Home > Consumed (Devoured #2)(11)

Consumed (Devoured #2)(11)
Author: Emily Snow

“I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“You know it. Look, Sienna, think about the tour long and hard, okay?” She pauses. “Ugh, I just heard you snort, you dirty bitch.”

“I did no such thing.”

This time, she snorts. “Whatever. But, back to what I was saying—I swear the bus isn’t just about tits and ass.” Before I have a chance to call her bullshit, she amends her statement, “I swear my brother’s part of the bus won’t be about tits and ass. Better?”

“You have no filter, do you?”

She laughs. “Filters are for pussies.”

“Good night, Kylie. And, seriously, take care of yourself.”

She promises to call me in the next few days, after she returns from her weekend getaway, and then hangs up. I remain on the swing for a few more minutes before I wander into the house, where the aroma of chicken teriyaki immediately greets me. My grandmother is already in the dining room, so I slide down into the seat across from her.

“His sister called to talk you into going on tour with that band?” she asks.

I blow a few strand of hair out of my eyes. “She’s not even going.” Gram’s brow knits together over her bright blue eyes in confusion, and I add, “She married the bass guitarist a few months ago and doesn’t want to be on the road anymore.”

She chews an oversized bite of chicken and broccoli slowly, carefully considering what to say next. “So, now that you know she won’t be going, what do you think you’ll do?”

“I’m going.” Even if it does scare the hell out of me. If Kylie is willing to give Wyatt McCrae another chance, I can deal with being on tour with Lucas. “At least I’ll go for a couple of weeks.”

I ignore that little voice in the back of my head warning me that a couple weeks may be all it takes for Lucas to tell me to f**k off again. I ignore it because if I listen, I’ll never be happy.

Gram wipes the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “It’ll be good for your career. Good for you, too.”

I give her a little smile before I pop a forkful of stir-fry into my mouth. “Let’s hope so.”

Later, after Gram has gone to bed for the night, and I’m lying in bed worrying over the wardrobe job I’m scheduled to do in less than ten hours, I call Lucas to tell him that I’ve made up my mind. His phone goes to voicemail after a few rings, so I end the call, lying my phone face down on the bed next to me. It’s 1:19 in the morning here, which means its 11:19 in Los Angeles. There’s a chance (and it’s a really small one) that he’s already sleeping or that he hasn’t made it home yet from his flight. I consider sending a text but then I decide against it—this is something I need to say to him. I want to hear his voice, his reaction.

I redial his number to leave a voicemail.

This time, he picks up on the second ring. At first all I hear is the deafening sound of rock music in the background, but then his voice comes on the line, a sexy growl over the music in the background. “Couldn’t stay away?” he asks, and I laugh past the lump forming in my throat.

God, how am I going to survive being on tour with him when I turn into an emotional mess just by talking to him?

“Is this a bad time?” I ask.

There’s a scratching sound on the other end, but after a few seconds it’s gone, and the sound of the music has just about disappeared. “Sorry, couldn’t hear for shit in there. You made up your mind?”

“Yes, I—” I start, but then I hear a husky female voice say something to him. The scratching noise comes back—which I easily recognize as him covering his phone’s receiver—and then he comes back on the line. “Do you need me to call you back?”

“Why the f**k would I want that? I need as much of you as I can get.”

“You sound busy,” I say, each word clipped.

“Ah Red, don’t tell me you’re already letting your imagination run wild. Promise there’s no woman tied to my bed right now.” I make a noise—one that I’m not entirely certain is relief or surprise—and he lowers his voice. “I’m at Wicked Lambs’ release party.”

Sitting up, I bring my knees to my chest. If there’s one woman out there who loathes me as much as Lucas’s ex, it’s Cilla Craig, the lead singer of Wicked Lambs. She’s known Lucas for years and made it clear to me last winter that she’s in love with him. Lucas had made it just as clear that Cilla’s just the woman he grew up with—that she would never be me. Still, I’m only human, and hearing that she’s around manages to bother me.

“You there?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m here.” Even though the late July heat makes my upstairs bedroom an inferno, I drag my old, hibiscus-print comforter up and over my knees, tucking it under my chin. It’s comforting—the same thing I would do as a child after my mother freaked out on me. I squeeze my eyes shut. “I called to tell you yes.”

It sounds like he drags a breath in through his teeth before he says, “You’re f**king sure you want to come with me?”

Of course I’m not. I’m scared to death of things not working out. “Very.”

“I—” He starts but then the scratching noise returns. “Wyatt and Cilla want you to know they’re happy you came to your senses.” He covers the phone once more, and I purse my lips. “Fuck, they’re killing me here. They said they’ll see you in a week.”

My lips part to answer him, but then I pause and mouth what he just said several times. “What do you mean they’ll see me?”

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