Devoured (15 page)

I curl my toes at the thought of Seth, at the thought of confronting him after yesterday. I clutch my phone, considering whether or not I should call him. I get three-digits in and end up dialing my grandmother instead. The voicemail box picks up.

“Hey Gram . . . haven’t talked to you in a few days. Just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking about you and that I love you. See you soon, okay?”

Staring down at the phone, I sigh. Then, there’s a knock at my door and Lucas yells, “Let’s go, Red.”

Because I’m feeling facetious, I return to the message Tori sent me of the eCard and email it to him.

†

Live rock is all dark lights and grit and sweaty bodies slicking against each other, but studio music is the total opposite. The Music Row studio is all ambient lighting and luxurious-technology. Lucas is the first of his band members to show. He tells the pretty blonde-haired assistant that we want to wait in a private room, and then she asks us if we’d like refreshments. 

Lucas goes for a bottle of water and I order a Coke. From the way the size nothing assistant looks at me, I’m almost afraid she’s never heard of caloried-drinks, but then she nods and sashays off. I hate Lucas’s effect on other women just about as much as I hate the way he glances at her butt as she leaves. Reminds me of what a player he probably is.

“Nice,” I say. He must hear the bitterness in my voice because he smiles. It’s that lopsided one that always gets to me. 

“Not really. But I’m a huge fan of your ass. I could write a song about your ass.”

“You’ve never even seen it.”

He cocks a dark eyebrow and gives me a wicked look. “Feeling is believing.”

I smooth a bunched section of my dress down and ease into one of the plush leather seats. I cross my legs at the ankle. Stuffing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, he follows my every movement. Every flinch. Every sigh. He’s still looking at me like he wants to pull my panties off with his teeth when Size Nothing returns with our drinks. She hands me a Diet Coke and I start to accept it, but Lucas shakes his head. 

“Ms. Jensen asked for a Coke,” he says.

“But—”

He shakes his head, cutting Size Nothing off. She just stands there obediently, her hands clasped in front of her, waiting for him to speak. To give her an order. “Run to the grocery store if you have to.”

She glares down at me like I’m scum under her 4-inch pumps and then casts a beaming smile at Lucas. “I’ll get it ASAP, Mr. Wolfe.” She leaves, but this time, he’s not staring at her backside.

“Do you always have to be in control?” I hiss.

“That wasn’t controlling, that was—”

“Asserting your dominance?” 

“Don’t be a sarcastic little shit, Sienna. You asked for a Coke, she brought you diet.”

“I don’t need you to speak for me.”

“Then learn how to do it for yourself. God, you’ve had no problem telling me to fuck off from the start, but everyone else . . .”

He turns away from me, and I focus on a tiny piece of lint on the hem of my dress. My heart is beating erratically—faster than it was last night. I wait until it slows down and I catch my breath to say, “Because you scare me, Lucas.”

His shoulders shake. He’s laughing at me. “I scare you? Do you realize what you’re doing to me, Sienna? What you did to me two years ago?” When I shake my head slowly because I don’t know how to answer what he’s asked of me, he continues, “Of course you wouldn’t realize how dangerous you are for me.”

I’m lucky his band members begin showing up shortly after he says this, because I’m at a loss for words. I follow him into the studio and he instructs me to wait with the sound engineer and the creator of the documentary that he’s taking part of inside of the control room. Lucas raises his eyebrows like he’s waiting for me to argue with this too, but I don’t.

Where the hell else am I going to go while he makes music?

As Lucas steps through the glass doors leading to the live booth, I hear the drummer, Sinjin, say in a nasty voice, “Snap your fingers and she comes, huh?”

Lucas shoots Sinjin a dark look, jerks his guitar from its stand, and says something icily to the rest of the guys. The engineer flips the sound on in the booth in time for us to catch the tail end of what Lucas is saying. 

“ . . . her and I’ll break your fucking fingers.”

It’s obvious the “her” Lucas is talking about is me, and that he’s probably warned his band to stay away from him while they’re here because there’s a ripple of nervous laughter amongst them. I’m half expecting Lucas to drawl in a thick Southern accent, “Sienna is mine!” but he doesn’t. 

Apparently, I watch way too much cable TV.

Shrugging the strap of his bass guitar onto his shoulder, Wyatt McRae makes a soft tsking noise. “Not into redheads,” he says, meeting my eyes. He’s grinning like the damn cat that ate the canary and his head is tilted to one side. Suddenly, it feels like the entire band, minus Lucas, as well as the sound guy and the documentary creator are staring at me. 

Waiting with baited breath for me to snap under the pressure.

Digging my fingernails into my palms, I decide I should go ahead and nip any snide remarks from the band in the bud right here, and right now. Being around these guys is awkward enough as it is without them making me feel like I’m just one of Lucas’s fuck buddies. “Instead of trying to get a rise out of me, maybe you should focus on the music. After all, Mr. Wolfe’s schedule is very, very busy.”

Lucas smirks, and glances sideways at Wyatt. “Dude, I think Red just told you to fuck off. You heard her, let’s do this.”

The sound engineer asks if they’re ready to begin. Lucas bobs his head, and the cameraman inside the booth with them gives him a thumbs up.  Holding my breath, I watch as he becomes the Lucas Wolfe I’d fallen all over myself for two years ago. He winks at me before gazing into the camera and saying, “This is Your Toxic Sequel and you’re getting an exclusive first look at music from our fourth studio album. This is “Handcuffs”.

And this is when I feel my body go numb. Maybe it’s pretentious and silly of me, but I’m about 99% sure this song is about me, specifically the night I almost spent with Lucas. It’s not rude and he’s not saying anything fucked up, but I feel completely naked right now. 

“Did you hear me, Ms. Jensen?” I hear a voice ask. Slowly, I tilt my face up toward it. The documentary maker’s pockmarked face comes into focus. He’s looking at me expectantly. “Would you like to comment on your relationship with Lucas Wolfe?”

“I’m standing in for his assistant while she’s on vacation,” I say.

The man gives me a smile that reminds me of the ones my mother gave me when she was tolerating something I had to say when I was a child. “I’m talking about your romantic relationship.”

“There is no romantic relationship,” I argue.

Another you-poor-stupid-girl smile. “I looked at your digital resume. You worked the video shoot for “All Over You” in 2010, right? And you’re currently working on the set of Echo Falls, correct?” When I nod my head carefully, he wrinkles his nose. I decide I hate this guy because everything he does reminds me of my mom. “You’d skip out of work and come all the way out here to substitute for his assistant?”

“I—”

“You know, the people who are watching this movie would probably kill to get the inside scoop of how your relationship with Lucas went down.” 

I look toward the sound booth, but Lucas is still performing. His words from earlier haunt me, though. “Learn how to speak up for yourself,” he’d said. Squaring my shoulders I give the documentary guy the steeliest look I can muster, “I’m from Nashville. Kylie Wolfe is a personal friend. And Lucas is paying me to work for him. If you can’t figure out the correlation between those three then maybe you’re in the wrong profession. If you want something for the people watching your movie, here it is: Lucas Wolfe is not my type. You think you can handle that?”

It’s not until I exit the control room and step outside the studio into the brisk cold that I break into a nervous sweat. 

The creator of the documentary doesn’t try to ask me any additional questions, and I’m sure he thinks I’m a massive bitch now. Still, I make it a point to stay away from him. I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my face, though, as if he’s just dying to confirm whether or not something is actually going on between Lucas and me. As if he knows that the reason why I do my best not to meet Lucas’s eyes is because my mind goes to places it shouldn’t go in public.

Or in private.

The band performs four takes before they nail the song. Then Wyatt disappears, directing a dangerous look at Sinjin and swearing he’ll rip the walls down if he doesn’t get a break. I take this opportunity to check my personal cell phone. There’s a missed call from Seth and one from Gram. Even though I called her earlier, fear slices through my body. Does she know where I am? Has Seth told her what was on the Internet yesterday morning? 

Numb, I excuse myself from the control room yet again and call my voicemail as I pace the hallways. Seth’s message is short, and surprisingly, sort of sweet. “You can’t ignore me forever, Si. I was wrong. I’m a shithead. Let’s talk, okay? You and Gram are all I’ve got so call me back.” 

I listen to my grandmother’s message next—she’s just returning my call and wants me to dial her back when my work isn’t so crazy. “And I’m so happy you’re coming home soon,” she says before ending the message. She doesn’t say anything about Lucas or the videos or pictures of us that ended up online and I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. 

For now.

I start to return Seth’s call but then decide against it. When I call Seth, I want to have plenty of time to get some things off my chest, and I don’t want to do it in a studio where pieces of my conversation may end up in some documentary about rock bands. I pass by the private room that Lucas and I were in earlier, pausing when I hear the sounds of someone moaning on the other side. I move forward, but a hand closes around my upper arm. 

Startled, I jump and spin around to face Sinjin. He holds up his hands, wiggling them around as if to show me he’s not armed. Then he grins. “Spying is rude,” he tells me. “Though if you want to join Wyatt and the little blonde with the tits, I’m sure he’d let you, red hair or not.”

Size Nothing and Wyatt. I don’t want to be surprised but I am, especially after the way she eyed Lucas earlier. “I’m good, thanks,” I say, starting to walk off. Sinjin plunks his hand on the smooth wall next to my face, stopping me. Feeling my muscles tighten, I shove it away and continue towards the exit. He follows.

“You look really familiar, you know.”

“I’m sure you meet a lot of girls doing what you do, even redheads.” If my grandmother could hear the coolness in my voice right now, she’d pop me in the mouth for being so rude. I can’t help it. There’s something about Sinjin that rubs me the wrong way, but then again, it always has.

When I worked the “All Over You” video, I had tried my hardest to stay as far away from him as much as professionally possible, but of course he’d been unavoidable. If Lucas had fallen head over heels in kinky lust with my submissive tendencies it was because of Sinjin. Back then, he had freaked me out and even now I just want to shake him off of me.

I push open the exit doors, breathing in fresh air. Sinjin is right on my heels. “No, I don’t think that’s what it is at all. Did we fuck? Or did you fuck one of the others before you started up with Lucas? I mean, I know I don’t remember you from him because he doesn’t hold on to ‘em for very long, if you know what I mean?”

“Actually I don’t,” I say. Now, my voice is hard. “I was under the impression that he’s had the same personal assistant for years.”

Sinjin’s nose wrinkles and he shakes his head in pity. “Is that what he says you are—his personal assistant? Whatever keeps your mouth around his dick, right?”

He’s just trying to get a response out of me, but God, he sure is going for a big one. When I say nothing, crossing my arms over my chest, he begins to laugh. Loud, boisterous laughter that makes a woman in the next parking lot glance over at us with her eyebrow lifted. 

Turning his body in her direction, he yells out, “What are you looking at, you fat bitch?”

Even from several feet away I hear her gasp before she flushes a bright red, rushes into her car and speed off. What’s wrong with this man? He’s shaking with laughter, raking his hands through his short, blonde hair, and singing. I back up towards the door to get inside of the studio, banging on it so that the guard can let me in. 

Sinjin turns back around to face me, and there are tears streaming down his cheeks. Now, instead of laughing, he’s sobbing violently. I move closer to him, finally noticing the beads of perspiration on his upper lip. He shakes his head, backs up. 

He’s messed up, completely obliterated. I’ve not been around drug addicts for so long that it’s taken me this long to notice it. 

“Don’t touch me, you slut,” he hisses, pulling at clumps of his hair.

“I’m trying to help you, and—”

He lunges toward me, and out of reflex or watching too many movies with Tori, I ram my elbow back into his nose and bring my knee up to strike him in the stomach. He stumbles backward, glaring down at the blood on one of his hands and holding his belly tight with the other. Then he vomits all over himself.

The door behind us buzzes open.

†

Lucas orders me to go home, to the house on Green Hills, and wait for him while he handles things for Sinjin. I don’t argue, despite having a million questions and even more concerns. But I find myself pulling Lucas close to me, our hands clasped and his chin on top of my head. He inhales my scent for what seems like forever before gently nudging me into the Escalade. When our eyes meet, the fear in his is enough to paralyze me. 

I’m still shaken the moment after I enter the house and lock the doors and activate the alarm, but I call Seth. After seeing Sinjin fall apart and realizing how much of things similar to that Seth had seen as a kid, I know it’s the perfect time to talk to my brother. Plus, Lucas is right. There’s so much I need to say to my brother and until I do, I won’t ever be able to do anything else.