Authors: Emily Snow
Even if the person that I’m fighting is Lucas.
Shutting off the engine, I pull the keys out of the ignition and stare out at the cabin, which really isn’t a cabin at all but what can only be described as a log mansion. For the last few years, I’ve told Gram that it’s way too much house for her and she needs to downsize. Now . . . I feel like shit for even joking with her like that.
“You make yourself at home, sweetheart. I’m going to go on upstairs and lie down. I’ve not feeling like myself lately,” Gram says once we’re enclosed in the warmth of the house. She’s hanging her coat on the rack in the foyer, so she doesn’t see the way I pull at the high collar of my blouse—my grandmother keeps the house stifling hot.
“Room still the same?” I ask, and as soon as the words leave my mouth, I kick myself. What an awkward, horrible thing for me to say.
She makes an unnatural noise that’s supposed to be a chuckle, but it makes me cringe. “For the next couple weeks.”
“You get some rest. I’ll be fine, okay?” But if I’m so fine, why does it feel like someone’s stomping up and down on my chest right now?
While I help myself to a frozen meal in the kitchen—my grandmother is obsessed with the convenience—I call Seth. Of course he doesn’t answer, so I have to leave him a message. “Hey Seth, it’s me, Sienna. I left my bags in your truck. Can you bring them by ASAP?” And because I know he’ll complain at the inconvenience of having to drive across town, I add, “I’ll give you twenty bucks for gas money.” I re-record the message two more times until I’m satisfied with how it sounds, and then I call Tori. The first ring is not even halfway through when she answers. Immediately, she starts talking rapidly.
“Oh my God, Sienna where’ve you been? Don’t you check your texts, woman? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for the last hour! You don’t just send a message like that and completely disappear.” She pauses for a moment and takes a deep breath. I can actually picture her right now, fiddling with one of the random whatnots she keeps on her desk because she’s so worked up. If stress balls didn’t exist, Tori would self-implode because it’s absolutely necessary for her hands to stay busy. A nasally female voice says something to her, and Tori hisses back that she’ll do it when Jenna, her boss, confirms the instructions.
“Please, please, please, tell me you’re kidding me about Lucas Wolfe. Please tell me that this is a let’s-screw-with-Tori-moment,” Tori finally says in a low, breathless whisper.
“Nope. Not joking. Definitely him. And sorry for not calling you back sooner, I was . . . occupied.”
She groans, and I hear a door slam then the clacking of her high heels. When she begins to speak again, there’s an echo, like she’s in a stairwell. “Sorry, had to get away from the donkey witch in the next cubicle. So . . . does he remember you? I mean, it was two years ago and you didn’t actually fu—”
“He remembers,” I snap.
She makes a noise that’s a hybrid of a groan and a squeal, like she’s both disgusted by the prospect and excited. “Well, what did he say? What did he
do
? Holy shit, why is he in Nashville of all places? No offense, babe, but it’s not exactly L.A.”
I’m still wondering the exact same thing. I give her the explanation he gave me: “He’s here to make music. Apparently, my grandma’s house is the right place for him to hole up in while he does it.”
She’s silent for such a long time that I have to pull the phone from my ear to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. It hasn’t. The moment of Tori inserting dramatic silence gives me time to load my chicken pot pie and a Coke on a breakfast tray. I start upstairs, toward the bedroom I slept in as a kid, before Tori says at last, “And that’s it?”
I pause at the top of the steps, supporting my weight against the bannister. There’s a major part of me just dying to confide in her about how Lucas had made me feel in that café, but the other part warns me not to touch that subject at all. Hadn’t Tori been the person I bawled to after the disastrous night with Lucas. Not to mention when I found out Your Toxic Sequel never wanted me on the set of any of their music videos again and thought my career was ruined.
If I told her I still felt the slightest bit of attraction towards Lucas she’d be in Nashville on the first available flight to slap some sense into me.
“Well, I did tell him to go fuck himself,” I say. It’s somewhat true, even if it had been uttered after Lucas had deliberately frustrated me.
She claps her hands slowly. “Bad ass, Jensen. See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Ugh, she has no idea.
“Look, I better run, but I’m proud of you, Si, for not letting Lucas run all over you and telling him off. I’ll text or call you tonight.”
But I feel like crap when I hang up the phone and walk into my bedroom, closing the door quietly behind so I won’t wake Gram. With my appetite suddenly a thing of the past, I leave the tray sitting on my dresser.
It’s comforting to see that Gram’s left my room the same as it was in high school and college. The same furnishings, same pink and orange hibiscus bed spreads and Have-A-Day posters.
I curl up in the fetal position on my old bed, burying my face in pillows that smell like fabric softener, and listen to the bitter sound of nothingness in a house that I’ll miss as much as my grandmother. Silent prayers roll through my mind for the next couple weeks to be easy. And more than anything, I hope today is my very last encounter with Lucas Wolfe because I never want to feel that dull ache in my chest again.
My hope of avoiding Lucas Wolfe is nothing more than wishful thinking.
Not only is he dominating the majority of my thoughts, but he’s suddenly everywhere I turn—like my iPod, on a random playlist that plays by some freak accident; on Fuse TV where they’ve dedicated a whole day to Your Toxic Sequel’s best videos; on my favorite local radio station giving an interview, his voice low and intimate, like sex over the airwaves.
And the next day—a little less than one day after our run-in at Alice’s Café—Lucas is at Gram’s house, too. I don’t realize he’s come by until I hear the sound of him talking with other people outside. There’s a luxury SUV—Cadillac—parked in the driveway, and a white truck behind it with some type of logo written on the side.
At first I have no intention of letting him know I’m here—my grandmother is out running errands, and he, along with whoever is with him, haven’t tried to gain access to the inside of the house. I follow the muffled sounds of their voices until I’m able to hear bits and pieces of what they’re saying. And this is when I totally freak out.
“Demolish this section of . . .”
“. . . completely do away with for the recording studio.”
“. . . better off just knocking down the whole damn house and starting over with what you want.”
For the better part of a minute, I’m breathing heavily at the thought of my childhood home being ripped apart for the sake of a recording studio. Even though I’m dressed in a too-small set of PJs I found stuffed in a bottom drawer in my room—Seth still hasn’t brought my luggage or called me back for that matter—and despite the fact I have pea green spot corrector dotted on various areas of my face, I shove my bare feet into a pair of my brother’s oversized boots that I find in the foyer. Outside, I let the voices guide me. Lucas is at the back of the house along with his entourage—no other rock stars or a bodyguard like he’d have in L.A., but two men in contractor shirts and a tall woman with dark eyes and black and blue hair. She’s rapidly taking notes of everything being said on a tablet.
It’s his assistant, Kylie.
I remember her well, and she must know who I am because when our eyes meet, she mouths a silent “Oh” just before breaking into a huge grin. I dart my eyes away from her before she succeeds in making me feel even more awkward. It won’t take much for me to lose my nerve right now, and if it happens, I’d prefer to dig my foot halfway into Lucas’s ass first.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Wolfe?” I demand before he can completely spin around to face me. For a moment, he looks as shocked as Kylie to see me. His momentary silence gives me a chance to appreciate how good he looks in light blue wash jeans and a dark blue burnout t-shirt, how his eyes seem more green than brown today, how his muscles are so completely obvious even under the loose shirt.
I stop ogling a couple seconds after he regains his composure, granting me that smile that’s likely dropped panties across the country. “You’re still here,” he says. His voice is a mixture of two things—surprise and relief—and I’m not sure I like either one.
“Why would I leave?”
“Hmm, let’s see. Maybe because the judge said this place is—”
“It’s not yet. So, like I said, what do you think you’re doing out here?” I ask, squinting up at him. I squeeze the bridge of my nose as hard as possible without doing myself harm.
Lucas opens his mouth as if he wants to say something but one of the contractors interrupts him.
“Mr. Wolfe, we have a limited amount of time because of other appointments this afternoon. . .” the contractor begins, but Lucas shoots him a dark look. Holy hell, even grown, 250 pound men lose their confidence around this guy.
Lucas nods to Kylie. “Finish up with these guys. I have . . . shit to take care of.”
Kylie types a few additional notes into her tablet and then ushers the two men off, talking up plans of renovations and additions and completely gutting Gram’s house. She gives me an apologetic smile as she passes me, probably because she knows her boss and I are about to get into it, and the odds are out of my favor. How the hell can someone so pleasant work for someone so . . .
Lucas
?
What a stupid question to ask yourself, Jensen
, I think.
He’s gorgeous and talented, and you came all over his bed without even getting down to the
actual
deed.
Those type of thoughts—yeah, they’re the ones that get me flustered and in trouble. “So I’m shit?” I blurt out.
“You know exactly what I meant.”
“You know you have some jumbo balls coming out here today. God, don’t you have a soul? I don’t care if you’re the legal owner now or not—if my grandmother had heard you talking about tearing down walls and demolishing she would have been devastated.” When he crosses his arms over his chest, I repeat the gesture, trying to ignore the dizzying feeling that he’s slowly undressing me with his hazel eyes.
It’s the same way he looked when we first met a couple years ago, on the set of one of his band’s music videos. To this day, “All Over You” is my favorite Your Toxic Sequel song. Every time I listen to it, hear Lucas rasping taboo promises, I think of how his eyes drunk me in on that video shoot.
“You’re cherry red. And your nipples are hard,” he says. My already crossed arms automatically hug myself tighter. He chuckles then whispers, “Hearing about the stripper pole in the living room turned you on, huh?”
I gasp, because for some messed-up reason, I can’t help picturing svelte women in G-strings grinding their asses against my grandmother’s furniture. It’s a ridiculous thought—even if he did install a pole, it’s not like Gram’s belongings would still be there. I’m still furious. “Are you fucking with me?”
Before I realize what’s happening, he moves forward, pulling my arms away from their protective position over my body and pressing me up against the wooden door behind me. His scent—a mixture of clean linen and sweat—fill my nostrils, makes all of my senses blur. He’s close. So close I can feel the fabric of his jeans scratching my bare legs and his lips brushing my right temple. My breath is ragged and to my surprise, so is his.
“Do you really think I’m that classless to put a pole in my living room?” When he tilts my face up and I glare darkly at him, he grins. “On second thought, don’t answer that.”
“Why couldn’t this have waited until after all this was over? Lucas, my grandmother is almost eighty. If something had happened to her, if you had gotten her upset . . .” I inhale deeply, until my lungs are about to explode, and then exhale. Hesitantly, he lifts his hand up and runs it along my cheek. A shudder that’s both agonizing and warm all at once ripples through my body. I squeeze my eyes together. Start a slow, mental count to ten.
My head is spinning so violently that I only make it to six.
“If something happens to my grandmother because of you, I will kill you,” I say. There’s a roughness to my voice that surprises me. When I open my eyes, I can tell he’s shocked too.
“Funny, I would’ve taken you for the passive type, but then again”—he leans backward, letting me go and crosses his arms over his chest—“there was that little incident you’re still so pissed off about. Guess you’re not very passive, huh?”
“You asked me to let you handcuff me to your bed. And sorry, Wolfe, but I’m not some fucking toy you can do with whatever you please.”
Snorting, he wrinkles his nose. By the way he’s skeptically looking at me, I know he’s about to say something mocking. “Um, don’t think that’s exactly what I said. I told you I was
going
to handcuff you to my bed, and you refused. Actually, I’m pretty sure you would’ve started screaming if I hadn’t asked you to leave.”
“Get the fuck out.”
His eyes narrow. “This is my house, Sienna. And technically, I’m not in.”
“No.” I shake my head so fiercely that my high ponytail shakes loose. He lifts a strand of my red hair, sifting it through his fingers, his eyes never leaving mine. It’s an intimate gesture, and I feel that frustrating need in the pit of my belly. Silently, I curse my body for wanting him so much in spite of everything. “You didn’t ask me to leave, you told me to get the fuck out,” I whisper.
“Well, I’m sure I wasn’t that—”
My voice is five times as strong as before when I say, “You were.”
“You know, I misjudged you.”
I’m getting sick of Lucas’s riddles, and we’ve spent a total of half an hour in one another’s company. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“The entire time we were shooting “All Over You”, you were very obedient and . . . ah, shit, let’s put it this way, Sienna—I didn’t expect you to say no to the handcuffs. I expected to have a long, healthy relationship with you, actually”