Home > Consumed (Devoured #2)(14)

Consumed (Devoured #2)(14)
Author: Emily Snow

I take a couple steps back but remain expressionless. I expect her to scream. Or tell me that she’s changed her mind about leaving me alone and that she’ll be around to f**k me over until the day I die. She doesn’t. She just sits there, her gray eyes empty, running her hands over her bruised kneecaps.

“I’m leaving now.”

“Tell Shannon and Dan I said hi,” she hisses. “I’m sure you’re going to see them next and I know how much your parents adore me.”

“Get some help, Samantha, but don’t bother me again.” I make it halfway to the door before she calls out to me, and when I look back at her, I’m already prepared for the deluge—for her to physically come at me.

But she hasn’t moved from her spot on the white leather sofa. “And I’m the bad one.” Her pale lips curve into a grim smile. “I’m the f**ked up, heartless bitch.”

“You haven’t made it any easier,” I growl.

“I didn’t hurt anyone, Lucas,” she says. “I only reminded you of what a goddamn coward you are.” Her words pierce right through me like a knife to the gut, but I keep my shit together. I’ve got no other choice if I’m going to get out of this apartment.

When I don’t speak, she continues, “Nobody will ever love you for who you really are . . . because of what you’ve done.”

I force the corner of my lip up. “Fair enough.”

She slides back until her shoulder blades hit the cushions. She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t have a reason to. Sam knows exactly what she needs to say—what she needs to do—to cut me to pieces and remind me of what I am. “Good luck on your f**king tour, Lucas.”

“Bye, Sam.”

She doesn’t say goodbye, but I don’t expect that either.

Chapter 6


For the next few days, I completely throw myself into my job. Since I moved from Los Angeles back to Nashville at the end of April, I’ve been able to start a name for myself. Keeping that reputation is important to me. I don’t want to go back to being a wardrobe assistant—my time working for Tomas, my former boss, on the set of Echo Falls had been invaluable and a living hell all at once.

By Tuesday night, not only have Lucas and I verbally agreed on two dates when I’ll return home from the tour based on my work assignments, I’ve personally spoken with all my clients to let them know my plans.

I spend the majority of Wednesday with my friend Ashley, who helps me get ready for my flight to Los Angeles the next morning. Ash is a diehard Your Toxic Sequel fan—her off-and-on boyfriend (they’re currently on) plays in a YTS cover group, and she’s seen the actual band in concert a few times. The entire time we pack my bags, she gushes over their live shows and even takes a fifteen-minute break to make a playlist for me on Spotify.

“Their best songs. Ever,” she tells me, her eyebrows nearly touching as she kneels in front of my tidy corner desk, concentrating on her list.

I fold a black tank and place it on a pair of gray jeans that’s already inside of the new Samsonite bag that I bought especially for the tour. I figured I needed something a little more heavy-duty than my old luggage that’s, literally, coming apart at the seams. “Why do I feel like this thing will have all their songs?”

“Not quite all of them.”

When it’s time for her to leave, I shouldn’t be surprised when she reaches into her purse and hands me a typed list titled Ashley’s YTS Bucket List, but I am. Her name has been marked through with a series of X’s and above it, she’s written my name—correction, Sienna-Fucking-Jensen—in her loopy handwriting in a metallic pink Sharpie.

As I scan over the list, I slide down on the porch swing. “Body-shots with Cal backstage. Get Sinjin’s sticks signed. Stroke Wyatt’s Kramer.” Cocking an eyebrow, I glance up at her.

She’s already walked down the porch steps, and she’s standing in the yard with her back turned to me, digging around in her purple Coach bag for her car keys. Since we reconnected several months ago, I’ve learned enough about Ashley to know she’s waiting for more of a reaction from me before she responds.

“I’m assuming that’s a guitar and not a nickname for his cock,” I say dryly.

Sure enough, she spins to look at me with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Right.” She puts her hands on her hips, covering Jared Leto’s face on her Thirty Seconds to Mars T-shirt. “But, I wouldn’t mind stroking his—”

“So, I’m guessing you didn’t give this to me for shits and giggles?”

She shakes her head, her turquoise and pink-colored hair swinging around her face. “Um, no.” She jogs up the steps, crosses the porch, and sits down on the swing beside of me. “I want you to do these for me. Take pics and everything so I can live vicariously through you.”

“Why don’t you be vicarious and come to the show here in September?”

Giving me a long stare, Ashley releases an exasperated noise. “Trust me, I’ll be there, I’ve had my tickets for months. But, think of how much fun you’ll have getting to know the band by doing this.” She gestures dramatically to the paper I’m clutching, reminding me of a cheesy talk show host. “This is a hell of an icebreaker.”

It’s not like she’s begging me to sneak her backstage or onto the bus. And besides, what she’s suggesting really would be a good icebreaker—well, everything except for the body.

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