Authors: Emily Snow
It’s not Micah’s fault Lucas dismissed me.
Pointing a purple-painted finger at Tori, I say, “Don’t be a bitch. I can fight my own battles but that”—I nod my head toward the iPod dock on our entertainment center—“is definitely not one of them.”
Tori’s mouth drops open and she stares at me. I can hear the sound of her hands intertwining nervously with each other. I bet money she’s wishing for a stress ball. “You’re kind of a ball-buster,” she says at last, a hesitant smile replacing her frown. “I don’t know whether to kiss you or head butt you.”
Then I grab her hand, pull her back to the middle of the floor as fast as her needle heels will carry her. And as we mingle with friends, and I hear Lucas’s voice making naughty, sexy promises, I decide I’m alright.
After that, I go on easily. More attentive than I’ve ever been. More alert to detail in my job. This makes Tomas giddy enough to overlook the fact I shut him down—kindly, of course—every time he tries to run all over me.
Tori stops worrying.
Two months after coming back to California, I come home from work to find a letter from Kylie. I almost slide it at the bottom of the stack of mail I plan to tackle this weekend, but then I sigh. She’s sent it in a pretty linen envelope and I take care when opening it, so as not to tear through the bold, cursive red ink. When I pull the neatly folded square sheet of paper out, something else comes with it, floating down to the floor and landing right side up.
It’s a check for $6,800, and it’s made out to me.
Kylie’s written a memo at the bottom left hand corner: 24 hours/day X 8 days @ $25 an hour. Thanks.
“What’s that?” Tori asks, coming out of her bedroom and around the corner.
Staring down at the check, I rub my fingers back and forth over the thin paper. “Kylie Wolfe’s sent me money for working for Lucas.” Then, I read portions of the actual note aloud. “For your trouble.” I skip over the part that says God . . . Sienna, please contact me. Send me a message on Facebook or call me or something. And don’t be prideful and not cash the check. You earned it.
Tori walks over to the counter and shimmies herself up on top of it. Hugging her knees, she says, “And she thinks that’s supposed to be enough for her brother screwing you over? Dude, you should send that shit back and tell her no thanks.”
“I’m cashing it.” Not because I’m money hungry or anything like that but because this money is enough to get me somewhere I need to go.
Tori rolls her dark eyes but says nothing. A few hours later, after I’ve eaten dinner and completed an ass-kicking exercise video with Tori—I’m starting to see crazy definition in my abs—I sneak away to my room. It takes me all of 30 seconds to reactivate all my social media accounts, and while I’m doing this, I dial Kylie’s number.
“And here I was thinking you forgot about me,” she says, the grin in her voice too impossible to hide.
“We’re running away together, remember? And you’re knocking me up with your blue-haired love child.”
†
The next morning, to Tomas’s shock and irritation, I turn in my notice for Echo Falls. He actually places his iPad down on his desk. He glares down at the formal letter I typed up last night after getting off the phone with Kylie. Listening to her enthusiasm about music and the scene in New Orleans where she’s currently living had pretty much solidified my decision to say goodbye to doing wardrobe for the TV show and to California itself.
I could do what I loved anywhere. And the anywhere I wanted to be was Tennessee, more specifically, Nashvegas.
“You’re only giving me two weeks,” Tomas says hotly, his voice bringing me back to the present, and I nod my head slowly.
“That’s usual how it works,” I reply.
“We’re getting into the most complex goddamn part of the whole storyline, the most costume changes, and you’re only giving me two weeks.”
“There are costume and wardrobe people willing to give their babies up to work on this show. Trust me, you’ll find someone else.”
I hear him tell me to not return tomorrow, hear him claim that as soon as someone contacts him regarding a reference for me, he’ll tell them what a selfish cunt I am. How I was incompetent when doing my job. I leave him talking without so much as a backwards glance but I hear everything.
That evening, when I take Tori out to dinner and tell her my plans to move, she cries dramatically. “I’m not mad,” she sniffles. “I just—who’s going to watch me drink peppermint schnapps on Fridays and warn me about sleeping with randoms.”
I laugh so hard I choke on the Coke that I’m drinking. “Stacy’s looking for a place to stay,” I point out, referring to one of our friends she often goes clubbing with. As if she has a cut-off valve, Tori stops crying and frowns.
“Ugh, not a good idea. Stacy has new randoms every other night. Maybe I’ll just get a puppy. Or, you know, a boyfriend, like Micah because he’s got an enormous dick. But probably a puppy,” she says, smiling.
I would’ve still moved whether Tori liked it or not, but knowing I have her blessing makes things so much easier.
†
I try several times to give Tori some of the money Kylie sent me but she refuses it. “No, that money covers a lot of blood, sweat, and tears.” When I waggle an eyebrow at her, she rolls her eyes and begrudgingly says, “Okay, a lot of sweat and tears, but you earned it.”
On the day I leave our apartment and California, I’m certain I’ll have full body bruises the next day because Tori can’t get enough of hugging me goodbye. “I’m going to miss you so much,” she mumbles into my chest during the seventh or eighth embrace. I take this opportunity to slip three grand—my share of the bills for two months—into her back pocket.
She pulls away from me and drags the money out of her pocket. Pursing her lips, she puts her hands on her hips and tries to shove it back in my direction. I shake my head. “You agreed to it two nights ago,” I inform her. When she cocks her eyebrow, looking at me like I’m telling her the biggest lie ever thought of, I nod. “When we went out to dinner with Micah and you were giving him the eyes. I said—and I quote—I’m paying two months of bills when I leave and you said yes.”
“You sneaky fucking bitch,” she says, laughing and drying tears.
I realize I’m doing the same thing.
“Listening’s a virtue, dear friend. Google it.”
My life in Nashville is better than anything I could’ve ever imagined. I live with Gram. I connect with friends I’ve not spoken to since my mother’s arrest. I meet new guys and have the occasional one night stand. None of them are nothing like
him
, but I’m glad.
There are no physical or emotional binds with the guys I fuck once or twice.
And then I start getting clients. Personal shopper. Wardrobe consultant for music videos—country music but I’ll take it because I absolutely adore my work. And every time someone hires me, I’m told Kylie Wolfe referred them.
I’ve got to give it to her, she’s good for business.
I speak to Tori every day, and I make it a point to contact Kylie at least once a week, either by phone or instant message. She asks me a million questions about work, Gram, and even Seth. I ask her about the guy she’s been seeing—someone she met at an award show after party and why she picked her new hair color. It’s fire engine red and white blonde now and I absolutely loathe it.
She laughs when I tell her outright she looks like a Spice Girl.
Not once does she mention Lucas and I don’t ask.
But then, in the middle of July on a sticky night where Gram has gone to play Bingo, Kylie texts me at five minutes ‘til nine, telling me to turn on my TV. Gives me the exact channel.
It’s a music video station.
There’s a banner running across the bottom, advertising Lucas Wolfe’s solo video premiere. My phone vibrates in my hand. I look down at it to find another text from Kylie.
Just . . . watch the damn video. Pretty please for me.
This is one of those moments where I seriously consider changing my phone number again, but I roll my eyes and slide down in my grandmother’s recliner. I place my cell phone on the coffee table. The video begins at exactly 9pm, and it’s different from any Your Toxic Sequel video—almost poetic. Lucas is sitting on a stool, blindfolded. Instead of lip synching along to the music, he’s holding up giant flash cards.
It takes me a few moments to realize the song, a moody, sexy ballad called “10 Days” uses the background music Lucas and I wrote together on the night he bent me over the piano. It takes me an additional couple seconds—because the sudden wetness in my thin cotton panties is a distraction—to comprehend that the words on the cards aren’t words at all, but numbers that count down from 10 to 1.
And then, I finally understand that the cards he’s holding up every two or three lines indicate a message within the song meant exclusively for me.
It’s an outrageous, Lucas-eque way of getting in touch with me. Keeping absolutely silent, I listen to the rest of the song, mentally repeating each line that contains a piece of the puzzle. And as the music pulses in my ears, I feel a thousand silk ribbons wrap around my heart and squeeze.
8. But you’re probably saying
7. fuck me right now because I
6. screwed you when you wanted to
5. trust me. You’ve still got two
4. days left, so I’m giving you
3. the honest truth, saying sorry, making it right.
2. Just . . .
The pit of my stomach aches with the familiar pang of longing and fear as I wait for him to hold up the final card, the missing piece of the message. That old, weak part of me tells me that I should turn off this video now; that I should I should forget Lucas because all he’ll cause me is more hurt.
I tell that part of me to shut the fuck up.
I’m breathless when the music ends and then Lucas pulls down the blindfold and holds up the last flashcard to nothing but silence. Then, my front door is shaking. Someone drums hard on the wood, the tempo as fast as my heartbeat. Suddenly, I’ve got this vivid image of the day in court months ago—how Lucas had drummed his long fingers on the table in front of him.
Lucas pulls me into his arms the moment I open the door, closing his arms around me. I bury my face into his shoulder as he says finishes the song. “Say that what happened isn’t it for us.”
I don’t care about Sam or the skeletons in his closet because it’s all shit that can be overcome. I only know that he’s here. Holding me. Touching me. Devouring me.
The red ribbons constricting my heart slowly unravel, fall to the ground. Free me.
“It’s not . . . Sir.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A native of Southwest Virginia, I'm the 26-year-old author of the newly released DEVOURED series (2012) and CONFESSIONS OF A FRAT GIRL(2013). I love books, sexy bad boys, and really loud rock music, so naturally, I write stories about all three.
Find me on the Internet at
emilysnowbooks.blogspot.com