Consumed (10 page)

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.

When he comes into the kitchen and finds me eating, Lucas immediately apologizes for Tyler, but I wave it off and force out a laugh. “I mean, I didn’t think you were celibate or anything while we were apart.” 

He slides onto the bar stool beside of me at the center island, the fabric of his jeans brushing up against my bare knee in the process. “He was a dick. It won’t happen on the tour, and if it does, you come to me. I’m not going to let him play games with your head to cause problems. I won’t do that kind of shit just for the sake of record sales and media plugs.”

“Will that actually sell records?” I ask as he takes a drink of my orange juice. “You and I getting into it?”

He coughs on the juice, sits the glass down on the counter, and then takes my chin in his hand. “People always give a bigger fuck about you when your life is in ruins; I thought you knew that all ready, Red.” 

Oh, I do. I learned that first hand after my mother got arrested for drug trafficking when I was high school. I’d gone from just another face in the hall to the most talked about girl on campus. Still, it doesn’t mean that I have to accept how screwed up and vicious some people can be.

Lucas glances down at his watch. “It’s a little after 10, we need to get going.”

I chug the rest of my juice and take my soiled dishes to the dishwasher. “By the way, how’d things go? With your road manager, I mean.” For the first time since he came back into the house, I notice how drawn his expression is. 

“Sinjin had a fucking moment, but Tyler says it’s been worked out.” He slides off the barstool as I come around the counter and places his hand on the small of my back.

Though I’m not too sure what a moment for Sinjin entails, it’s a no-brainer that it’s bad news for Sin and something that could possibly be detrimental to the tour. Though he doesn’t mention Sinjin again while we take care of last minute details around the city, I know that whatever is going on with the drummer is bothering Lucas.  

By the time 4:30 rolls around, and the band has their sound check at the venue in Pomona, even I’m worried like crazy over Sinjin, especially when it becomes clear that Sin likely forgot about the rehearsal this afternoon. Or as Cal puts it, “Just brushed the shit off.” As Lucas and the rest of the band speak to each other backstage in angry, hushed tones, I excuse myself to tour the venue. 

This place is less than a quarter of the size of the Staples Center, which is where Your Toxic Sequel will perform the final show of the tour in September, 45 days from now, but Lucas had told me earlier that playing here was a given. It’s where the band played their first “big” show, so there’s a sentimental pull. Plus, with its intricate design and artsy atmosphere, this place is absolutely gorgeous.

I’m in the lobby looking at posters for upcoming shows when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Expecting to see Lucas, I put on my warmest smile before facing him. 

“Did he show—” The words catch in my throat when I come face to face with Sinjin. Thank god I hadn’t turned and immediately groped his junk. “Sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.” He looks better than he did the last time I saw him. Still skinny, but so much better. Dressed in dark jeans, a black shirt that says
Stranger (With Benefits)
, and a plain black baseball cap, there’s no wild look in his green eyes. No disdain. Only amusement. “Guess they’re waiting for me?”

I hit the home key on my phone and check the time. “You’re 20 minutes late.”

He drags off his baseball cap, revealing a mess of short, jet-black hair, a complete turn from the blonde he sported the last time I saw him. “Not sure what those fucks in there told you, but I’m always late. Can’t manage time to save my life.” 

I wait for him to show any sign of what Lucas had alluded to in the car, but if he’s high, I can’t tell. And I’ve spent more than my fair share of time around screwed up people to be able to read the signs. “So I’m guessing Tyler getting you up at an ungodly hour won’t go over well on the tour.”

“Tell Tyler to eat a dick.”

I’m not surprised to hear him say this. “I’m sure you’ll be telling him yourself.”

“No doubt.” As he heads toward the grand hall’s double doors, he calls out to me, “Lucas wants me to apologize. Thing is, I don’t like sorry. It’s just a word, and it doesn’t mean shit. So, I’ll have to figure out a way to make it up to you.”  He doesn’t look back at me, but I wish he would so I could at least read the expression on his face. “And I can’t sing, so this might take some time.”

“That was a good enough apology,” I say softly but he’s already gone into the grand hall. 

A few minutes later when I hear Cal, the lead guitarist, rip into the beginning of “Handcuffs,” I walk through the double doors, too.

“This is amazing,” Tori shouts out over the buzz of the backstage crowd. She tilts her head to one side, sending her dark waves cascading over the wide strap that holds her little black dress up. “No, this is beyond amazing. It’s insane.”

Earlier this evening when I’d offered to bring her with me to the concert over drinks, she accepted my invitation without hesitation, cancelling her late nightclub plans with a group of her co-workers on the way to Pomona.

“Just a little.” I move out of the way of a sound guy who’s too busy talking on a headset to notice me. “I’m still trying to catch my breath.” I have been ever since late this afternoon when I was reintroduced to each member of the band and to various roadies, including the wardrobe crew, which consisted of one woman. Maggie had come right out and told me that dressing YTS was the easiest and most laid back gig she’s ever had. 

Shooting a nervous look in my direction, Tori nibbles her bottom lip between her teeth, smudging her ruby red lipstick slightly. “You sure he doesn’t care if I’m back here?”

“I swear it’s fine. Now stop, you’re getting lipstick all over your teeth.” I press my back flat against the wall to avoid a couple of giggling women dancing past us. Liquid sloshes out of the bottles held closely to their chests and falls on the concrete floor, leaving behind the scent of whipped cream vodka. Once they disappear around a corner, I motion for Tori to follow me. 

“I’ve got to admit, even my desire to kick Lucas in the balls 95 percent of the time wouldn’t have stopped me from seeing that show.” She catches up to me on her mile high pumps. “And I don’t even like rock,” she adds in a low whisper. 

For someone who doesn’t like rock, she sure as hell knew enough YTS lyrics to scream them out along with everyone else during the concert. 

“Finally.” I point to the only door back here with swarms of barely clothed women, and a few men, hanging around it. “This has to be it.” 

There’s a bodyguard—an enormous mixed guy who makes Lucas, in all of his six-foot-four, muscular glory, seem absolutely normal—guarding the entrance. He’s in the middle of an argument with a woman claiming to be there for Wyatt. She’s red-faced, seething, but the bodyguard doesn’t seem fazed.

“What fucking list are you talking about?” she demands. “This isn’t a nightclub. Just let me in—Violet Dawson.” She says her name slowly, emphasizing it into five syllables.  

I wait for the bodyguard to tell her off, but he seems completely relaxed when he responds. “Only the band and guests are in there right now. Press and Henley in the Morning contest winners get inside in half an hour. You’re not on either list.”

Violet heaves a frustrated sigh. “Look, I hung out with him and Cal after their show here a year and a half ago. He’ll want to see me.”

“The band that plays together—” Another woman standing close by begins, but Violet shoots her a withering look. The bodyguard leans over to tell Violet something discreetly, and Tori motions for me to bend down a little, too.

Once her mouth is close to my ear, she whispers, “Just think, when Mr. Bodyguard over there actually lets you in, all these bitches are going to want to beat the crap out of you.” 

“Thanks for”—I pull Tori out of the way before Violet can doze her over as she flounces off in a blur of highlighted hair and floral perfume—“making me feel better about being alone for the rest of this tour.”

“Just stating the obvious.” She steps in front of another woman and her boyfriend so that we’re first in line to talk to the doorman and jabs her manicured index finger in my direction. “She’s on the list.”

The bodyguard gives me a long once-over, from my black fringe sandals, to my ripped skinny jeans and loose black high-low tank, and finally up to my blue eyes. “Name and ID?” he asks. He lifts an eyebrow at Tori. “If she’s not been cleared with the band, she’s not getting in.”

Lowering my head, I look through my bag for my license and say as quietly as possible, “Sienna Jensen, and check for Victoria Abrams, too. She should be on the list.” Even then it feels like all conversation around me has come to a standstill. As the bodyguard looks at his iPhone for confirmation, the door behind him opens several inches. Sinjin pops his head out, and the squeals around us are deafening.

He winks a green eye at his admirers before addressing the bodyguard. “These two are in, David,” he says. The bodyguard returns his gaze to Tori and me, his lips curled into a suggestive grin. 

I know what he’s thinking. Hell, it’s obvious. 

And I feel my blood begin to boil. 

I’m about to open my mouth and let him know I’m not what he thinks I am—and how sad it would be for him to think badly of me even if I was—but Sin does it for me. “And just so we’re clear, the redhead will be around for the rest of the tour. Lucas’s girl, so it’s a real quick way to wind up jobless.”

As David moves aside for us to go into the lounge, a flush creeps past his neck and up to his face, and he mutters a slew of apologies. Once I’m inside the room, which is nearly filled to capacity with members of the crew and the lead guitarist and drummer of Wicked Lambs, I give him a reassuring smile. He tips his head in embarrassment.

Even before the door is securely closed, the women in the hallway begin whispering. Words like “Lucas” and “bitch” and “lucky” jump out to me. My teeth are clenched when I meet Sinjin’s amused gaze. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

He shrugs, wiping sweat and short strands of black hair off of his forehead with the red and black striped towel draped around his shoulders. “Might as well make it clear now before David looks at you like you’re nothing but a piece of ass in front of Lucas.”

He throws himself down on a plush loveseat, between two women dressed in Your Toxic Sequel tanks that they’ve customized (by strategically ripping them up to show off their boobs and flat stomachs) and not much else. “Besides, none of us wants our guests being treated like shit.”

 “He’s got a point,” Tori whispers from beside of me, and I roll my eyes.

Of course he does, but I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with any of the crew, especially one of the bodyguards. Nodding stiffly at Sinjin, I debate on whether I should look away or keep staring as one of the women—the one with the auburn pixie cut—openly slides her fingertips inside of his jeans. She winks up at me.

Screw it, there’s no way I’m looking away now. 

“I’m sure I’ll be able to handle it on my own from now on, but thanks for the help.” I start to walk off, but I stop, earning a wide grin from Sinjin. “Do you know where Lucas is?”