me to, but then ice travels down my body, freezing me. What am I
doing
? This is the first time he’s issued me a command where my mind automatically compelled me to follow it, and that’s a realization that frightens me. 

“You want to get me dressed, too, Mr. Wolfe?” I demand, forcing a sugary smile when I say his name.

He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, and then blows a stray strand of hair away from my neck. “God, if only. You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? We’re only three days in, and you already want to give in to me.” Despite his words, there’s not the slightest hint of mockery behind his voice. It’s teasing—yes—but so full of promise. I back up until the desk hits my bottom. My fingers curl around the wood.

“If I did?” I whisper breathlessly.

He thinks for a moment and then grants me a look that’s so delicious it sends heat spiraling through me. “At this point I’m not sure if I’d fuck you or spank you with that drumstick over there.” He motions to a set of signed sticks on the opposite end of the desk. “Maybe both. Maybe just tie you to a chair and taste you ‘til you can’t move or think or breathe.”

“And after?”

“There are seven more days,” he reminds me. “There’s so much I can teach you, so much we can do, and after that . . .”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t deny that he’s affected me by what he’s said and the way he’s looking at me. It should be illegal for any man to have such a magnetic, irresistible effect. “I’m good,” I say. 

“For now.”

“No, for—” In twenty years if you ask me who initiated the kiss, I still wouldn’t be able to tell you. It’s that sudden, that breathtaking, and all-consuming. Lucas’s tongue glides across my lips, tracing the outline of them—once, twice, a third time and then once more. I cry out and my backside slumps onto the desk behind me because my legs are trembling so violently. He makes a noise that’s part curse, part moan, and enough to send me over the edge. I splay my hands out on either side of his chest, digging my fingertips into the soft fabric of shirt, into his skin, and pulling him to my body. 

His hands are locked behind his head because he’s so determined to make me beg before he uses them on me.

My lips part easily the moment his tongue probes the space between them. I’m wet. Wet and moaning and rubbing my body against his. Yet he still doesn’t move his hands. 

Touch me
. Touch
me
. But I can’t bring myself to give into him. Not yet.

When he drags his mouth away from mine, I catch his lower lip gently between my teeth. He winces as my teeth rake over the tender flesh before releasing it. Then a sexy smile creeps across his face. “You a biter, Red?”

He knows I hate it when he calls me Red, just like he knows he’s gotten me too flustered to complain at the moment. “Lucas?” I murmur against the side of his mouth. Suddenly brave, I kiss his upper lip, his strong chin. I draw his lower lip between my own and suck it. 

“Mmmhmm?”

I lean back and gaze up into his hazel eyes. “Is it really inescapable—this . . .
us
?” I challenge, running my hands down the front of his chest. He trembles.

“Always has been.”

Our mouths meet one last time. I can’t fight the temptation to skim the tip of my tongue across my lips, tasting the places he touched me after he pulls away, reluctantly. “Go on and get dressed—no shower, leave your hair down.
Don’t
even think about fucking yourself.”

I turn to leave the office and go to my bedroom, but a thought occurs to me. Glancing over my shoulder, I speak again, my voice so low I can barely even hear myself. “Why’d you remember me? Why when you fucked so many of the others?”

“Because you’re the one I didn’t.”

A few minutes later, when I’m in my bedroom shrugging on my clothes and staring into the bathroom at the bathtub I’ve been forbidden to use, I decide I’m satisfied with his response.

Before I leave the bedroom, I let my hair fall loose.

Jessica’s parents’ bar—a little dive called The Beacon—is filled to capacity when Lucas and I show up. I’m ready to turn around and head back to the Cadillac when the big, red-bearded doorman tells us we’ll have to wait, but Lucas shakes his head. “Get us in now,” he says.

Of course that’s an easy order for him to give. All he’s done since we stepped out of the vehicle is shove his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and look down at the ground so as not to be noticed. He was right when he swore up and down that nobody would recognize him, though. He exudes shyness, the complete opposite of the Lucas I know, and irritatingly similar to myself. 

“You should be in movies,” I hiss as I stalk back toward the door with him in tow. “
Mr
.—”

He stops me with a promise I’m certain he’ll actually keep. “Say it and I swear the second you do I’ll spank your ass with those drumsticks.”

Tossing my hair over one shoulder I gaze back at him, grinning. “
Sir
.”

“If only you were this sarcastic and infuriatingly confident with everyone you meet,” he points out, as we come back up to the doorman again. Red Beard rolls his eyes and tilts his chin to one side. Mimicking my best Lucas impression, I place my hands on my hips. There’s not enough lighting out here for him to be able to see how my fingers are nervously working the thick fabric of my black skinny jeans.

“I’ve got a personal invitation from”—then, I see Jessica’s small body grinding on the dance floor several feet away, and I take in a deep breath. Screw it—“Jess! Hey, over here!” I yell at the top of my lungs. Several people passing by turn to cock eyebrows at me, but the yelling works. Jessica pushes her way through the throng of people in the bar and pokes her head out the door.

She gives the doorman a pouty look. “You’re not being a dick, are you, Nicky? She’s with me.”

Begrudgingly, Nicky stamps my and Lucas’s hands and moves his giant body aside so we can go in. I almost want to give him a triumphant smile but even a small victory isn’t enough for me to press my luck.

Hundreds of Your Toxic Sequel fans surround us—their hips swaying and their sweaty bodies gliding together. I glance up at Lucas. His eyes are still downcast, but his face says it all. He’s in heaven right now, witnessing all these people who’ve come out to pay homage to his band.

How much cockier can he get?

Jessica finds the only empty table in the whole place and leads us to it. “Here, sit here and I’ll go and get you—”

“I’m good,” I say, and she gives me a skeptical look. “I’m DD.”