Devoured (8 page)

Of course, my little brother is not at all the driving force behind my bad mood.

As much as I dislike admitting it, I’m still fuming and bothered by Lucas. He effortlessly managed to make me come undone during one meal together—I don’t want to imagine what he’s capable of doing to my head and heart and body in the course of ten days, like he’s proposing.

It wouldn’t be good for me.

If seeing Seth out of bed early was a surprise, my heart almost stops when he reveals that he’s already taken the initiative to set up appointments at available places throughout the city. He insists we take his truck. He’s cleaned it out since the last time I was in it a few days ago, but it smells damp and suspiciously like spiced rum and vomit.

Gram notices it, too, because she sniffs a few times but doesn’t say anything.

As we drive to the first location, I try to steer the conversation we’re having about Seth’s school schedule—it’s boring—away from my brother delving into what Gram does on Tuesdays. He catches my gaze in the rearview mirror, giving me an angry, questioning look after I change the subject yet again to the Tennessee Titans because he knows I’m not a football fan. “Stop it,” I mouth at him. Today is going to be hard enough for Gram as it is, so I don’t want him adding any more stress by bringing up Mom. 

But sooner or later, before I return to California, I’ll speak to her about it.

Alone.

The owner, a woman named Tiffany Bernard, who meets us at the first house has a megawatt smile that’s locked into a wrinkle and emotion-free face. She extends her French-manicured hand to Gram the moment we exit the truck.

Mrs. Bernard gets five minutes into her pitch—and it’s a good one because the house is amazing with hardwood floors, a great neighborhood, and is only one story—and then she asks about rental and ownership history.

Ashamed, Gram looks down at a dark spot of tile. “My home was recently foreclosed,” she says in a shaky voice.

Mrs. Bernard’s smile doesn’t change, but I can tell that the pleasant atmosphere has shifted. She speeds through the rest of the showing, giving us barely enough time to look at each room. At the end of the tour, I thank her and ask for a copy of the rental agreement. Despite the owner’s frosty attitude, Gram really seems to like the house and if I have to, I can place the rental contract under my name. The only thing I’ve ever bought using credit was a used ’04 Mercury sedan that I paid off late last year.

Mrs. Bernard gives me her creepy Botox smile. “It’s available on our website, dear,” she says sweetly and I realize that it doesn’t matter if we put the rental contract under the governor’s name—this woman wants nothing to do with us.

Gram thanks her and says we’ll be in touch. On the way to the truck, I lag behind to walk with Seth, hissing, “Did you find that house on a website?”

“Craigslist,” he says in a gravelly house.

The next two rental properties are just as disastrous. One realtor completely overlooks Gram, reaching past her to shake my hand instead and finally looking at her like a nuisance when I point out that I’m not the one looking for a place to live. The final property is an overpriced townhouse that smells so strongly like animal urine, Seth steps in and right back out, shaking his head. 

My brother and I pool our resources—well, I offer some money and I guess he donates some of my cash, too, considering he owes me—and take Gram to lunch at a fancy restaurant in Franklin,  one of the suburbs a half an hour outside of the city. Gram points out that the last time she came here was before our grandfather passed away two years ago, but she doesn’t so much as smile. Throughout the entire meal, there’s a heavy silence that bears down on all of us.

“John built that house for me as a gift for having”—she swallows, as if it hurts her to say the name that follows—“Rebecca. We had offers from country music stars and celebrities for that house because it was truly his best work, but it was our home. Our life.”

“Gram . . .”

She forces a bright smile and nibbles on an oversized roll. “Now that he’s gone, she’s gone, I’m not sure at all if it even matters anymore.”

But it does. It always will. And I feel miserable that she has to go through this. I feel like I should be doing everything I can to prevent her from having to suffer, just like she’s done so much to protect me.

Upon our return to the cabin and after Seth leaves, Gram claims exhaustion again. My eyes follow her as she disappears upstairs and the door to her bedroom creaks closed. Almost as clear as day, I hear Kylie’s comment to me from yesterday evening echoing in my head.

The deal . . . it has to be worth all this.

Before I can chicken out and change my mind, I fish the sheet of paper Lucas gave me from the bottom of my bag and walk outside. Pacing the driveway, I make the call. 

I listen to his pretentious ringback tone—one of Your Toxic Sequel’s dirtier songs—and I hope he doesn’t answer. 

Pray he refuses to acknowledge my call.

At least then I’ll be able to say that I gave it my best shot.

But then the song abruptly stops playing and Lucas comes on the line. “You changed your mind,” he says in a gentle voice.

“Ten days?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“How soon do I start?”

He takes a long pause before he answers me, and I almost think that he’s thought better of the whole offer and decided to take it off the table. I’m grinding my teeth together when he responds, “Kylie’s leaving first thing in the morning, so it would probably be best if you come tomorrow. I’ll have my attorney fix up the contract.”

“So you don’t try to fuck me on the house.”

He chuckles, a ferociously sexy sound that caresses my body with heat. I pace faster. “Of course. Bad for business to do it any other way.”

“Right,” I hear myself say.

“Message Kylie your email address so I can send you training instructions tonight—I’m guitar shopping. At Gibson right now.”

As if to prove his location to me or to taunt me because he remembers just how he was able to drive my body, my senses, to a breaking point with only his guitar and voice two years ago, he strums out the opening of—and I kid you not—a Britney Spears song.

It’s the same song that had been playing when I changed the radio in his car the night I went home with him. He’d humored me for a minute or two, and then rolled his eyes, jabbing a button on the steering wheel to switch the station back to rock.

“You into pop?” he’d asked, giving me a sideways glance. When I nodded, he said, “Figures. Come on, I’ll play you all the bubblegum shit you could ever dream of.” And he had—my own private show as we sat on the granite countertops in his spacious kitchen. He only stopped playing every so often to pop a strawberry into my mouth or his or to trail his lips, his teeth, up my thighs.

And then later . . . well, shortly after he was through playing for me, I found myself in the backseat of a taxi, furious and crying like a fool.

“You’re sending me training?” I finally ask, thrusting the memory of the near-sex experience with Lucas out of my head. When he stops strumming the guitar abruptly, murmuring to someone with him in the Gibson store, it makes keeping my thoughts in the here and now that much simpler. I begin to ask him if Kylie’s job is really that intense to need specific instructions, but then I recall all the events and traveling that he’s got to do over the next 10 days. And how our deal is contingent upon one major aspect:

Me being obedient, doing exactly as he says for the duration of the week and a half.

“I am,” he confirms. There’s a smile in his voice. “So you’re mine?”

Fighting back fear and pride and something else that causes my heart to beat erratically, I shiver and say, “Yes, I’m yours.” 

Lucas doesn’t wait until the evening to get the list of training instructions to me. The email shows up in my inbox rapidly, less than a couple hours after I send Kylie a Facebook message with my email address. Lucas has personally sent it himself, along with a short note that makes my breasts tingles and my nipples harden with excitement.

Miss Jensen,

As promised, I’ve attached the training instructions. Look over them. Learn them. Don’t forget the deal you’re making.

Can’t say I’m not looking forward to the next several days. I’ve already got this vivid idea of how you’ll taste after you’ve said the words. How you’ll feel when I’m inside of you. Have you imagined it yet?

-Lucas

Without thinking, I reply and ask him if workplace sexual harassment laws apply to being employed by a cocky rockstar.  He responds while I’m opening the training instruction attachment. 

Why? Do you feel intimidated by me?

No, not in the way he’s referring to. I feel drawn to Lucas. I know for a fact I shouldn’t allow myself to give in to my attraction to him because it’s one of those things where there’s no possibility of a happy ending. Even if we wanted to be together for something more than sex, it’s impossible thanks to his career and the steady influx of women he comes in contact with. That’s what’s so damn intimidating and frightening about him. 

I’m shocked to discover that Lucas’s “list” is in reality a multiple page Word document that’s contains more black writing than empty white space. Sighing, I tote my laptop downstairs, grab a bottle of water and an apple from the kitchen, and set up shop in the family room. I place my computer on the coffee table and open the document. Reading every word carefully, I study the instructions laid out for me. As I read, my skin grows more and more flushed, until it’s hot to the touch. 

When Lucas said he wants me to submit to him, he wasn’t shitting me.

“You will report to me at 8am sharp on Thursday morning. You will live with me in the residence of my choosing for approximately 10 days, which includes but is not limited to my current rental and hotels, etc. during out of town business,” I read aloud in a soft whisper. “You will be provided your own room.”

My chest clenches up because I realize that I’ll have to say a temporary goodbye to Gram. Hello will be so incredible when I return, though, I remind myself, picturing her face when I slide the deed to the house into her hands and tell her she doesn’t have to worry about having to move.

“You will consent to carry an electronic tablet for the purpose of note-taking and a cell phone provided to you by myself and reply to any calls or messages in a timely manner. You are not to give this number out to personal acquaintances.” A special cell phone and iPad? Just . . . wow. I shake my head incredulously. “While you are in my service, you will awaken no later than 7am unless otherwise discussed.”

Further down the page, there’s information on my public uniform—all black, either pants or dress, it’s my choice along with dark underwear, though I’m not sure why that matters—and private and public protocol. I’m to call him Mr. Wolfe or. . . .

I scroll to the next page and my heart beats a little faster as I whisper, “Sir.”

On the final page, the fourth page, the training is broken down into categories and what’s expected of me:
Physical
and
Mental
and
Verbal
.

Personal appearance and concentration and speech restriction. Under no circumstances am I to speak to the press or paparazzi, though I’ve never seen a paparazzo in Nashville and the last thing I want to do is seek them out.

The next category is
Punishment
and
Discipline
, but there’s not a single instruction to be found beneath the heading save for three words that send a trill of excitement through me: “To be discussed.” 

“You are so not spanking me,
Sir
,” I murmur.

The two final categories are
Sexual
Training
and
Emotional Trainin
g
. There are strikethroughs through both, but I wish he’d simply removed them from the document all together because they give me thoughts that I’m not quite sure I dislike. Thoughts that make me wet and confused.

As I send Lucas an email, informing him that I’ve read over the instructions and will follow them to the best of my ability, I realize something that would almost make me giggle if the situation were any different. 

On the last Your Toxic Sequel album, the final song on the CD was called “Your Master.” I remember the first time I listened to it, on the way to work one morning on a radio station that censored a quarter of the lyrics, and how Lucas’s every other word made me fidget in my seat. Now, I can vividly picture
Mr. Wolfe
going through this list of instructions and changing every reference to himself from “Your Master” to what’s currently in front of me. 

Because most of what’s here in front of me was in that song, leaving me to wonder who the hell he wrote it about in the first place.

†

I lie to my grandmother about where I’m going. 

It’s the third time this trip that I’ve deliberately lied to her, the third time I’ve let something dealing with Lucas make me be dishonest with the one person I’ve always been upfront with, and I feel like shit when I do. I convince myself that I’m doing this for her own good, and it’s better to let her believe something else entirely than to misinterpret the truth.

I’m taking the same approach with Tori. After I first agreed to go along with Lucas’s deal a few hours ago, I immediately picked up the phone to call her. As soon as she picked up, though, I froze. She’s been warning me since I arrived in Tennessee to avoid Lucas like the plague and sure enough, one of the first things she asked was if “Shithead” had been in touch again.

I told her he hasn’t but made a promise to myself that I’ll fill her in on everything that’s happened during this trip the moment I step foot off my flight home to California. At least then I’ll be able to explain the motives behind my decision face to face instead of over a bad connection.

“And you’re sure your boss needs you back already?” Gram asks me, gazing across the narrow trail at me. 

I take a few more steps forward so I don’t have to meet her stare and let the cold wind slap me in the face before I continue with my story. “Just a little over a week. The other wardrobe girl has gotten ridiculously sick and it’s important for me to go back so nobody ends up jobless.”