Consumed (13 page)

“Then I guess I better sing my fucking ass off, huh?” I ask, and Teresa snorts.

“Lucas Wolfe doesn’t disappoint. Ever.”

We hold up the elevator for another minute, and by the time we get off, I’ve taken a photo with both women. David gives me a funny look when we finally head left to room 708—Tyler’s room. 

Everyone but Sinjin is already here, and after Cilla shows up shortly thereafter, smelling like booze with bloodshot eyes, Tyler’s important meeting takes about 15 minutes. Sin’s birthday is in a week, and Tyler wants to make sure we’ll stop by the surprise party after the St. Louis show, which is the night after one of our days off. It’s something that could’ve been done by text or email, and when I let Tyler know as I start to leave, he gives me a cool smile. 

“I take it you won’t be coming to Sin’s party?”

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 naïve 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 pussy—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.

She sees me as a threat. I just want her to leave Lucas alone. 

I don’t realize that I’m no longer by myself until I hear a male clearing his throat slowly. I open my eyes, expecting to find Sinjin or even Lucas, but Wyatt’s tanned face is grinning down at me.

Seeing that he has my attention, he leans his tall, lean body back against the counter in the tiny kitchen behind him. “You all right?”

I rake my hand through my hair and lift my shoulders. “Decent. You over here to see Sinjin?”

“What can I say? I was good with one bus, but Lucas likes his space. Sin around?”

I jab my index finger to the other end of the bus. “He’s on a call right now.”

“Ah, I see.” Instead of taking Sin’s unavailability as his cue to leave, Wyatt pulls a packet of cigarettes from his back pocket. He shakes one free but then pauses and gives me a questioning look. “You—”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t mind.” His shoulders sag in relief, and as he cups his hand over the cigarette and his New Orleans Saints lighter, my thoughts go to Kylie. “I’m guessing you can’t wait until the New Orleans show.”

He shakes his head briskly and mumbles an “Mmm hmm.”

“Do you think she’ll come around and change her mind?” After tonight’s show, there will be a little less than 40 days left in the tour, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how ecstatic I would be if Kylie was around. 

Wyatt blows out a long breath and rolls his midnight blue eyes up toward the recessed lighting in the roof of the bus. “I sure as fuck hope so. It’s . . . hard.” He offers me a strained smile that I try to return. All I can think of is the little bit of Kylie and Wyatt’s history that I know about. 

“Right.”

Bending forward, he crushes the remains of his cigarette in Sinjin’s ashtray and shoots me a sheepish look. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“And I swear it’s not about the assistant at that recording studio back in February,” I say sweetly. He grabs his chest as if he’s wounded, and I narrow my eyes.

“I didn’t fuck her.” Releasing his chest, he rubs the palm of his hand over the top of his forehead, messing his short dirty blonde hair with his tattooed fingers. “What I let her do wasn’t right, especially since it was fueled by me being pissed at Ky for not coming to Nashville, but I didn’t fuck her.”

“You don’t have to explain to me.”

“’Course I do.”

A few feet away from us, Sinjin groans loudly about how sentimental stuff turns his stomach, and Wyatt and I both turn toward him. He’s shed a layer of clothes—now he’s only wearing plaid boxers—and I twist my lips to the side to hold back any type of reaction. Though he’s looking at Wyatt, his words are aimed at me. “Fuck you, Sienna, it’s not even what you think it is.”

I slide my butt across the leather dinette seat and stand. “I wasn’t going to say a damn word.”

Sinjin laughs—one of those rare, genuine ones that seem strange coming from him—as I maneuver past Wyatt and stumble off the bus. Early August sunlight beams against my face, hot and blinding. I consider going back in to find my sunglasses, but then I decide against it. For starters, I don’t want to interrupt their conversation. And secondly, I don’t necessarily want to hear whatever that conversation may be.

Easing down on the bottom bus step, I pull my phone out of my pocket and call Gram. I haven’t spoken to her since Wednesday, and even though I’ll be seeing her at the end of next week when I fly back home for a job I have lined up, I’ve missed her.

When I don’t reach her at home, I try her cell number. She picks up after a few rings, and I can hear the pleasure in her voice. It’s impossible for me not to smile, too. “We were just talking about you this morning! Are you having a good time?”

Since I assume “we” refers to her and my brother, I say, “It’s really different.”

“Not the bad type of different?”

“No, no, it’s good,” I reassure her. “Of course, by the time I get used to it all, the tour will be over.”

“Have you been working much?”

Holding my phone between my ear and the crook of my neck, I rub my palms down the front of my shorts. So far, working as Lucas’s wardrobe consultant has consisted of very little consulting and limited wardrobe. Literally. No doubt Gram’s already aware of that. “Not as much as I would at home.” Because that’s a safe answer, right?

“Well, I can’t wait to have you back here.”