“Lucas Wolfe admitting that something was difficult for him?” I feign surprise as I flip backward to one of the initial drafts. “Glad you kept going. The other ones are just as beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but a little . . .”
“Dark? Emo? That’s what Kylie called me the entire time you were gone.” I scrunch my nose and shake my head, but he laughs. He inclines his chin down to the page that I’m on right now—one that’s talking about a bleeding heart. “I, ah, wrote that particular one after seeing you out one night.”
Something painful squeezes around my heart. “What?”
“At Sunny’s. Little bar downtown. Cheap beer and shit for lighting.”
I know the place, but I can’t remember the last time I went there. Self-consciously, I close Lucas’s notebook and sit it down on the couch between us. “When?”
“About a month after Atlanta. Wanted to get you out of my mind, and sure as fuck you were right there at that damn bar.”
And instead of coming to talk to me, instead of ending both of our misery a few months in advance, he’d come back here and wrote about . . . angst?
He plucks a flat note and gives me a grim look. “You were with another man—some blonde mother fucker—and a few of your friends. And as much as I wanted to beat the shit out of him simply for being with you, going after him would have made me a douche.” He thumbs a few additional notes and then lifts his eyebrows in a look that screams guilt. “Well, a bigger douche than I already was.”
Some blonde guy? Facing the piano, I squeeze my eyes together. Who the hell is he talking about? The only men I’ve had continuous contact with who could be a match for Lucas’s vague description would be my brother and my former roommate’s boyfriend. Micah.
Of course.
Laughter bubbles from my chest. Before I have a chance to explain, Lucas leans forward.
“And now you’re laughing at me, Red?” he asks. “I should turn you over my knee right now.”
I force the breathlessness down as I turn my head to the side, skimming my lips against his. “The blonde you saw me with is Micah. Tori’s boyfriend.” And I remember the night now. They’d coaxed me out of the apartment because I spent the better part of a month moping around over Lucas. To him, I say, “We went out as a group. And I sure as hell didn’t go home with Micah, nor have I ever slept with him.”
Lucas’s mouth parts into a silent “ah,” as he leans back on the couch and begins to pick at his guitar again. I can’t deny the look of relief and satisfaction on his handsome face.
While the rest of our night goes smoothly, with Lucas playing me song after song on his Gibson, the next morning is a little chaotic. He wakes me up after sunrise, dressed in nothing but a pair of navy blue gym shorts that hang low on his hips. He’s sweaty from working out and looking down at me wearing his typical cocky grin.
“Get up, Sienna. It’s day one.”
“The show isn’t until late tonight,” I point out, but Lucas yanks the sheets that I’m desperately trying to hold on to off of the bed.
“We’ve got a lot of shit to do today.”
His words remind of my short-lived days (eight in total) working as Lucas’s personal assistant. He had—and I’m not even kidding—mandated that I be up at seven a.m. unless otherwise notified.
Sure enough, when I turn over to glance at the black Bose alarm clock on his nightstand, it’s 7:03. “You’ve got to be screwing with me.”
“Get used to it.” He goes to the window and opens the darkening blinds, allowing the light in. “Our road manager gets our asses up much earlier than this.”
Groaning, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and place my feet on the floor. As I stretch my arms over my head and shake out some of the stiffness in my muscles, I ask him sarcastically, “Should I call you Mr. Wolfe and sir?”
He doesn’t give me an answer until I walk across the room to the adjoining bathroom. “Only in private, Red.”
I shower quickly, wondering if he was serious about calling him Mr. Wolfe, which had been another stipulation of the old contract. Once I towel off, I return to the bedroom. He’s nowhere to be found, but I can hear a shower running in the bathroom down the hall.
Humming softly—an incredibly offbeat version of “Rill Rill” by Sleigh Bells—I rummage through my suitcase. Since I’m limited by my lack of shoes, I dress in a fun multi-colored Betsey Johnson sundress, which is the only item of clothing I have that matches my yellow flats. By the time Lucas returns, I’m leaned against his dresser, my face close to the mirror as I wrap my hair in a messy bun.
“Leave it down.” I look past my reflection, dragging in the sight of him with beads of moisture trickling down his muscular chest. He grins. “You know what it does to me.”
I do. And despite the fact it’ll just get in the way, I release my grip on my hair, letting the up-do down in one swift motion. I start to rake my hand through the tangled mess, but Lucas shakes his head.
“Just like that, so I can think about fucking you while I go through bullshit all day.”
The first order of “bullshit” turns out to be a meeting here with Your Toxic Sequel’s tour manager—a short, strawberry blonde guy with one of those tans that makes me envious. Dressed in a citrus-colored polo, Tyler looks like he’s about to head into an office instead of on a rock tour. At first, he stares me down with undisguised curiosity, taking every opportunity to study me as we go through the house and out to the backyard. Once we’re on the patio overlooking the pool, though, Lucas introduces me as his girlfriend.
Admittedly, hearing him do so makes me flush like a seventh grader, but I hold out my hand to Tyler and tell him it’s nice to meet him.
Flashing a wide grin, Tyler gives my hand three hard pumps. “Just wanted to make sure you were the right one.” He sits down in one of the outdoor chairs that are situated around a circular fire pit.
If there were an award given for the most awkward, dumbass introduction, Tyler would easily take it. I force a smile and dig my fingernails into my palms. “Thanks for being considerate,” I say through clenched teeth.
Lucas slams down in the seat across from Tyler, leaning forward with his tattooed forearms on his thighs. “You know exactly who the fuck she is.” He glances over at his manager, and I feel the punch behind every word. “And you also know how I already feel about this tour.”
Tyler squeezes the bridge of his freckled nose. “Ah hell, I didn’t mean to imply that . . . ” Cocking his head, he gives me a quick, apologetic grimace. “Sorry, Sienna.”
Lucas’s hazel eyes silently challenge his manager for a moment longer and then he turns his gaze on me, his expression relaxing. “I’ve got to go over tickets sales and business stuff, do you mind—”
“I need to go call my brother and Tori.” At this point, I’d be willing to deal with a prison call from my mother to get away from this tension. “See you in a little while?” He nods and kisses my wrist before I leave.
As I walk away, I hear his manager say in a low voice, “She’s sure as fuck prettier than what Cilla said.”
Lucas’s icy retort is the last thing I hear before I step inside of the sliding doors. “That’s because Cilla’s a bitch.”
He doesn’t come back into the house for nearly an hour, and in that time I manage to confirm with Seth that my shoes will be arriving today, speak to Tori who promises me that we’ll still get to see each other tonight, and make myself breakfast—a whole grain bagel, a few pieces of fruit, and a large glass of orange juice.