Devoured (17 page)

“Why are you looking at me like that, Mr. Wolfe?”

He slides a chunk of cantaloupe between his lips, leaving them wet and sweet and sticky. I cross my long legs to try and squeeze the want away. “Remember that time I ate strawberries with you on them?” he asks.

A flush spreads down my body. I bring my coffee to my mouth, taking a giant sip. The hot liquid rushes down my throat and I rub my tongue back and forth between my teeth. “God, I wish I remembered that time.”

“I plan on making you sit on making you sit perfectly still,” he says, his hazel eyes gleaming with desire and power. “Dipping my fingers, my fruit, inside of your body. Tasting you. I’ve grown addicted to the way you taste, Red.”

I feel the throb deep inside of me, and I shift in my seat. “And let me guess, you don’t plan to do any of that until I say the word, right?”

“You’re so fucking smart, Sienna.”

†

Lucas is broody the entire jet ride to Georgia—which, really, is over before it even begins. He sits sideways, taking up two seats and writing in his notebook. Every once in a while he glances up at me, tilting his head to one side, reading me. 

I want to know what he’s writing—if it’s about me or us. I want to know what thoughts creep through his mind every time his eyes settle on me. There’s so much I want to know about Lucas Wolfe that it’s dizzying and I’m left with a racing heart.

He finally acknowledges my presence when the jet lands, as we prepare to come off board. Towering over me, he cups my face with one hand, pushing hair away from my temple. I reach up and pull the tips of my fingers through his hair. He trails his lips down my face, pausing for a moment to claim my mouth. “This is going to be so hard.”

“What?” I pant, as his finger—fingers—slide between my lips. He slides them back and forth, and I gently bare my teeth down the way he’s taught me. 

“Being around you, knowing you’re so close to becoming mine, and not being able to fuck or taste or have you whenever I please because the next few days are so hectic.”

“There’s always our hotel,” I say, stroking my hand against his erection.

He releases a muffled noise, grabbing my fingers away from his body and trapping them over my head. “Yes . . . there’s always that.”

†

A limousine—the first one I’ve ridden inside of since prom more than five years ago—carries Lucas and me to the hotel, the Four Seasons Atlanta. Even though I’ve been able to witness Lucas’s fans reaction to him in Los Angeles and at The Beacon bar in Nashville, it’s nothing like the reaction he gets in his hometown. The hotel has had to beef up security because some gossip column leaked that Lucas is in town.

Before I exit the car, he stops me, pulling me back down to straddle his hips. He pulls one of his oversized beanies over my head. Sliding a set of ridiculous hot pink shades over my face, he says gently, “Wouldn’t want more gossip about you and us finding itself onto the web.” He tucks my hair underneath the knit cap, making sure every red strand is hidden out of sight. The gesture is so intimate it makes my breath wobbly. “Do not talk to the press,” he commands.

“Yes, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Say my name one more time.”

“Mr. Wolfe.”

Then he kisses me with a hunger that makes me want to rip his clothes off right then and there. “God I could write songs about the way you say that.”

“Just like you’ll write songs about my ass?” I tease.

“Every part of you,” he says in a voice that tugs at my heart. Squeezing my breast hard one final time, he taps on the window, indicating to the driver that he’s ready to face his fans.

†

Almost as soon as we’re settled into our hotel room, Lucas has to leave to take care of some last minute details. I don’t mind his absence, at least not for a little while, because it gives me an opportunity to admire the view of Atlanta from our room. And it’s stunning. We’re staying in the Presidential Suite, on the top floor, and the room itself is decked out, with marble flooring and lush furnishings and a king size bed. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how anxious I am to test that bed out with Lucas.

After I take a long bath where I shave my legs and wash my hair, I spend my time making phone calls and answering emails, both his and mine. 

When I call Gram, she sounds relieved to speak to me. “Are you doing alright?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I . . .” I start, pausing when I hear her sniffling. “Gram, what’s going on?”

“It’s Rebecca,” she says. I listen, stony-faced, as she tells me about how my mom had gotten into a fight in prison with several other inmates after stealing a pair of shoes. I feel that bitter feeling in the pit of my stomach, the shame, as she talks about Mom having to be sent to the county hospital for surgery. “I don’t understand why she’d take someone’s shoes, Sienna. I put money on her books. I give her as much as . . .”

I sink down on the floor, leaning my back to the side of the sofa. It looks like I won’t have to confront Gram about my mother. She’s revealed that she’s been going to visit mom herself, but I wish with everything inside of me that I could be the one suffering instead of her.

My grandmother has stopped talking now. I hear her sobbing quietly on the other end and a creaking noise. She must be in bed. I ball my hands into fists, banging them into the couch.

“Gram, I can’t yell at you about going to see her.  I’m not going to argue with you or any of that because I’ve got no room to talk, but please, please, please stop letting her take advantage of you.” 

A few years ago, when Mom’s whereabouts were discovered after she skipped town, the bounty hunters had caught up to her approximately two days after the $300 grand cash bond Gram paid was forfeited to the court. If my mother’s worthless ass had been caught just 48 hours earlier, Gram would never have been in this situation.

But even after Mom screwed her over, tried to talk Seth who was just a teenager into taking the rap for her—even then Gram stood by her side. 

My grandmother, with all of her kindness and humility, deserves so much better than my mom. Seth and I deserve so much better than our mother, and though I hate to admit it, more than our dad, too. 

Because a phone call every other week and the occasional awkward visit on holidays was about the equivalent of a hello from the homeless man who trolls the coffee shop I go to for Tomas in Los Angeles each morning.

“I know,” Gram says, her voice catching on a sob. “It’s hard—what with the house and Rebecca. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going anymore.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be home soon and we’ll take care of everything. I swear it.”

“It’s hard,” she says once more. “I-I’ve got to get to bed, sweetheart. I’m going to go back to the hospital for your mom tomorrow morning and I’ve got a doctor’s appointment of my own. But baby, I love you so much.”

“Love you too, Gram.”

But when I hang up, my teeth are gritted together. Lucas finds me like this with my head buried in my hands, grinding my teeth furiously. “Don’t gri—” Then he sucks in a mouthful of air, striding his way across the marble foyer and into the living room in a matter of seconds. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sienna,” he says in a cautioning voice, and I glance up at him, revealing my tear-streaked face. He rolls his body down the side of the couch until he’s right beside of me. It’s almost comical, how absolutely helpless he looks when confronted with my tears, but he pulls me into his arms. Lucas Wolfe, the most commanding man I’ve ever met, lets me sob into the front of his white shirt, allows me to drip mascara all over him.

I sniffle. “My mom got beat up in prison.” 

Holding me by my shoulders, he pulls away from me slightly, placing just enough space between the two of us so that he can look into my eyes and feel me out. He frowns, rubbing his lips together. “I’m taking it you’re not exactly sad about your mom getting an ass-whipping.”

I laugh, in spite of the tears, and drag the backs of my hands across my face. “God, no. She’s had it coming for years. It’s”—I let out a small, strangled sound and he buries his head in my hair again, stroking the back of my neck, making me feel safe—“my grandma, you know. My mom’s been so awful to her, and yet Gram keeps taking the kicks over and over again. It just hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.”

Lucas murmurs that he understands, but I can’t miss how his voice hitches. How it feels as if there is something left unsaid between the two of us. 

But he listens to me sob, listens to every complaint I have about Mom. It’s like a dam bursts and I tell him everything, breaking every dating rule in the book. When he firmly tells me to go to bed, tucking me into the king sized bed in the master bedroom, the unsaid words are clear to me simply by the way he looks down into my eyes.

What I had said to him earlier about Gram—about her taking the kicks repetitively—that person used to be me. 

I get the pleasure of seeing the documentary maker again the very next morning. He meets us in the hotel lobby, briefing Lucas on how today needs to go down. He gives me a curious once over and a courteous greeting, but other than that he doesn’t say much to me. As I walk behind them, typing notes on my Samsung tablet and trying not to roll my eyes, it takes a lot of effort not to point out that nothing about this documentary seems very realistic. He’s even prepping Lucas about how to act around his own parents.

And speaking of Lucas’s parents . . .

Biting my lip, I send Kylie a message asking what I should expect. I know this is probably something I should have asked her before, but a few days ago my feelings were nowhere near this strong for Lucas. Something has happened between us, just as he promised. I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of their folks or leave a horrible impression that might last forever.

Because this evening, I plan on accepting the rest of his offer. Aside from rescuing my grandmother’s house—which I can safely say that I’ve done at this point—there’s nothing I’ve wanted more in a very long time than to be Lucas’s.

My cell phone goes off and I check the message from Kylie.
Dude, my parents love everyone. They liked my ex-husband, so you can run naked through their yard if you want and still be okay.

A moment later, she sends another message.
But really, don’t run through their yard naked.

Feeling a sudden sense of relief, I take Lucas’s hand as he helps me into the limousine that will take us around Atlanta for the day. He holds my hand a little too long, skimming the tip of his thumb over my knuckles. I flush. Stare away. 

The documentary creator leans forward, a slow smile forming on his pale face, but Lucas shoots him a look. The cameraman is the last person to climb inside of the limo. Lucas and the creator of the documentary—which I find out is called Rock on the Road—sit on one side of the car, and I sit with the camera guy on the other so I won’t be seen. The whole time Lucas talks about his life growing up in Atlanta, he’s staring at me and not the camera.

“I played baseball—first baseman—at that high school over there my freshman year.” He points out the window at a school on the right side of the street. It’s a private religious academy, much to my surprise. “Took a hit in the balls with a baseball and that shit ended pretty quickly,” he adds, rolling his eyes dramatically for the sake of the camera.

“What about the music? What would you say had the biggest impact on your sound growing up?” the documentary guy presses. 

Lucas looks deep in thought, though I have a feeling he’s just pretending. These questions have more than likely been asked by hundreds of reporters in more scenarios than he can count. “My dad. He was a huge Metallica fan. I—uh—may have been in a Metallica cover band with Sinjin and Wyatt once upon a time ago.”

Metallica. I cock my eyebrow at him and he gives me a shrug and a grin. 

The limousine slows down to the crawl necessary for residential communities. When we stop, pulling to the curb of a brown and white bungalow, a woman who looks like a pint sized version of Kylie comes out onto the porch, smiling brightly.

By the way she hugs Lucas, pulling him fiercely to her and burying her face into his chest she’s either been prepped by the documentary creator as well or Lucas goes home just about as much as I do. I’m leaning towards the second and wondering what kind of past he has here. By the obvious affection he has for his mom and the adoration he showed when talking about his dad in the limo, I don’t think he feels anything other than love towards his parents. 

“Where’s Kylie?” she asks as I take off my beanie and sunglasses and take a seat in their cramped sitting room on the piano bench. “Is she at the hotel?”

“She had an emergency trip to take care of in California,” Lucas explains easily. He winks at me. “Don’t worry, Ma, she’ll be here for Easter.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. His Georgian accent seems to magically appear when he’s with his mom. Plus, I think it’s sexy as hell that he’s almost 29 but respects his mother enough not to tell her his sister is partying in New Orleans. 

Mrs. Wolfe is just as kind and charming as Kylie, speaking to the camera with a natural ease as she boasts about her kids. Lucas’s dad shows up halfway into the filming. He’s got on a sweaty golf shirt, but he hugs me when I introduce myself as Kylie’s temporary replacement.

“She didn’t send any of that champagne, did she?” he teases, and I force a grin.

The mood in the Wolfe’s home is happy, easygoing, but I find myself withdrawing. I have to remind myself that I have Gram, that my grandparents were just as wonderful as anyone else’s parents, as I witness Lucas interacting with his folks. 

Somehow, I manage to keep the feeling of jealousy at bay.

When we leave, both Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe give me a hug goodbye and embrace Lucas. “Before I forget,” his mom says, stopping him before he gets into the limousine. “Sam’s been trying to get in touch with you. Said it was—”

 “Already taken care of,” Lucas tells her, his voice tight, rude. His face is drawn into a harsh frown as he hugs his mom one last time. Whoever Sam is, I bet money he’s one of those things keeping Lucas from coming to Atlanta regularly.