His tone irks me. This is the second tour that I’ve done with Tyler, but this is the first time I’ve butted heads with him. I close the door and some of the generic paintings on the wall shake as I sit down in the chair across from it. “Actually, I can keep my dick dry longer than you give me credit for, so I’ll be there.”
Tyler opens the mini-bar. “I’ve been hearing good things about your girl from Maggie.” The tail end of his statement is emphasized, and I know he’s got more to say. And I probably won’t like it. He holds out a Red Bull, which I decline. “I’m going to cut to the chase here, Luke. Her being with you on this tour is making things hard for Cilla.”
Hard for Cilla?
“Sienna’s not going anywhere, so Cilla can either accept that or leave. Guess you’re forgetting that none of us wanted Wicked Lambs on this tour in the first fucking place.”
Sinjin had gone as far as threatening to pull out the day of our first show in Los Angeles. He had told me that being around her messes with him—that she’s his “Sam.”
Downing a shot of vodka straight out of the miniature Skyy bottle, Tyler lowers the glass to the counter top and rubs his chin thoughtfully. “She’s drinking heavily.”
I’m not surprised, but my breath is coming out in rapid bursts through my nostrils when I comment. “Like I said, if Cilla’s got a problem with Sienna, or with anything else, tell her to fucking quit.”
Tyler holds up his hands defensively. “Hey, calm down, alright? Last thing we need is for you to go off on her and ruin things. I thought you were . . . friends.”
“We are.” Standing, I stride over to the door. “That still doesn’t change the fact that none of us wanted to tour with Cilla.” Tyler starts to protest, but I won’t hear it. “And the last fucking thing I need is you trying to make me feel responsible for her.”
I slam the door behind me so hard that David, who’s waiting for me in the hallway jumps. “Let’s get the fuck out of this place,” I growl.
When we come off the elevator, the crowd in the lobby has multiplied and I can see why. Cilla’s joined Brady, and she’s posing for pictures with their fans. It doesn’t take her long to spot me. Despite her display—she throws her long black hair over her shoulder before leaning in to open mouth kiss one of her fans for a photo—her heavily lined eyes are pleading when she pulls away from the other woman.
“Boss,” David says, jerking his head toward the exit sign ten feet from the elevator. “You don’t want to walk through that.”
No, I don’t.
My mood is dark as we walk back to our hotel, and the only thing that helps is the way Sienna molds against me seconds after I open the door to our room.
Because of our history. Her past with Sinjin. And the fact that the last time we toured together, several years back, my life had gone to shit.
Sienna
When Lucas returns, giving me the news that his road manager is planning a surprise party for Sinjin’s twenty-ninth birthday next week, I look past his flared nostrils and hard eyes. I pretend that he’s not distant for the rest of the day, after his show that night, and even through the next day. But by the time the loud beeping noise of the bus pulling into its parking spot for the day wakes me up early Friday morning, I’m frustrated and tired. Since neither has anything to do with being up late for last night’s show, I begrudgingly convince myself to ask some questions.
Instead of approaching Lucas directly, or calling Kylie to pick her brain, I decide to ask Sinjin. He’s a man of few words—which are almost always sarcastic and usually offensive—but he notices everything.
I finally get my chance shortly before noon, when Lucas leaves our parked bus to go speak with Tyler. Once I hear the front door clang shut, I wait a couple of minutes and then follow the scent of what Sinjin swears are homemade cigarettes (because he must confuse my being slightly na?ve for incredibly stupid). It leads me down the carpeted aisle and into the galley where Sin is sitting at the table, smoking and looking at something on his computer. He’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing only jeans, and his black hair is still damp from a shower.
Tentatively, I slide into the seat across from him. “How’s it going?”
One of his jet-black eyebrows jerks up. He makes a few more pecks on his netbook and then acknowledges me. “Either you have a question about your loud boyfriend—yeah, I fucking heard everything this morning, and I honestly feel well acquainted with your *—or you’ve decided that you can’t resist my charm.”
Did he really just say that? In an effort to hide the flames crawling up my face, I focus my eyes down at the cuffed hem of my black shorts and fidget with the scooped neck of my gray burnout tee shirt. My silence is met with his chuckling. “And I made you blush,” he teases. “Alright, Sienna, get whatever the hell it is out there. I’m all yours.”
Forcing the thought of him listening in on what had gone on in the back compartment, I clear my throat, square my shoulders, and peer across the table at him. “Do you know what’s going on with him? Why he’s been so—”
“Lucas?” When I roll my eyes, Sin smirks. “Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside that you’re coming to me for answers that just about everyone on this tour already knows.”
“You’re being a dick.”
“Then use your brain, gorgeous. He’s got you here with him. He’s got Cilla trying to jump on his dick at every turn.” He takes a drag from his joint and exhales. The smoke whispers into my face, and I draw back, waving it away. “Look, the only break that motherfucker is getting is that Sam hasn’t popped up with the bullshit she usually brings to every tour.”
Sam. Hearing her name makes me curl my fingernails painfully into my palm. Sinjin must notice this because he tilts his body forward and stares down at my clenched hands, his eyes suddenly thoughtful. I spring to my feet and grab a Coke from the fridge adjacent to us. When I return to my spot, the cynical, asshole-ish expression has returned to his face.
“Way to make me feel better about Cilla,” I say, opening my drink. “What’s your deal with her?”
Besides the fact that her mood is all over the place. So far she’s alternated between being reasonably cordial to me; ignoring my existence; and two nights ago, drunkenly arguing with David backstage that I was definitely not on the after show list.
Sinjin sucks his cheeks in, making his face look even thinner. “You want me to tell you it’s complicated, don’t you?”
“Is it?”
“Not really. I gave a shit about her, she chased Lucas.” He thinks on that for a moment and then snorts dismissively. “Correction, her ass is still chasing Lucas. And she swears she’s not like the groupies, but she’d let him do anything to her.”
Ugh, why does he seem so absolutely gleeful when he tells me that? As if he can read my mind, he winks a green eye at me. “You’ll be alright. Even if she weren’t a drunken bitch, Lucas still wouldn’t want her. Not his type. Not you.” He’s quiet, and just when I begin to think we’re done talking, he slams his netbook shut. “I want you to watch out for her. And stop staring at me like I’m an idiot—I’m looking out for you.”
I let out a coarse laugh that burns the back of my throat. “Is there any woman from Lucas’s past that I shouldn’t watch out for?”
“Kylie. She’s the only one who’s not going to try to drive a fucking dagger into your back.”
“Good to know.”
Fortunately, his phone begins to buzz on the table between us. I manage to make out the name “Zoe” before he gives me a withering glare and swipes the iPhone up into his hand. He stalks off toward his section of the bus—four bunks in the middle, right before the compartment I’ve been sharing with Lucas—leaving behind the scent of smoke mixed with Ivory soap.
Running my fingertip around the cold rim of my drink can, I close my eyes and scan my brain for ways to solve the Cilla problem. To be honest, I can’t come up with a single solution that doesn’t involve us getting into a verbal—or hell, even a physical—altercation.