As I pour my drink, he glances over at me, running his gaze from my bare feet to my shorts and ratty tee shirt and finally to my messy hair. “You look like shit,” he says.
Sliding down on the couch next to him, I polish off the rest of my orange juice. “Your honesty makes my life complete.”
“I told you, I will always tell you the truth.” He tosses the controller between us and rakes his hands over his face. “God, I’m half-tempted to go with you tomorrow and skip this shit for awhile.”
Rolling my eyes, I pick up the remote and restart his game. Once I manage to get myself killed, and then eaten, by a zombie within the first 30 seconds, he jerks the controller out of my hands. “If you come with me, who’ll play your drum solos?” I ask sweetly.
“Your fucking boyfriend.” He survives slightly longer that I did—about three minutes—before Game Over flashes across the small flat screen.
“What the hell do you have that thing set on?” I ask as he passes me the game remote again.
“Carnage.”
We do this for a good thirty minutes, making small talk about video games and passing the controller back and forth as soon as we’re killed off. Finally, I ask him about Zoe.
His face clouds over, but he quickly swaps it with a look of indifference. “Cilla pissed her off, but she said she expects shit like that from me, so I don’t know.” I don’t miss the way his voice quivers or how tightly he’s gripping the remote. “The fucked up thing is that I didn’t fuck either of those girls.”
“Did you tell her that?” I ask quietly.
He lifts his thin shoulders into a shrug. “It was doomed from the start.”
Drawing my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs. “Then maybe that means it’s supposed to work? Like all those epic romances.”
He grants me a sideways glance, like he’s really considering my words. “Epic romances are always fucking doomed.”
The sound of Lucas shuffling noisily down the bus aisle puts a stop to our conversation and Sinjin hands me the game remote for good. “I’m going to catch some shut eye before sound check.” His green eyes flash a warning at Lucas. “Meaning don’t wake me with any of that bullshit before then.”
Scratching his head so that his shaggy dark hair falls into his eyes, Lucas gives his band mate a cocky smile. He turns that look on me for just a moment, and something flutters in the pit of my stomach. “I’ll do my best,” Lucas promises.
Sinjin disappears into the back, but a few second later, he peeks his head out into the lounge. “Before I forget.” He holds up a set of drumsticks. I catch them, one at a time, when he tosses them in my direction. “Signed and all that good stuff.” Before I can offer him a word of thanks, he’s gone, and I can hear the sound of Puddle of Mudd’s “Famous” playing loudly inside of his compartment.
“Okay, he’s scaring me.” I lift my gaze to Lucas who’s leaned against the galley counter with a Red Bull in his hand. “You look . . . well-rested.”
He pops the tab of his energy drink. “I’ve got two weeks left on the road. Fuck yes, I’m rested.” Giving me an animalistic grin, he throws himself onto the couch with me, grabbing my leg and pulling me on him so that I straddle him. I muffle my shriek of delight with the back of my hand as he grinds my hips against his cock and leans me backward so he can kiss my breast through my tee shirt. “You look like—”
My phone vibrates on the table, interrupting him.
At first, I have no intention of answering it, but then he gives my thigh a squeeze. Reaching over, I begrudgingly grab it and turn it over to reveal an unknown number. A sliver of fear coils through me as I stare at the flashing screen because the first place my mind goes is to Sam.
So far she’s only used words to screw with me. As much as I hate to admit it, my address was probably easy to find because I had once included it in the Contact Me section on my website.
But the thought of her going through the steps of finding my phone number?
Calm down, I think. Stop getting ahead of yourself and just answer the damn thing.
“You just going to stare at the screen?” Lucas growls into my ear.
Giving him a trembling shake of my head, I swipe my finger across the bottom of the screen to accept the call. The person on the other line is already talking before I put my ear to the speaker, and I’m relieved to discover that the voice is automated.
Sort of.
“. . . A collect call from Rebecca Previn.”
It’s my mother.
I don’t know how many times I’ve received similar calls in the past, but they’ve been few and far between over the last year. I had run out of things to give her, and that meant, my use ran out too.
I’m not sure if it’s anger at her sending Gram to that attorney’s office or my old desire to make my mom happy that drives me to accept the call, but I do. She doesn’t start the conversation like she normally would—in that soft, sweet voice she uses whenever she wants something—she’s already advanced to spitting fire.
“You little bitch,” she hisses. “How dare you try to turn my momma against me?”
Scrambling off of Lucas’s lap, I frantically work my finger over the volume button so the conversation isn’t as loud. Lucas is already leaning forward, working his long fingers over his bottom lip in concern.
Turning my back to him so he can’t see my face, I take a cleansing breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She releases a growl deep from the back of her throat. “Don’t try that with me, Sienna, I see right through you. Always have. You’re trying to warp her mind against me, and it’s not right.”
I pinch my fingers over the bridge of my nose. Leave it to my mom to bring on a headache. “What exactly did I do?” I ask in a muffled voice.
“She told me she was ashamed that I wanted your boyfriend to help me out. That she won’t ever—”
“No.” I shake my head. “Gram shouldn’t feel even an ounce of shame over that. You should. You don’t even talk to me, and the first thing you do after reading something in a gossip article about me is call me expecting—”
Now it’s my mother’s turn to cut me off, and when she does, she’s bellowing into the phone. “You wrote me a letter offering.”
“Mom,” I breathe, hating the way my chest burns when I call her that. “Don’t do this crap.”
There’s the sound of shuffling paper on her end of the line, and then, in a clipped, shaking voice, she reads the letter aloud for me. It’s short and to the point, telling her that I would have Lucas pay for her lawyer if she wanted to take me up on the offer. Even for my mom, making up something like this is a little far-fetched.
Once she’s done reading, Mom says something that wraps a layer of ice around my heart. “Sent three weeks ago—postmarked from Atlanta—so don’t sit there and lie to me.”
“Where did you say it came from?”
She makes a strangled noise. “Are you deaf? You heard me. Don’t worry, I don’t want or need you or your boyfriend’s help. But if you ever, ever, try to turn my mother against me again, I’ll knock you on your ass the second I get out of this place.”
She hangs up then, not giving me the chance to get in another word—but really, what the hell would I say after everything she’s just told me? Placing my phone on the countertop, I stare down at it blankly until I feel strong arms wrapping around me.
“Your mother?” he asks, and I nod slowly, trying to catch my breath. “You didn’t let her push you around, Red. I’m impressed.”
But all I can focus on is what she had told me. That I had sent her a letter postmarked from Atlanta.
Atlanta.
Where Samantha Wolfe lives.
Lucas spins me around to look at him, turning his head to the side so he can examine my expression. “Did she say what she wants?”
“She wanted something from me that I can’t give her.”