She’s mastered the art of bullshitting so well that she’s able to quickly slap a blank look on her face—from her vacant bluish-green eyes to her parted lips. “What?” She blinks a few times.
I don’t have the patience to do this shit with her today.
“I’m done with you,” I say.
I drop my hands away from her shoulders and turn to leave, but she digs her fingers into my shirt. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Removing her hand, I sneer at her. “I don’t know how to make it any more clear. Personally. Professionally. I can’t do this shit with you.”
She swallows hard and rakes her hands over her face. “All because I made a little joke and screwed around with Sinjin’s little girlfriend?”
“Because if not every man in the room that you’ve ever fucked doesn’t throw themselves at your feet, you get all butt hurt. Because you enjoy misery. I think that’s the worse part because it reminds me of my ex-wife.”
Tears pool at the inside corners of her eyes, but I don’t buy her act for a second. “Look, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t tell me that.” I jab my finger toward the entrance of the room. Even from out here, I can see that Zoe’s not standing as close to Sinjin. That he looks like he’s just a moment away from a breakdown that would set him back months, years. “Take your destructive ass in there and tell it to him or her.”
She gives me that skittish look she gets whenever she’s confronted, and I almost think she’s going to do the right thing and speak to Sinjin to make everything right. But instead, she spins around on her heels and stalks off in the other direction toward the dressing room she used earlier tonight.
“Tell Tyler to text me when my bus is ready to roll out,” she shouts.
Sienna
“Okay, spill, how much of that shit have you done already?” My friend Ashley demands as she pops open a beer with the bottle opener on her keychain.
It’s Saturday night, and I’ve been back in Nashville since yesterday afternoon. Ashley had texted me right at 10:30—while I was in the shower—to ask if I wanted to come to karaoke night at her parents downtown bar, The Beacon. Since Gram had gone to bed an hour before, and I haven’t seen Ashley in a few weeks, I immediately accepted the invitation. After the day I’ve had, I needed to do this.
I had worked for twelve hours only to come home and find that not only had Lucas’s ex sent me a one-worded letter to my house, but I also had an email from one of my clients asking me to cancel all of her upcoming appointments indefinitely.
“Sienna?” Ashley says, bringing my thoughts away from the note and back into the crowded bar.
“How much of what shit?” I ask, mustering a teasing grin.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” When I say nothing, she groans and rests her chin on her fist. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you haven’t done any of them.”
I think of the list she gave to me before I left Nashville a few weeks ago and how many items I’ve scratched off so far. “I have about four or five to go—and no, I’m not doing a body shot off of Cal.” When Ashley’s lips purse into a thin, disappointed line, I hold out my hands in defense. “I think I’ll get through them before the tour is over. I mean, there are three weeks left. And don’t forget, they’ll be here in twelve days.”
Just as I hope, mentioning Your Toxic Sequel’s upcoming show in Nashville shifts the conversation. Ashley casts me an excited grin. “I have a countdown on my phone.” She shakes her head. “Ugh, I know. Pathetic.”
“And while they’re here, maybe you can finish up your own damn bucket list,” I add in a low voice.
Running her hands through her multi-colored hair, she rolls her eyes dramatically. “Where’s the fun in that.”
My phone buzzes in the center of the table. I flip it over to reveal a text from Lucas. I’ve been waiting for him to message me since I came home from my job, and my smile must give me away as I open it. Ashley lets out a low whistle.
“I could ask you so many questions, but you’re already bright red, so I’ll bug you more about your job today. Inquiring minds want to know, will this new reality show be worth watching? Is it the Jersey Shore of Music City?”
“It was . . . boring. Well, the job was. I’m not sure about what the show will be like.” I don’t say anything about my other client’s cancellation. I’ve been working with this woman, a politician’s wife, since I started doing wardrobe consulting here. Her email had been two lines, mostly stating that with my “other work in the public eye,” she saw it fit to discontinue her association with me.
It stung enough for me to sit staring at my computer screen for several minutes afterward.
I had started to message her back to ask if it was because of the hundreds of pictures of Lucas and me circulating the Internet, or if she took a peek into the various YTS fan sites that have smeared my name with every lie imaginable.
Like an idiot, I had taken a look at one of the websites after dinner tonight to discover that I was pregnant. I’m positive that by tomorrow morning, that will have changed, and I’ll have betrayed Lucas with a secret abortion. Or maybe the baby will turn out to be Cal’s or Sin’s.
If it wasn’t so sad, and undeniably scary, I would probably laugh.
“God, girl, you’ve been spacing out since you walked in here tonight,” Ashley complains. “I just said that boring is good, but I’m sure there’s none of that being on the road.” She fidgets anxiously with the rim of her beer bottle, and it’s obvious that she has a question about YTS and the tour.
Since I feel like crap for being such awful company tonight, I wait until a couple passes by to say to her, “Okay, shoot.”
Plunking her hands down flat on the table, she leans in close. “Cilla Craig?”
I consider my words carefully, but then I shake my head. Screw being nice. “The devil in fishnets.”
“I knew it.” Ashley sits up straight and takes a sip of her beer, wrinkling her pierced nose at the taste. “Ugh, we’re never ordering this crap again.” She slides the nearly full bottle to the edge of the table. “This will be the first time I’ve actually seen the Lambs live because I’ve been scared she’d throw a mic off stage or some crazy shit.”
When my eyebrows furrow and I motion for her to keep talking, she says, “There’s a video of her on YouTube at a show in Louisville when she toured with YTS a few years back. She went off on that audience.”
I’ve got a vivid image of Cilla calling Sinjin out in front of Zoe two nights ago, and the back of my throat burns. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Anyway, I—” Ashley’s cut off when Nick, one of the doormen, drops by our table and whispers something into her ear. “Shit, one of the bartenders kid is sick, so she’s got to leave early. Give me twenty, okay?”
But I shake my head and scoot off the barstool. “I need to get home. I fly out tomorrow morning, and I’ve got an early breakfast with Seth and Gram.”
Ashley hops off of her own seat. “Have fun,” she says loud enough to drown out the sound of the tipsy guy slaughtering a Ke$ha song on stage. She makes it two steps before she whips back around, tapping her finger against her lips. “Before I forget, when will you be back again?”
“Five days from now. I’ll be sticking around here until they come to town because I’ve been contracted for more work with the crew from today.” And I have a private client, too, but who knows if that will pan out.
Ashley gives me a very 80s-inspired fist pump. “Alright, I’ll see you then, and if the only thing left on that list isn’t involving Cal’s belly button . . . So help me, Sienna.”
Forcing a laugh, I promise I’ll do my best.