Consumed (4 page)

He lets out a low growl and sits up a little so that his mouth touches the delicate bones of my throat. “No, I mean, I want you to work for me.”

When I realize he’s said these exact words to me before, the day he offered me the opportunity to save my grandmother’s house by working as his personal assistant for ten days, I frown and push him away from me, leaving us eye-to-eye. “We’re not role playing, are we?” 

The fact that I’m pushing him away doesn’t deter him from touching me—his fingers are still in my hair, and he drops his other hand to the curve of my hip. “As hot as that would be, no, we’re not. YTS is going on tour in a week and a half.”

YTS, Your Toxic Sequel, is the band Lucas fronts. They’re best known for their raunchy lyrics, kickass live performances, and well . . . Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe himself. I’d forgotten that they were going on tour this summer, even though I frequently talk to Lucas’s sister, Kylie. Aside from last night when she told me to watch the music video that he had dedicated to me as an apology, she hasn’t exactly mentioned her brother, his music, or the band.

“On tour?” I repeat, and he nods.

“Different city every couple nights, big-ass bus fill of shitheads with too many vices.” He lifts his broad shoulders. “You’d like it.”

I’m certain I know where this conversation is going, and suddenly I’m nervous. I manage a shaky laugh. “You’re not asking me to be a back up singer, are you? Because I seriously blow at music.”

Releasing my hair and my hip, he moves both his hands down so that he can grip my ass. “I don’t know about all that. Never met anyone who plays piano like you.” He looks so ridiculously sexy right now that I can’t resist moving my face closer to his until our lips touch. “Besides, if I wanted you to sing, you’d do it,” he says in a low voice between kisses. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I murmur as he moves his erection up against me. 

He shifts his hips, rolling me onto my stomach in a couple of well-executed motions. “Put your hands against the headboard.” I am utterly vulnerable to him—completely his—and I feel the wood against my fingertips just as he nudges one finger inside of me. I cry out.

“Come on tour with me, Sienna.”

And there it is. Five words not spoken in a question, but a statement, and each word scares the hell out of me. Not even 24 hours have passed since Lucas literally forced his way back into my life. Since he ran out on me earlier this year, I have an entire new list of commitments.

I still haven’t talked to Gram to let her know I’m okay—I had simply left a note and a voicemail when I picked up and left last night. 

“I need you with me.”

I peek back over my shoulder at him. “What about—” I start to mention my job, but he glides another finger into me, and I splay my hands out on the headboard and squeeze my eyes shut. “Fuck,” I groan, burying my face into pillows.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m getting there, Sienna.
After
you say yes. And before you ask, you’ll have a job,” he says, and I open my eyes to look at him. The grin he’s wearing widens. “I need your wardrobe expertise, but I’m not going to lie and tell you my reasons for wanting you with me aren’t mostly fueled by greed.”

The part of my brain that’s not a blurry hot mess from what he’s doing to my body realizes just how much sense this proposal makes. I’ve been working as a personal wardrobe consultant ever since I moved back to Nashville—and I’ve worked freelance for a few musicians. Plus, Lucas’s music and my job are the reason why we initially met two and a half years ago in the first place. I’d worked wardrobe on the set of the “All Over You” music video, and Lucas and I had hit it off. Clearly, it hadn’t worked out, but my time on set with his band had a lasting impression on me.

“I’m not much for cramped spaces,” I blurt out.

“I am.” He gives me a wicked smile as his fingers pick up speed inside me. I dig my fingernails into the pillows, the headboard—whatever my hands come in contact with— and he rubs the pad of his thumb around my clit. “And don’t worry, we’ll be in a hotel more than on a tour bus.”

But we’d still be on a bus. And despite what Lucas has said about wanting to keep me around, anything could happen. I’m not aware that I’ve started to clench my teeth until Lucas stops touching me. It’s always been a nervous habit of mine and it drives him insane. “Please don’t stop,” I hiss.  

“Come on tour with me.”

He’s asking a lot, he has to know that. I can’t give him a direct answer right now because it’s not possible—how can it be when I’m shivering beneath him, and I can feel every inch of him pressed up against my hip as he touches me? 

I run my tongue over my lips and nod. “I promise I’ll think about it.”

His shoulders relax a bit, and I let out a satisfied moan when he slides his erection inside of me. He takes his time, going agonizingly slow, until he’s balls deep and I’m biting my lip to keep from clenching my teeth. And he sighs. Lucas-Effing-Wolfe actually sighs. For me.

 “I’ll just have to fucking convince you to come,” he growls.

Over the next couple of days, Lucas doesn’t directly ask me to come with him on the band’s tour again. Instead, he uses his mouth and hands and body, and his music, to persuade me to come on the road with him. By the time he drives me to the airport in Knoxville on Friday morning, I’m tempted to tell him I need another couple days of convincing, despite the fact I’ve had a very limited amount of sleep in the last several hours and my body feels like I’ve spent days doing nothing but hardcore Pilates. 

Then I remind myself that I have been contracted to do a job this weekend—wardrobe for a debut singer’s photo shoot in downtown Nashville. I have to go back, even if it’s just to take care of one obligation. 

My flight home is scheduled to leave at 10:45 a.m., and Lucas gets me to the airport with an hour to spare. As I check my bag in, I can feel his eyes on me, and I know he’s expecting me to give him an answer about the tour before I leave. 

“When are you driving back to L.A.?” I ask as he walks me to security. 

“Flying. Leaving late this evening, and Kylie’s driving my car back after she uses my place this weekend.” He gives me a distant smile. “I want you coming home with me, Sienna.”

I’m sure if I could see his eyes, I’d tell him anything he wanted to hear. Luckily he’s wearing sunglasses—the same ones he put on the few times we left his place during the last 48 hours— but any diehard Your Toxic Sequel fan would be able to spot him from a mile away.

He’s that memorable, and the tattoos don’t exactly help him blend in.

“What the fuck have you done to me?” Lucas drags me to him, burying his face into my hair, breathing me in. “I’ve never cared about goodbyes and then you come along and make me need you.”

I swallow, trying to push down the tightness building up in my throat. I don’t want to be a big baby and cry, especially since I know that this isn’t it between us. Still, goodbyes are painful—they rip into you and tear you apart no matter how long they actually last. “I love you.” 

He looks me in the eye. “Come on tour with me, even if it’s just for a few cities.”

And I think it’s because I hate goodbyes so much that I nod and say, “I’ll give you an answer by the end of this weekend.”

We kiss then, like it’s for the last time, though there’s a good chance I’ll be with him for nearly two months on the road. By the time I board my flight forty-five minutes later, though, I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

We couldn’t even last 10 days with each other before.

As I take my seat near the middle of the plane, I shove the negative thoughts from my mind. I refuse to let it screw up the way I’m feeling after my time with Lucas. 

To my surprise, my brother is actually at the airport on time to pick me up when my flight touches down in Nashville. Seth greets me at the baggage claim grinning like an idiot, dressed in his usual attire of cargo shorts, bright boat shoes, and Polo shirt.

“You look surprised,” he says. 

“You look incredibly . . . Chuck Bass.” When he gives me a look of confusion, I continue, “Didn’t think you got my text.” I’d sent him a message early this morning asking him to pick me up, but he never answered. 

Four and a half years younger than me, my nineteen-year-old brother is notorious for not picking up his phone. “Do I ever let you down?” Seth asks.

I snort and lean over to grab my oversized bag off the conveyor belt, but he immediately steps in and plucks my luggage out of my hands, slinging it over his shoulders. He wiggles his light brown eyebrows. “I was busy when you texted but next time I’ll make sure to stop just to let you know I’m on my way, deal?”

My nose wrinkles at the thought “Seriously? You have to tell me that?” He grins as I move my head from side to side. “Thanks for making the conversation totally awkward.”

“Anytime I can make shit weird for you, Si.”

Seth’s Dodge Ram pickup truck is surprisingly void of its usual collection of Burger King bags and old mail when I climb inside of it ten minutes later in the short-term parking lot. I sniff a few times. A wintergreen air freshener

“So . . . is she nice?” I ask as he starts the engine. She must be if he took the initiative to clean his truck.

“Nice enough. Maybe I’ll, you know, bring her to meet you and Gram if things work out.” He merges onto I-40. “I think you’ll like her.”

I turn on the radio, which is tuned to a station I know he hates. The sound of The Pussycat Dolls blasts through the truck for about ten seconds before I jab another button, switching to a rock station that’s in the middle of airing an add for a local car dealership’s Christmas in July sale.  “This is serious. You’ve given her control of your radio.”

“Don’t be such a nosy ass.” After he switches lanes, he looks over at me, his brown eyes searching. “So . . . you went on a work trip to Knoxville? Why didn’t you just drive?”

“Now who’s being nosy?” I counter. Seth isn’t exactly Lucas’s biggest supporter, mainly because of the dilemma with Gram’s house earlier this year. I take a deep breath before saying in a sugary voice, “But yes, something like that. The front-man of Your Toxic Sequel has asked me to be his personal wardrobe consultant during their national tour.” My words sound so professional and rehearsed I’m sure my expression is just as surprised as Seth’s.

“Damn, that’s awesome, their new music—” he begins, but then he pauses and frowns. “Wait, that’s Wolfe’s band, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. And?”

Seth’s top lip curls. “And that son of a bitch is the front-man. You told him to fuck off, right?” 

“No.” My voice exudes confidence that’s impossible for me to feel at the moment. “I didn’t. I haven’t given him an answer, actually.”

“Jesus, Sienna, don’t you—” he starts, but I hold up a hand to cut him off.

“If you start with your preaching, I will kick your ass. Let me take care of myself, okay?” When he starts to protest me again, I continue, “And besides, working for this band would be killer for my resume.” 

I don’t add that it’s already on my resume from when I worked with them two and a half years ago.

“So you definitely haven’t said yes yet or signed any contract?” 

I shiver, thinking of the last contract I signed for Lucas, and then I shake my head. 

His brown eyes dart up in relief. “Good. I don’t want him screwing you over.” 

Neither do I
. Even after the amazing days I spent with Lucas, I won’t ever be able to forget all the crap that’s happened between us. Not completely, at least. To my brother, though, I smile brightly and say, “If I say I’ll go, I’ll be fine. I swear.”

“Will you tell Gram?”

I bite the inside of my lip. “Do I have a choice? If I leave home for two months I’m probably going to have to say something.” Besides, I’ve made it a point not to lie to her. My mother has done enough of that to last Gram a lifetime.

Seth’s lips twitch. “What about Tori?” 

I flinch. Tori’s my former roommate and one of my closest friends. If Seth’s the vice-president of the “Castrate Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe” Fan Club, then Tori’s the president, thanks to how many times shit has hit the fan.

“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s business, right? She’ll be alright.”

But that night, as I lay on the porch swing outside of my grandmother’s Nashville cabin—the same house that had brought Lucas back into my life when he bought it in a foreclosure sale—I glance at my phone. Tori’s number is pulled up and ready to dial, but I haven’t been able to hit send. When I’d told Gram about the tour this afternoon, she’d been cautiously optimistic. As much as I love Tori, I’m still too high from the last couple days spent with Lucas to deal with listening to any “what-ifs.” 

I have enough of those running through my own brain without any of my friends’ help.

Before I know it, I find myself calling Kylie, Lucas’s sister.

She picks up almost immediately, and I swear I can hear the smile on her face. “So?”

“I’m guessing you knew about what he was going to do for awhile, huh?”

“Not that much longer than you,” she assures me. “And it was very unlike Lucas, which is why I agreed to ask you to watch it.”