《Devoured (Devoured #1)》


 Page 1

    "Your baby brother called. Three times."


    My gaze snaps up from the mail I''m holding in my hands to meet Tori''s dark eyes. She''s ten feet away me, sitting behind the Formica countertops in the kitchen. My cool, confident roommate - who I met four years ago when she rescued me from a wasted frat boy - fidgets anxiously with the rim of a supersized shot glass that boasts some raunchy slogan. She knows my brother well enough to realize something is going on. It must be important because Seth wouldn''t stop avoiding me for anything else. He''s owed me two grand since July, six months ago, and the last time I actually spoke to him was Labor Day.Advertisement


    Even when Seth had backed out of visiting me for Christmas break, he''d done so via email.


    God . . . this can''t be good.


    "Did he say what he wants?" I croak. I press my body up against the steel door behind me, the long row of deadbolts poking into my back. Crisp envelopes crumble between my fingertips, but I''m powerless to stop myself from obliterating the stack of bills and postcards from Tori''s parents. I''m too worried about why Seth has called me.


    Three times.


    Tori shrugs her bare, shimmery shoulders, squints down at the splash of clear liquid in her glass, and then downs the shot in one swift flick of her wrist. There''s no bottle in sight, but I know she''s drinking peppermint schnapps. Her telltale bottle of a chaser (chocolate syrup) sits next to her phone. Plus, schnapps is her usual Friday night pre-gamer. Sometimes - when my boss has an off week that inevitably rubs off on me - I let Tori talk me into drinking a little. I''m in no mood to even consider touching the stuff right now, though.


    There''s already a migraine building in that frustrating spot between my eyes.


    "He just said call him . . ." she says.But as her voice trails off, I know she''s thinking the same thing I am.


    What the hell has my mom done this time?


    Because last time I received a frantic call from Seth, a year and a half ago, Mom had made a suicide attempt which she later told me she fabricated for attention. I ball my hands into fist, vividly recalling how she laughed at me for being naive and stupid enough to come running.


    "Always so quick to please," she''d said in her thick accent. Then she took a long drag of a cigarette that she probably had to do unmentionable things for.


    Forcing thoughts of my mother out of my mind for the time being, I give Tori a fake smile. "You going out tonight?"


    The answer is obvious. It is Friday night, and even though only her upper body is visible, I can tell she''s dressed to kill. Immaculate hair and make-up, check. Strapless red dress that''s probably no longer than my top, check. Her mile high, "screw-me" shoes, double check.


    "Vanguard with Ben, Stacy, and Micah." Her jet black, perfectly arched eyebrows knit together as she parts her lips to say something else. I shake my head stubbornly, and she snaps her mouth shut. We both know that her inviting me is pointless. Tonight, no amount of sweet-talking will convince me to leave the apartment. There''s a good chance that whatever Seth is about to tell me will ruin my night and the rest of my year, too.


    I swallow hard, over and over again, in my best attempt to get rid of the burn in the back of my mouth.


    "That''s it," Tori snaps. She reaches across the counter to grab her phone. "I''m calling to cance - " But I lunge forward and pluck the cellphone out of her hand. I drop the balled-up - and now practically fused together - pile of mail beside her empty glass.


    "Please, just . . . don''t. You look way too hot to spend your night with me. I-I swear I''ll be fine." She doesn''t seem convinced because she purses her full lips into a thin, scarlet line. I slide her phone into her hands and curl her fingers around it. I move my face into an even brighter smile and tell her in the most chipper voice I can muster to have a good time.


    She''s talking, protesting me, but I can barely hear her exact words. I''m already walking down the narrow hallway to my bedroom, my own phone clutched in a death grip.


    Seth picks up on the second ring, as I''m shutting my bedroom door behind myself. On those rare occasions that we speak, he always lets my call go to voicemail and then responds to me five or six hours later.


    This is definitely not good.


    "Thank God," he hisses before I can get a syllable out. "Where''ve you been, Si? And why the hell didn''t I have this number?"


    Less than ten seconds into our conversation and Seth''s arguing with me. I slam my oversized bag onto my bed. My wallet along with a bunch of tampons and makeup spill out onto the lavender cotton sheets and some fall on the carpeted floor. I''ll clean it up later. "I work. And I''ve tried to call you from this number several times. You just didn''t answer." I don''t sound angry, which is how I feel, but like I''m explaining myself to my brother. Like I''m the one who should be sorry for him ignoring me.


    I hate myself for sounding like that.


    "Sienna, it''s Gran," he says.


    And this - this is when I literally freeze in place, standing between my bed and desk. I must look like one of those tragic, serious statues in the cemeteries back home. My heart feels as if it''s stopped. The first thing I''d assumed when Tori told me Seth was trying to reach me was that my mom had somehow gotten herself in trouble again. I hadn''t even thought of my grandmother because she''s so strong and resilient and wonderful.


    She''s also 79 years old.


    I try to say something, anything, but there''s a lump the size of a lint-flavored golf ball clogging the back of my throat. I''m choking and wheezing when Seth finally exhales an exasperated sigh and snaps, "She''s fine, Si. Well, physically fine."


    Then, he tells me what''s going on. He says words like foreclosure and eviction notice. New owner - some douchebag musician from California. Court on Monday. And then he tells me that I need to be there for her, for him.


    "I have to work," I whisper. I can''t imagine what Tomas will say if I ask for time off for anything besides a funeral or the certain impending demise of an immediate family member. He might fire me. Or worse, he might give me a horrible reference and I''ll never get another wardrobe job for the rest of my life.


    "No, you''ve got to be here."


    "Seth, I can''t just . . ." But I''m already sitting in front of my laptop with my online bank statement pulled up on one tab and a discount ticket website on another. I''m already entering in my debit card information for an early Monday morning flight, biting down so hard on my lower lip I taste blood. I''m broke. Half of what''s in my account - half of my total savings - will have to go to Tori for my share of the bills.


    And before I hang up with my little brother, I''m already shoving my belongings inside of the beaten Coach suitcase my grandparents gave me five years ago as an eighteenth birthday present.


    It''s mind-numbingly cold in Nashville - 33 degrees to be precise - and snowing lightly when I scoot into Seth''s messy Dodge pick-up truck on Monday afternoon. From the way I''m sweating, though, you would think it were the middle of August and that I''d arrived in Nashville dressed in head to toe wool. The flutter sleeve top I so carefully selected because it makes me look professional clings to my skin and the tops of my thigh high tights sag to just above my knees.


    The sudden spike in perspiration is my own fault - I spent the entire four hour flight from California fretting over how I''d convince Gram to come back to L.A. with me. And the more I thought about it, the more doubtful I became. My granddad had built her that cabin and land as a gift after my mother was born in the early seventies. There''s no way in hell Gram''s giving it up without a fight, even though from what Seth has said, the house is already gone.


    "What''d your boss say?" my brother asks as he turns onto the interstate. He slams on the brakes to avoid hitting another car. The Dodge skids on the slippery road, jostling us around, but Seth manages to get the truck under control halfway into my frantic gasp.


    Seth doesn''t so much as flinch. He squints straight ahead, the same way our dad does when he drives in crappy weather, and rubs the tips of his thumbs on either side of the steering wheel - another Dad trait. With his dark blonde hair, brown eyes, and year-round tan that puts my easily-burnt skin to shame, Seth even looks like Dad now.


    "You going to answer me or just sit there with your mouth wide open?"


    Digging my hands into the hem of the dark tweed pencil skirt I''m wearing, I shrug. "I worked through Christmas and New Year, so he didn''t have much of a problem. Besides, I''m just an assistant." I don''t add that I had to beg Tomas for the time off and that he''d pointedly said I better take care of my family drama and have my ass back in L.A. before the end of the month - two and a half weeks.


    "Echo Falls is ranked first in females aged 18 to 34. There are people willing to trade their own offspring for a chance to work on this series. That being said, replacing you with a new wardrobe person who covets his career won''t be too hard a feat," Tomas had said, punching something into the iPad he carried around everywhere. He never even spared me a glance so when he shoved a newly inventoried wardrobe rack against a brick slab wall, he didn''t see me startle. "Don''t force me to find that person, Jensen."


    "I''ll wrap it up in two weeks, Tomas," I''d promised.


    "You better."


    Telling Seth any of that is simply a waste of oxygen. He would either not get why I can''t neglect my job whenever I please or simply not care. Knowing my brother, it would be the second.


    "Got anything I can wipe my face with?" I ask. Thinking about my job has me sweating even worse than before.


    "Center console."


    I find a package of wet wipes in between a half-empty 30-count box of condoms and a completely empty bottle of Jose Cuervo. Before I can stop myself, I whirl on him and blurt, "I hope you''re not stupid enough to drink and drive. You''re only nineteen and you - "


    "Don''t start, Si, okay? Today isn''t a good day for your bitching. "


    Sinking my teeth down on the inside of my jaw, I turn my attention to the bumper stickers on the tiny little Escort in front of us. Honk If You Hate People Too. How fitting.


    It''s only an eight mile drive from the airport to the courthouse, but the trip ends up taking forty-five minutes thanks to the traffic and the snow. Seth and I spend nearly every minute of it in silence - just as we usually do when we''re around each other. As I dab at my face with wipes and smooth my long, red hair back into a low ponytail, I mentally kick myself for being dumbass enough to lend him money. He''s not mentioned it, and I doubt he will. Seth''s smart enough to realize that I''ll never bring up the money he owes me because I''d rather gouge myself in the eye than get into a confrontation with him.


    There''s a reason why I rarely come to town and baby brother is just the smallest part of it.


    By time Seth and I arrive at the courthouse and find the correct courtroom, the hearing is coming to an end. We sit on opposite ends of one of the wooden benches at the back of the room - him with his arms crossed tightly over his chest and me leaning forward, listening attentively.


    From what I manage to piece together, this is the second hearing. The new purchaser, whom I''ve decided to refer to as Asshat and his lawyers are both here, and they''re seeking a formal eviction. My grandmother and her attorney Mr. Nielson (the same one she''s had since before I can remember) are across from them on the left side of the room. I find myself glaring death rays at Asshat''s back, even though I know I shouldn''t really be angry at him.


    Just like I shouldn''t be checking him out.


    His back is turned to me, so there''s a depressing limit to what I''m able to ogle, but I know that he''s built. And with a backside like his, the rest of him is bound to be just as gorgeous. Dressed in an impeccable black business suit that molds a little too perfectly to every inch of his body, he''s got dark, tousled hair that brushes his neck and long fingers. He taps them rapidly in some type of rhythm on the mahogany table that''s in front of him. I''m tall, but this guy towers over me by a good six inches - he''s easily 6''3" or 6''4". And his ass . . . ugh, I bet the last thousand dollars in my account (and would even overdraw it a few hundred bucks) that the attorney beside him would be staring at it too if she could get away with it. Or if she could stop beaming up at him with her chest poked out for longer than five seconds.


    Hot-faced and utterly reluctant, I drag my gaze back to Gram''s side of the courtroom. If Seth catches me staring at Asshat, he''ll never let me live it down. Knowing him, he''ll probably accuse me of conspiring with the enemy.


    I frown, because I know that''s exactly what Seth would say.


    "Mr. Nielson, your client has ten days before the court issues a possession order," the judge is telling my grandmother''s lawyer. "After that, the sheriff will carry out the eviction within a week." When my grandmother''s shoulders sag and she grips Nielson''s shoulder for support so hard her knuckles turn white, it takes every ounce of my willpower not to bolt out of my seat. I hate this. I hate my mother for this, because at the heart of things, it really is all her fault.


    I was right when I assumed she''d done something stupid. Mom''s the reason my grandmother is losing her home.


    And then, the hearing is over. Gram''s bright blue eyes widen in stunned surprise as she makes her way to the back of the room toward me and Seth, but then her face softens. She gives me a sad smile that''s full of defeat. I''ve only seen her look at me like this once before. There''s a sour taste in my mouth when I realize it was in this exact courthouse. Before Gram has a chance to utter a single word, I pull her to me and bury my face into her puff of gray hair, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla.


    "Did you drive?" I ask. She nods into my shoulder, so I say, "I''ll take you back home then." I loosen my grip around her, glaring over my shoulder at Asshat. Now, his back is no longer turned to me. Instead, I have a side view that''s just as nauseatingly sexy as the back.


    He''s speaking to his female attorney, and they''re both laughing. She''s got her hand on his arm and her boobs are still jutted out. If we were anywhere else I''d discreetly snort aloud at how ridiculous she looks. He''s probably thanking her. And she''s more than likely suggesting they celebrate the easy win against an old woman and her equally ancient lawyer over drinks and then a quick screw at her place. I''m about to draw away from Gram and leave the courtroom when the man turns his face, lifts his eyes. Our gazes connect. Hazel and blue.


    Predator and prey.


    He squints at me.


    My chest seizes up. I was right, the full package is devastatingly handsome. And when I decided to nickname him "Asshat," I was being much too lenient.


    I pray my grandmother doesn''t feel the change in my heartbeat, the sudden hitch in the way that I''m breathing. This exchange between Asshat and me isn''t one of those love-at-first site moments - no, it''s nothing like that. This is one of those moments where fate has roundhouse kicked me in the face yet again. Why is he here in Nashville? In the same courtroom as me?


    God, please don''t let him remember me.


    For a moment, I''m sure he has no clue who I am, that he''ll go back to chatting it up with Boobs McBeal. By now there would''ve been tens, hundreds, of other girls. I''m nothing to him. I''m the weirdo, I tell myself.


    But then, a slow, animalistic smile of realization stretches across Lucas Wolfe''s face.


    It makes me feel like he''ll devour me whole at any second.


    It''s also the exact same grin he gave me two years ago, right after I refused to let him cuff me to his bed, and just before he literally told me to get the fuck out of his house.

 Page 2

    Seth bails on us the moment we reach the bottom step of the courthouse - he swears he''s got a late afternoon class, but I''m positive that''s total bull. He''s probably just going to drink away his worries. I don''t confirm my suspicions as our grandmother speaks to him, thanking him for being there for her.


    A razor sharp sensation scrapes the wall of my chest as I once again try to come to terms with the fact Seth knew more about what was going on with Gram than I did. Standing by myself a few feet away from them with snowflakes melting the second they kiss my skin, I feel left out - literally like the redheaded step child. As quick as the thought entered my head, I squash it down. What am I, a jealous ten year old?Advertisement


    My brother waves goodbye to me before he takes off in a graceful sprint toward the parking garage where he left the Dodge.


    Smiling up at me with a grace and fortitude I''ve always been envious of, my grandmother jangles the keys to her ancient black Land Rover in my palm and closes my fist around them.


    She pulls an umbrella out of her bag and opens it. "Richard wants me to come to his office for a strategy meeting. I''m sure you don''t want to waste your time in a boring meeting with an attorney."


    I may not return home nearly as often as I should, but I know my grandmother better than just about anyone else. This is her way of telling me she doesn''t want me around for whatever she and Nielson have to say to each other.


    She doesn''t want me involved.


    My muscles tighten. I purse my lips into what I hope passes for a good-natured expression. "Sure. I''ll just" - I squint at my surroundings until my eyes land on a two-story cafe directly across the street from Nielson''s office and the courthouse - "go grab something to eat over at Alice''s. I''ll keep an eye out for you."


    "I''ll see you in a few minutes," Gram says. "And Sienna?"


    "Yeah?"


    "I''m so happy you''ve come home."


    Tears burn the corners of my eyes. I squeeze them shut, whispering, "Me too, Gram." There''s so much else I want to say and do but there are people all around us heading into the courthouse and to various attorneys'' offices. I give her a cheerful wave instead. It''s only after she disappears into Nielson''s building, I let my shoulders slump and drag ass across the street to the cafe.


    I haven''t been to this restaurant since my mom''s legal woes a few years ago, so I''m stoked to find it''s now decorated in an Alice in Wonderland theme. My roommate and I are complete opposites but one of the places where we find common ground is fantastical movies and books and . . . you know, Johnny Depp.


    The woman behind the counter wearing an elaborate velvet Hatter hat smiles up at me and yells, "Go ahead and seat yourself, hon. Someone''ll be right over." I nod my head appreciatively and then find a booth in the far left of the cafe that gives me the best view of Nielson''s office and easy access to the wall vent. After I order a double slice of the special - Cheshire pie - and a cup of coffee, I send a series of texts to Tori that sound more than a little neurotic.


    Lucas Wolfe is the person who''s bought the house. That shitface bought my gram''s house.


    The universe has to be plotting against me.


    WTF is he doing here?


    Tori???


    There''s slush melting inside of my pumps and I realize I was so distracted by merely seeing Lucas that I forgot to get my bags out of the back of Seth''s truck. Yet now the only thing I can think about is Lucas. Not only about how he''s trying to throw Gram out of her house, but how he threw me out of his.


    I''m still deep in thought and waiting for Tori to text me back when I hear shuffling beside me. I slide my cell phone from the edge of the table, over toward the salt and pepper shakers to give the waitress room. A large and very unfeminine hand covers mine, calloused fingers from playing the guitar gliding across my knuckles.It''s a familiar touch that sends an unwanted - and very delicious -jolt through my body. I snatch my fingers, angry at my body''s obvious betrayal, and knock over a porcelain bowl full of sugar packets. The sugar scatters across the linoleum. Lucas chuckles.


    And I feel the sudden urge to vomit.


    Gesturing to the empty seat across from me, Lucas asks, "Room for one more?"


    "Not much for spending my free time with strangers," I say through clenched teeth as I shake my head. "So, sorry, there''s not."


    He slides into the booth anyway, stretching out his ridiculously long legs so that his calves straddle mine. I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up his hand. "Before you try to bullshit me, you should probably know I never forget a face." Then, he lifts his eyebrows wickedly and says, "Or a body."


    Who does he think he is? Feeling a sudden need to come right out and ask him, I demand, "I guess you''re not used to hearing no, huh?" My voice packs a hell of a punch, surprising me. If he were anybody else I would have already separated myself from the situation. Lucas has an unnerving way of tearing away the layers of my nervousness, my need to shy away, until I''m raw and wanting to lash out at him.


    He grins, cocks his head to one side as if he''s carefully studying me. "You really have to ask me that?"


    My lips part as my senses and every inch of my skin flood with heat. I ball up a sugar packet, squishing my thumb and forefinger into the grittiness and glance away from Lucas out the window toward Nielson''s office.


    "You''re sexy when you''re nervous."


    "I''m not," I say.


    "Sexy?"


    My head jerks back, away from the window, and I give him a wide-eyed stare. "No . . . nervous." But I''m sure he can hear the tremor in my voice, feel how my legs are shaking beneath the table right now.


    The corners of his lips pull into a sardonic smile that''s infuriating and ridiculously sexy. Once again, I feel electricity flow through my body. I hate myself for having any response toward this man other than dislike. "Tell me why you''re here, Sienna," he demands softly.


    "Why do you care?"


    Placing his forearms on the table, he leans forward. His sleeves ride up just enough for me to see the tattoos on his wrists. I squeeze my eyes shut, vividly picturing the rest of the tattoo sleeve on his right arm. Anyone who follows his music would know about it. I mean, he and the drop dead gorgeous female lead singer of Wicked Lambs were on the front cover of some rock magazine a few months back - he was shirtless and so was she, with him standing behind her, cupping her breasts.


    But in another time, I''d seen Lucas''s ink up close. I''d gotten to trace my lips along the intricate patterns that ran along his muscled body as he wound his fingertips into my hair and whispered for me to kiss, to taste. I shiver. I wish I could say it was from the 33 degree weather.


    Lucas finally answers me, untangling me from the memories. I hate myself for being disappointed. "Because being around you is - " He stops speaking so that the waitress can put my lunch on the table. He grants her his trademark buy-my-album-and-vibe-off-to-it grin. She fumbles, blushing as she asks him if there''s anything she can get him. I frown. If he orders, that means he''ll stick around and really, I just want to hurry this along so Lucas and I can go back to being . . .well, nothing to one another.


    Luckily for me, he declines.


    "Being around me is what?" I demand the moment we''re alone again.


    Twirling a spoon around in my coffee, he flicks the tip of his tongue over his top teeth. I can''t tell whether he''s smiling or grimacing. And I have no idea why I should give two shits either way.


    My cell phone plays the ringtone I''ve assigned it for calls and messages from Tori - a Britney Spears song that she swear she loathes but sings in the shower every morning. I reach for it, but Lucas captures my hand in his, threading his fingertips between mine. "You could be bad for music," he whispers, bringing my fingers to his lips. "And that''s what I''m here to do - make music."


    My stomach ravels into hundreds of knots as he kisses each of my fingers slowly, his eyes never leaving my own. We''re in public, and there are people all around us. But for a good minute, Lucas Wolfe and I are the only people in the world.


    "Lucas - " I start, my voice threadbare. Staring down at the sugar packet disaster on the table, I take a deep breath and then rake my teeth over my top lip. I don''t know what to say to him so I don''t appear weak. When I glance up in time to see his beautiful face breaks into a smile that makes my chest clench, I realize it doesn''t matter what I say. He''s already realized he''s my Kryptonite.


    "The second I saw you, I promised myself I wouldn''t do this with you again, Sienna," he growls.


    Do what - lead me on? Boot me out of his life without so much as a proper goodbye? I''m about to demand an explanation, but then I see the door to Nielson''s office swing open and Gram walks out. I immediately feel like the worse granddaughter in history because at some point during my exchange with Lucas, I managed to forget she''s the reason I''m in this cafe to begin with.


    Pulling my hand away from Lucas, I toss my phone into my bag with a little too much force. "I''m here because some douchebag musician from California bought my grandmother''s house."


    I can''t mistake his sharp intake of breath or the way his long legs go stiff beneath the table, squeezing my own. "I see."


    "So you''ll understand why I''m saying this: Go fuck yourself, Lucas."


    Our eyes meet. His are mocking and angry and something else. Something that I''d seen two years ago, the night I went home with him. Something I''ll pretend I don''t see. "I''ve only heard you that forceful once, so I''ve got to ask: Was that for your grandma or for what happened with us?"


    I untangle my legs from his, stand, and put money under the untouched platter of Cheshire pie. "Both," I say.


    I''m so flustered - emotionally, mentally, and dammit, physically - by my encounter with Lucas that I''m only half-tuned in to my conversation with my grandmother on the ride to her house. I hear her ask if my flight was comfortable, how long I''ll be staying in Nashville. I listen to myself respond like a robot. "It was great, Gram. . . . I''ll be here as long as it takes. . . ." Then Gram starts asking me a new series of questions, and I give her more mechanical answers. Our entire exchange sounds like a hazy dream to me, but Lucas''s voice plays loud and static-free in my head. It''s teasing me, warning me that I''m bad for music.


    Whatever that''s supposed to mean. Maybe I inspire him to write angsty music where the rocker doesn''t get to screw the girl, or something. When I think of it that way, I guess that is a career drainer.


    The only thing I''m entirely sure of is that I wish the person snatching away the home my grandparents loved so much was anyone else in the world but Lucas.


    Navigating the Land Rover up the narrow hill leading to the house where I spent most of my childhood, I draw my brain away from Lucas Wolfe and back to the most important dilemma.


    "Why didn''t you tell me?" I ask quietly. "You came to L.A. to see me for Christmas, you must''ve known then."


    "I thought I could fix things. What am I saying? I can still fix things. The last thing I wanted to do was burden you with something that would make you stress."


    "Oh, Gram . . ."


    "Don''t you dare give me that pitying voice, Sienna Jensen. There''s still time left. It''s not over yet," she says, her voice hard as steel. But when I look at her out the corner of my eye, I notice her eyes are glistening, and she''s gripping the arm rest for support.


    "You''re right."


    But she sighs. We both know the land around us, the house we''re drawing closer to, is all but gone. In less than two weeks, maybe a little more if we''re fortunate, Gram will be homeless. I refuse to leave Nashville until she''s settled somewhere else. I''ll swallow my own inhibitions and go to battle for my grandmother''s happiness.


    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 cafe, 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.

 Page 3

    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.Advertisement


    And the next day - a little less than one day after our run-in at Alice''s Cafe - 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"


    I''m not sure if he''s saying he mistook my being shy and overzealous to do my job as me being easy or submissive. Either way, I know I don''t like what he''s saying. Because there''s a part of me that wonders if he''s right - after all, I had gone home with him after knowing him for less than a week.


    Glancing down at a spot of spot of earth that''s nothing but bright red mud due to the snow, I say, "Isn''t it time for you to leave?"


    Lucas takes a few more steps backward, motions his arms out in an overtly grand gesture toward the hill that leads back up to the front of the house. I grit my teeth together, and shake my head.


    "I thought I''d be polite and let you go first, but whatever," he says. His voice doesn''t sound too polite. It''s rough and hard and dangerous. And just a few moments ago, his voice and words succeeded in completely getting to me. Giving me one last sardonic smile, he turns abruptly and stalks up the hill, tracing his fingers alongside the log siding.


    But halfway to the front of the house, Lucas pauses. He doesn''t turn around to face me when he calls out over his shoulder, "You might think I''m shit, but I''d have never brought anyone up here to upset your grandmother. She''s gone every Tuesday, like clockwork."


    I''m not positive what''s more unnerving - the fact Lucas knows Gram''s schedule well enough to realize when is the best time to come around the house without disturbing her, or that my grandmother keeps the same schedule every Tuesday.


    My grandmother always protects me, so if she''s going somewhere I should be concerned about, she would never tell.


    When I was a kid and my mom and dad would argue, I''d go to my grandparents. They had spoiled Seth and me rotten. After my parents divorced when I was twelve and my mother just flat-out disappeared, my brother and I had been given the opportunity to go and live with Dad and his new wife.


    It was a shitty opportunity.


    Not that there was anything wrong with my dad or Margaret, but they''d moved to Bar Harbor, Maine - over a thousand miles from home. Luckily, even at eight, Seth was bullheaded. My brother told Dad that not only did he hate him and his new wife, but he''d rather be ripped apart by wild dogs than live with them in Maine. That''s when our grandparents, Mom''s parents, stepped in. Dad wanted to be with his new wife. Our grandparents wanted us. And we wanted to stay because it was the only thing we knew. And because we both were hopeful that Mom would come back someday.


    It was one of those fairytale moments where everyone was happy, and there was no animosity.


    Three years later, Mom came back to Nashville with her new husband. And I quickly learned how completely stupid I was for hoping for her return.


    If Lucas knows so much about Gram, what does he know about my family''s history?


    I tighten my grip around the scrubber pad in my hand until the steel prickles painfully into my palm and attack a spot of invisible soap scum on the shower wall. Ever since Lucas left a couple hours ago, I''ve kept myself busy, alternating between cleaning and watching reruns of some mobster show online. Neither has been a very good distraction from thinking of Lucas or where Gram''s weekly Tuesday errands are actually taking her.


    Again.


    "You rushed me over here with your bags for . . . ?" the sound of a voice behind me just about pulls out of my skin. Splaying my wet palms over my chest because my heart is pounding so hard it aches, I scramble around on my hands and knees to face Seth.


    "Don''t you knock? Or ring doorbells?" I cough. "I could''ve - "


    "What? Attacked me with household cleaner? The papers would have a shit-fest with that one. ''Pissy redhead mauls popular Vandy student with the remains of a Brillo-Pad. Charges are pending''." Seth doesn''t seem daunted by the fact he scared the hell out of me. In fact, he''s smiling like an idiot. Begrudgingly, I take his hand when he reaches it out to me, and he pulls me up to my feet.


    "You wouldn''t press charges against me," I say.


    "Why''s that?"


    "I''m a girl. And I''m betting you have some screwed up idea that admitting a girl kicked your ass makes you a lesser man. Am I right?"


    Lifting an eyebrow, he laughs. "First time you''ve gotten something right about me in what? Four years?"


    Ignoring the jibe, I follow him down the stairs. I almost expect him to take a ride on the wooden bannister like he did when we were kids, but he jogs instead. The coat rack in the foyer topples over from the motion.


    We squat down at the same time to pick it up. As I pick up the jackets that have fallen to the floor, I decide to confront him about what Lucas pointed out earlier this afternoon. There''s a chance Seth knows something I don''t know, though I''m almost hoping he''s not for the sake of my not getting jealous again. "Where does Gram go every Tuesday?"


    My brother''s light mood seems to change in a matter of seconds. His relaxed smile disappears, suddenly replaced by a tight frown, and his shoulders tighten. He pops to his feet, but this time, he doesn''t help me to mine.


    "How do you know she goes somewhere every Tuesday?"


    "Sh-she mentioned something about keeping to her usual Tuesday schedule this morning at breakfast," I lie. Whenever Seth takes on the brooding expression he''s wearing right now, I know he''s only a matter of moments away from going over the edge. I don''t want to pair whatever is bothering him with letting him know Lucas was out here this morning.


    Releasing a growl, Seth drags his hands through his wheat-colored hair and then stalks past me into the dining room. He sits down at the antique table where we used to eat dinner every night and slides out the chair beside of him, motioning for me to sit, too. I scoot it back in and opt for the seat at the other end of the table, directly across from him.


    "I take it this isn''t good," I say at last.


    "Do you think it''s possible she''s been going to see Mom?" he asks.


    Of course, but I was hoping Seth would reassure me it isn''t a possibility. Seth is so upset about the prospect, that he''s shaking. Out of the two of us, his bitterness toward our mother is twice as bad. But then again, I wasn''t the kid who Mom had almost convinced to take the fall for her sins.


    Yet somehow, I''d found myself smack dab in the middle of it all.


    And for the first couple years after everything happened, I was the kid who let Mom bully her around even from inside of a prison cell.


    I place my hands together, rubbing them on either side of my nose. I must look like I''m praying to Seth because he rolls his eyes dramatically. "So what do we do?" I ask.


    "She''s not a kid, Si. There''s nothing we can do."


    "You''re a pretentious ass - you always know what to do."


    "I''m not going to ask her if she''s visiting Mom because I''ve got no proof. If you want to, you can, but I''m sure you won''t."


    "Why''s that?"


    "Come on, Si. You''re scared of your own shadow. Gram didn''t want to tell you about the goddamn foreclosure because she thought it would just upset you. Do you remember how you were in court during Mom''s trial? All nervous and nodding and staring down at your lap and - "


    "Thanks but I don''t need a character evaluation. And I''m stronger than you think." But when I touch my hands to my cheeks, they feel flushed. This is the second time today someone''s blatantly pointed out negative traits about me.


    The corner of Seth''s mouth quirks up, he starts to say something, but then thinks better of it. Shrugging his broad shoulders nonchalantly, he rises to his feet. He can try and pretend like he''s not upset all he wants, but I know different. His hands are clenched. As soon as he leaves here, he''ll head straight to the gym to blow off some steam.


    It''s better than blowing up and punching in someone''s face like he was notorious for after Mom was sentenced. It''s a wonder he isn''t locked up in a juvenile detention center somewhere.


    "I left your bags in the living room," he tells me, sliding the dining chairs back where they belong. He doesn''t look up at me, when he says, "Hey, do me a favor - when Grandma gets in, can you tell her to call me."


    Realizing that our heart to heart has come to a definite close, I nod my head. "I will. You drive safe, okay."


    He rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath where I only make out the words fucking and mom, then says, "I''m going to start looking around for places for . . ." his voice dies away, and once again, I bob my head up and down.


    Like a broken little bobble-head doll.


    Seth leaves without a proper goodbye. When I hear him start the engine to his truck, I go back upstairs. I clean up the mess in the bathroom, throwing the used scrubbing pads in the wastebasket and running the shower to wash away the neon blue soap that''s dried to the porcelain.


    Resting against the mass of pillows leaned against the headboard, I open my laptop, determined to see what the damage will be if I go ahead and reserve a compact rental car for the next 13 days. There''s no way I''ll be able to get anything done without a car, even if I have to spend a couple hundred dollars for the sake of convenience.


    "It''s just money," I tell myself. "I''ll make it back quickly and all will be well in the world again." Silently, I add, if Tomas doesn''t do a 180 and fire me.


    I''m typing the rental car agency''s web address in when I notice the tiny red notification in the left corner of the Facebook page I left up earlier after I was through chatting with Tori and a girl I''d gone to high school with. It''s a friend request.


    From Kylie Martin, Lucas''s blue-haired assistant.


    "Dear social media: piss off," I mutter, moving my mouse to decline the request. The message just below the request stops me, and I lean in closer to the screen to read it.


    Hey Sienna,


    I know you really want to just tell me to go get hit by a bus (or you know, decline being my friend) but please accept. I have a way you might be able to save your grandmother''s house. All we need is a few minutes of your time.


    -Kylie


    And just like that, I''m friends with the enemy''s little worker bee.

 Page 4

    Less than an hour after I accept Kylie''s friend request, my curiosity gets the best of me. What does she mean she knows a way to save this house? I message a single word reply that simply says: How?


    A shrill ding indicates that I''ve received a brand new message seven minutes after I click send. Tossing the fitness magazine that I''m attempting to read (and failing miserably because I''m so worked up by Kylie''s cryptic message) on top of my nightstand, I watch the screen and shift my teeth together as Kylie sends me a series of instant messages.Advertisement


    Kylie Martin: Hmm . . . to be honest, what I''ve got to tell you is probably something that should best be said in person and not online. Are you free this evening?


    I wait to answer because the instant messenger says she''s still typing.


    Kylie Martin: I can pick you up at, say, 7pm and we can go into all the nitty-gritty details over dinner. My treat. Order the most expensive prime rib on the damn menu, if you want. It''s on Lucas''s dime.


    This time, I don''t immediately answer because there''s something that chafes me raw about going out to dinner and using Lucas''s money to do so. It makes me feel . . . well, sort of cheap, even though I know that''s ridiculous. I''m sure his assistant takes other people out on all sorts of dinner and lunch dates, swiping Lucas''s credit card at as many restaurants as she can reasonably get away with. If I go, tonight won''t be any different.


    Except for the glaring fact that it so obviously is different.


    Kylie Martin: Just let me know something in the next hour, by 6pm, okay?


    I ease my butt down on the edge of my bed. The mattress dips down a tad in that particular spot and I make a vow to go for a run first thing tomorrow morning. Clutching the sides of the laptop, I stare at the messages at the bottom of the computer screen. I can''t look away, even when the words start to blur into one another and all I''m able to see is a dizzying swirl of blue and white and black.


    Does Kylie genuinely know something about Lucas that might delay the foreclosure? But even if she does, why would she betray her boss like that to help me? She''s been working for Lucas for a long time - at least a couple years - and I''m no one special to her. Other than this afternoon, I''ve only met her one other time in my entire life and we hadn''t had much to talk about other than the usual pleasantries.


    Then, another possible reason behind Kylie''s invitation comes to me, knocking me upside the head like a brick. My thoughts shift to a completely different direction.


    What if her inviting me out is some sort of setup just to get me out of the house for something? Like Lucas and those two contractors coming back over here tonight so they can go over where to put the gaudy house he''ll more than likely start building in two weeks or how much of Gram''s cabin they should keep around for firewood.


    A frustrated noise escapes my lips. I press my fingers to the computer keys and type out a message in record time.


    Why can''t you just tell me now? I demand.


    For five minutes, Kylie doesn''t answer, but I see the little notification letting me know that she''s typing in the center of the message box. I''m impatient as I wait, tapping my fingertips on the flat space on either side of the mouse pad and grinding my teeth back and forth, the clicking noise coursing tiny prickles through my body. The teeth gnashing has got to be the worst in the history of awful nervous habits. It''s one that I picked up as a kid after my parents dissolved their ill-fated marriage that not even relaxation massages or yoga have been able to control or stop.


    If Tori could see me right now, she''d hand me a piece of gum and tell me that my teeth will be nubs by the time I''m 40.


    I''m so irritable today I''d probably throw one of Tori''s many stress balls at her head. Or five or six of them.


    Kylie Martin: Sorry, I''m only willing to do it in person. If it''s not tonight or by tomorrow evening, it will be too late to do anything.


    She''s giving me an ultimatum. She''s using a limited timeframe to coerce me into going out to dinner with her, and I don''t like it one bit. Ever since my sophomore year at college, I''ve tried hard to avoid people who do that to me because it''s too reminiscent of the boy I dated all through high school who wanted to control everything I did.


    Preston had had different demands for something or another every other day, and each one was something he''d change his mind about as soon as I followed through. By the time he ended things with me he swore I was co-dependent. Looking back at the situation now, I was.


    I still am.


    I focus on the screen again, attempting to ignore the bevy of emotions that thinking about Preston always seems to bring about. I don''t love him. Tori says I probably never did and just went out with him because of my parental issues. Still, there''s a bitter ping in the center of my chest.


    Swallowing back memories and exasperation and the sense of defeat, I send Kylie a reply: I don''t like being bullied any more than I enjoy being given a couple hours to decide something.


    Kylie fires back a response seconds later. It''s just dinner - it''s not like I''m asking you to get pregnant with my blue-haired love child and come live with us in Paris, you know? Like I wrote you before, I know a way you can save your grandmother''s house. You just have to . . . trust me. I can''t do anything more than that online.


    Massaging my upper nose in a slow, circular motion, I start tapping out a one-handed reply. It''s only a few words, but it takes me a couple minutes and several tries to make sure I don''t sound like the blubbering idiot I feel like right now.


    Where and what time?


    I wonder if she''s smiling wherever she is because she immediately writes Yay! About a minute later, she adds, Fondue. Oh God, please tell me you love fondue? After I respond positively she types one last comment:


    Kickass - Fondue it is, then. I''ll pick you up at your place at seven, and I promise to have you home by midnight. See, I''m a respectful date and won''t even try to get to second base. Catch up with you soon!


    I send Kylie a couple more messages asking her if she''s going for casual or formal dress and whether she can park at the end of the driveway so Gram doesn''t see her, but she doesn''t answer either of them. I startle when I hear the front door slam. It rattles the bookshelf in the corner of my room, and I stumble off the bed, nearly breaking my neck on a pair of tall boots I left in the middle of the floor. Glancing out the window, I see my grandmother''s Land Rover sitting in the driveway, backed in so that the open trunk is closest to the house.


    I heave a sigh of relief.


    A moment later, Gram yells up the stairs in a noticeably tired voice, "Sienna?"


    "I''m here, Gram!" I call out, slipping my feet into a pair of flip-flops.


    I reach the foyer as Gram shuffles through the front door, struggling with several bags of groceries. Quickly, I scoop them out of her hands where the plastic has started to make harsh indentations on her wrists. She offers me a grateful look.


    "I stopped and picked up some food for you so you won''t starve to death while you''re here. All your favorites, and I''ll even cook them," she says, just a touch too brightly.


    I can see into the back of her SUV from where I''m standing. There are at least a dozen more bags in the trunk alone, not to mention what might be in the backseat. I feel a swell in my ribcage because my grandmother is on the verge of losing her house and having to spend money to relocate somewhere else. We both know she''s not got the funds to do things like stock a house with the foods I enjoy.


    Instead of pointing this out to Gram, or immediately grilling her about where she''s been, I move the bags in my right hand up and around my wrist and give her hand a tiny squeeze.


    "Thanks, Gram," I say. Then, keeping my tone as light and as teasing as possible, I add "You haven''t cooked in, what? A year or two ago, when Seth was still in high school?"


    Gram lets out a throaty chuckle. "You''re worth it."


    I insist she take a breather in the family room while I store the groceries. She doesn''t give me hell, like usual, but goes willingly. It''s so obvious that she''s dead tired, so I try hard to remain as quiet as feasibly possible so I won''t bother her while she rests.


    Unloading the bags is a monotonous task that reminds me of my time bagging groceries at the store up the street when I was in high school. I''m grinning by time I finish because I have images of cart-racing with my co-workers and an even more vivid picture of racing wardrobe racks on the set of Echo Falls with Vickie, the other wardrobe assistant.


    If I ever got the nerve to do something like that, Tomas would shit a few bricks.


    The digital clock on the stove catches my eye. 5:45. I''ll be with Kylie soon, and there''s a chance - albeit not a very strong one - that I''ll know what to do to make sure this house stays in Gram''s possession.


    Speed walking into the living room, I say, "Hey, I''m going to - " But I stop short. My grandmother is asleep on the couch, snoring, her chest rising and falling. "Head out with a friend," I whisper. Turning to leave, I notice a balled up piece of paper in the corner of the doorway. I stoop down and pick it up, unraveling it. It''s the grocery receipt from Gram''s massive shopping expedition. But it''s not the amount of money she has spent that makes my heart beat faster. It''s the city and state the groceries were purchased in.


    Bowling Green, Kentucky, which is an hour drive from Nashville.


    It''s the halfway point between here and the prison in Lexington that houses my mother.


    Honestly, I want to feel denial or shock or even anger - God knows I''ve experienced all three emotion and often at once when it comes to Mom in the past. As I fold the receipt into tiny, even squares, though, the only thing I feel is a sharp pang in the middle of my chest.


    Kylie arrives early - a quarter ''til seven, when I''m finishing up the last touches of my makeup - in the giant silver Cadillac SUV. She must not have gotten my message because she parks halfway up the drive and gets out of the car. As she practically skips toward the house, and into the path of the motion detection lights, I decide she looks like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man in her blindingly white parka and with her short, black and blue hair poking out from beneath a slouchy white crochet hat. Tennessee''s not that cold.


    She pauses in the circular walkway, tilts her head up until her dark eyes meets mine, then smiles and waves. Feeling myself flush from head to toe at being caught, I wiggle my fingers back at her. Why the hell is she so friendly when she hardly knows me? A moment later, she stops flapping her hand and disappears under the covered wraparound porch. The doorbell rings.


    Ah, shit! I should''ve stopped her because of Gram!


    Suddenly feeling nauseous at the thought of my grandmother answering the door and having to face down Lucas''s assistant, I speed down the steps. I''m too late. My feet hit the final stair just in time to hear Kylie complimenting Gram on how beautiful the house is. My grandmother''s not giving her accusing looks or asking her politely to leave, so I''m caught off guard. Then I realize that Kylie wasn''t in court yesterday. Gram apparently has never had the chance to meet her, but now that she has, she''s charmed. Kylie''s praise is making her blush hardcore.


    Lucas''s assistant''s sugary act is really starting to freak me out.


    "Um, Gram, this is Kylie, she''s - " There''s no way I can introduce her as Lucas''s assistant. I shoot Kylie a pleading look.


    "A friend from high school," she effortlessly adds. When Gram looks away for a split second, Kylie winks one of her brown eyes at me. It''s heavily lined in metallic blue liner. "I''m in town before heading off for vacation in a couple days and hooked up with Sienna online."


    My grandmother''s eyebrows draw together, and I can tell she''s trying to place whether she''s ever met Kylie before. I can read the emotions on Gram''s face as she thinks back to graduation and homecoming dances and piano competitions. Coming up with nothing, she lifts her shoulders slightly and shakes her head, her gray hair springing around her face.


    "That''s so wonderful you stopped by for Sienna," Gram tells Kylie. Then she darts her blue eyes up to me, where I''m still standing on the last step, staring at me questioningly. "Did you want me to cook or - "


    A lump forms in my throat. I know I shouldn''t but I''m thinking of the Bowling Green, Kentucky, receipt that I''ve folded until there are hundreds of tiny creases lining it. It''s upstairs, tucked under the magazine on my nightstand. I shouldn''t keep it. I should''ve dropped it where I found it.


    Because now I feel like a spy and the only thing I''ll do when I see the slip of paper or Gram mentions cooking for me is wonder whether or not she was actually with my mom this afternoon. It''s going to eat away at me until I have the chance to talk to her about it.


    No, I''ll have to confront her in an intervention like scenario because my grandmother always clams up when it comes to talking about Mom.


    My mother tends to evoke that type of response from everyone.


    "You''ve been busy all day, so you should get some rest," I say, despite the constriction in my throat. "Plus, Kylie''s got this outrageously unlimited expense account for her job and she''s taking me out to dinner to catch up. Isn''t that right, Ky?"


    Biting her lip - either to avoid laughing aloud at the emphasis I placed on the word "unlimited" or to keep from telling me to shut the hell up and that her name''s not "Ky" - Kylie gives us a thumbs up, and replies, "She''s right. My boss lets me be a lush, and I take every advantage of it. And we better get going because I''m starving and we have a reservation."


    Then, Kylie takes Gram''s hands in between her gloved ones and offers her a genuine smile. Once again I''m struck, curious as to why she''s being so nice to the old woman her boss wants to evict. "It was so great to meet you, Ms. Previn, and thanks for letting me borrow Sienna for a while. I promise I''ll take good care of her."


    I''m pretty sure that''s exactly what my ex-boyfriend said when he picked me up for junior prom, the night he talked me into giving me up my virginity.


    I fidget with the short hem of my chocolate-colored boatneck dress.


    Gram''s nose wrinkles and crosses her arms over her chest as if she''s in deep thought. At long last, she says, "You girls have a good time. And absolutely no drinking and driving!"


    It isn''t until I''m buckling my seatbelt in the Escalade, which smells like cigarettes and too much pine-scented air freshener, that I realize why my grandmother had such a strange expression on her face just before Kylie and I walked out the door.


    Gram and I have different last names - hers is Previn and mine is Jensen, my dad''s last name and Mom''s former married name. Not once had Gram mentioned what her last name is to Kylie.


    The Tuesday night crowd at the costly fondue restaurant on 2nd Avenue is scant, and Kylie and I are seated in a dimly lit, horseshoe-shaped booth. She removes her coat, revealing an oversized sweater with glasses-wearing owls covering it and a pair of stretchy pants. I''m not one for bold colors or prints like Kylie - I mean, I''ve played with the idea of dying my hair for years because it''s that red - but the way she dresses suits her.


    As she rolls her coat into a tight cylinder shape and places it between us, she asks, "You''re not dissecting my outfit, are you?"


    I feel my ears turn red. "Of course not. Why would I do something like that?"


    She makes a weird face, curling her lip up so it touches the tip of her nose, and rubs her chin with her index finger and thumb. "Hmmm, I don''t know. Maybe because it''s your job. Hell, I find myself doing my job even when I''m off the clock and critiquing every little piece of music I hear. For example, the music here" - she moves closer, as if she''s about to share an intimate secret, so I do the same - "Is really, really shitty. But just so you know, I don''t mind if you''re taking creepy, wardrobe person notes about my clothes. I happen to like the way I dress."


    I almost want to tell her I''m taking notes on how off-the-wall she is in general, but instead, I take a giant sip of my water to clear my throat before getting directly to the point. "You said you know a way to save my grandmother''s home, Kylie. That''s the only reason I agreed to come out tonight. So . . . what is it?" I drop my voice to a hush, adding, "What do you know about Lucas?"


    "You know what I''ve been wondering? Just how in the hell did you manage to keep a body like that growing up in a place with such amazing food?" she says, evading my question. "They deep fry everything. I''ve been here literally a month and had to have Lucas advance me my clothing allowance for next season to buy looser fitting jeans."


    "Where are you from?" I ask.


    She grimaces, clenches her hands, before cheerfully saying, "Oh, just Atlanta."


    Atlanta, Georgia. Where butter and bacon and pecans or more of a household necessity than they are here in Tennessee. Now, I''m not exactly buying her comment about the amazing food, even if she has been living in L.A. for a while.


    Changing the subject, Kylie asks me about my childhood, about the school I went to, and what I did for fun, and I answer each question politely, taking the utmost care not to mention my mother. I feel myself growing more and more frazzled as each second seems to crawl by at a snail''s pace.


    Finally when our first course arrives, I''ve had just about had all I can take of Kylie''s game of elusion. I place my palms flat on the table and clear my throat. She looks up at me, her dark eyes as enormous as the owls on her shirt. "Kylie," I say as patiently as possible, "Why did you want to bring me here?"


    Dipping a broccoli spear into the pot of scalding cheese that sits in the center of table, she frowns. I watch as she swirls the broccoli around until it disintegrates, each second making my heart thud louder, making me feel like she''s hiding something.


    "Lucas wants you," she says and then shrugs before blowing on the broccoli.


    I already know this, but then a reason I didn''t think of this afternoon for her wanting to see me hits me hard. I come to terms with a frightening possibility and drop the piece of bread I''m chewing onto my plate. "Oh god, you''re not going to try to scald my face off with fondue or pour it in my lap because you''re in love with your boss, are you?" I ask in a shrill voice.


    Her head pops up from the cheese and she stares at me blankly. I''m already making quick, jerky movements struggling to get myself out of the booth and away from this situation. To just leave her sitting here alone before drama ensues.


    Then she starts to laugh hysterically.


    That''s it. First thing in the morning, I would find a way to contact Lucas to tell him to keep Kylie the hell away from me.


    Blinking back tears, she grabs my hand and pulls me back down. My knees lock up and I have no other choice but sit. I''m wheezing like I''ve just run a half marathon when she finally manages to squeeze words past her amusement. "No, don''t go, it''s just that what you said -Dude, so gross. I mean, I love Lucas, but that''s because I''m forced to. Our parents would have my ass if I didn''t."


    "Wait - what?"


    She smiles. "Yep, guilty. I''m Lucas''s kid sister but only by a couple years."


    My hands automatically fly to my face, covering my embarrassment. "I thought you were . . . your last name is Martin," I mumble slowly because there''s a thickness in my throat.


    She holds up her left hand, placing it close to my face so that I''m able to see the tattoo circling her ring finger. She twists her hand, back and forth, so I can read the Old English text that clearly says MARTIN. "Eight years ago, the day I turned 18. His name was Bradley Martin and my marriage lasted about as long as the sex we had on my wedding night and was just as goddamn awful. Sorry, babe, you''re going to have to reevaluate your opinion of me because I''m not one of those assistants."


    How did I fail to notice what Kylie is to Lucas? Even though I''ve witnessed very few of their interactions with one another, it''s not like I''ve ever seen him treat her like anything other than his assistant.


    I feel wretched for jumping to conclusions about her. I apologize, but she waves it away, grinning broadly. "Are you kidding me? You''re totally fine. You want to see real psycho assumptions, go and check out some of Lucas''s fan message boards. These people are devout fans, know exactly who I am, and still bash the hell out of me."


    I swallow hard. "Anything else I should know?"


    Her tickled grin gradually gives way to a sheepish look. I''ve always hated looks like this because it never indicates something pleasant. Then she drops her head, rearranging the silverware in front of her. "I hate fondue. Like really, really loathe it."


    "Then why did you ask me to come here? We could''ve gone somewhere else. I''m not picky. I''m not . . ." But I am sweaty and nervous. I''m not so naive that I believe her shame face stems from a hatred of melted chocolate and cheese. No, Kylie''s withholding something else.


    "Because you wouldn''t have come for him," she whispers, pointing. I follow her fingers across the restaurant, to a smaller booth, to where Lucas is sitting.


    My stomach pitches, and I cross my arms over it.


    Why is he in this restaurant spreading his . . . ugh, rockstar charm? Why can''t I think or move or speak right now? The only thing I''m able to do besides hold my stomach and wish myself smaller is observe. Lucas beckons a pretty brunette waitress over to him, whispers something into her ear. She smiles down seductively at him, nods her head, and swishes her hair over her shoulder as she goes over to do his bidding.


    He doesn''t spare her a second glance.


    Now, he''s standing, walking toward my table. A scarlet haze stretches from the back of my skull and wriggles its way to the front of my face, making me unable to see straight for several seconds. That''s just how pissed I am at having been set up by Kylie and Lucas.


    I''m still speechless, but now absolutely seething, when he comes back into focus.


    He towers over me, his intense hazel eyes blazing into mine as he waits for a response.

 Page 5

    As soon as the sense of feeling reenters my lower body, I bolt up out of the booth. Since I''m so tall, my knees bump hard alongside the table. Wincing in pain and bowing over in humiliation, my vision pings back and forth between Lucas and his sister. In order for me to be successful in my escape, one of them is going to have to move out of the way. Kylie''s face is still downturned. She''s not able to see the glare I''m casting her way, but Lucas -


    He''s standing a mere foot away, looking directly at me as he blocks my path out of the booth. He''s calm and gorgeous, amused and completely animal. Right now, he embodies everything I want and everything I fear.Advertisement


    I will be so much safer if I forget ever wanting him, and once I arrive home, this whole night in general.


    "Please take me home," I say to Kylie, accentuating every word. I''m livid that she tricked me into coming out just so Lucas could have dinner with me, just so he could more than likely try to convince me to go to bed with him afterward. But most importantly, I''m furious at myself for falling for it and being optimistic enough to hope that she really did have a solution to saving the house.


    I feel like a complete fool.


    "Kylie, please?" I whisper.


    The few people sitting in the tables around us have pretty much given up on their meals and conversations. Now, they''re leaning in toward us hoping to get a glimpse of what''s going on. A lover''s quarrel, perhaps? Or a man who''s come to convince his girlfriend to come home because he thinks she''s spent too much time with her girlfriend?


    I try to tell myself I don''t care what those people think of the situation because I''ll never see them again, but I only succeed in making myself more ashamed. I notice how flushed my hands are when I wring them together, wishing it was Lucas''s neck between them instead. Ugh, not very likely that will ever happen. I have better luck getting my wish that the floor will open up and swallow me whole.


    "Sit down, Sienna," Lucas orders me in a low tone. Shaking my head stubbornly, I drag in a deep inhale through my nose. I grip the leather back of the booth in one hand and the edge of the table in the other.


    "Please move so I can leave."


    He bends his head down to mine, so near to me that I can feel his breath fanning my ear and smell spearmint from the gum he must have been chewing earlier. "For once, do as you''re told before you shoot yourself in the foot."


    I gawk at Kylie, who''s as flushed as I am and staring down at her phone. Maybe she feels awful for luring me here. Probably not, though. If she''s anything like her brother, she''s more concerned about the scene we''re making and the people who are pretending not to watch us than about hurting my pride. I shouldn''t have fallen for her act with Gram either, but then again, I''ve never been the best judge of character.


    Quietly, I lower myself until I''m sitting, staring daggers at Lucas all the while. He croons something in a pleased voice that sounds dangerously like "that''s my girl", and then slides in next to me. The further I slip into the curved booth, the closer he comes. Finally, I just stop moving because there''s no use trying to put any more space between the two of us. I''m unreasonably close to being right on top of Kylie. I move an inch or two in his direction and he calls me a good girl.


    Lucas has got me right where he wants me, with the length of his body hot and hard and extremely noticeable against my side.


    If I just listen to what he has to say then I''ll be able to leave and forget this night ever happened.


    Yeah . . . right after he fucks with my head a little. Right after he tries to convince me to screw him.


    My skin prickles all over.


    "You''ll be across the street?" Lucas questions Kylie. When she says she will, my mouth falls open and I look up to protest. Even though she sold me out, I don''t want her to leave. She''s the one who got me into this mess to begin with so what gives her the right to skip out?


    "You can''t go," I say, my voice deep.


    But she gives me a guilty, almost sad, smile.


    "Sorry, Sienna, but this one''s between the two of you. I''ll be the one to take you home, though." She reaches out her fingers to give my hand an encouraging pat but I knock them away. The sharp edge of one of the bronze skull rings she''s wearing nicks the tip of my thumb and I press it between my teeth.


    "Thanks." I say to Kylie, the word muffled. Not that it matters because I don''t mean it.


    Lucas clears his throat, and she ducks her head, shimmying out of the booth. "I''m so sorry," she murmurs. She glances back once, before she disappears from sight, but I pretend not to see her. I know it''s childish but being an adult has gotten me nowhere in this situation.


    "God, you look like sin," Lucas says as I pull my thumb from my mouth.


    The edge in his voice sends a cold thrill racing through me, from the toes of my black pumps, to the top of my head, where I''d styled my long red hair into a messy up-do. My eyes flutter shut and silently, I countdown from 20.


    It won''t take much to walk away. No, it won''t take anything. I can call a cab, or God forbid, Seth. I shouldn''t stay here with Lucas because he''s about as bad for my mental health as I am for his music.


    17, 16, 15 . . .


    But if I just leave without hearing him out, I''ll seem weak. He''ll know I can''t take being around him. He''ll figure out how big that part of me that can''t resist him really is. And I want to think that he can''t use that against me, but he can. Lucas is the type who will exploit any weakness to get what he wants.


    7, 6, 5 . . .


    No, I won''t leave. Not until I find out -


    His fingertips tangle into my hair, sending hairpins flying to the tabletop and onto the seat in a quick, gentle motion. My red hair spills into my face, around my shoulders, and both of us suck in our breaths at the same time.


    "Your fucking hair . . ."


    "What do want from me?" I ask


    "Everything," he whispers, turning his head so that his lips touch my temple. He inhales the scent of me in before speaking again. When he does, he almost sounds intoxicated. "But for now . . . I want you to work for me."


    He draws back and puts a - dare I say - professional amount of room between us. I''m stunned to realize that the cheese and vegetables have been cleared away and now there''s a salad sitting in front of us. I was so wrapped up in the moment with Lucas that I hadn''t noticed the server''s return.


    Damn Lucas for driving me to distraction over and over and over again.


    And fuck myself for letting him. Why do I do this to myself?


    Lucas spears a fork into his salad and takes a bite. I study the way he chews - slow, deliberate movements. Tiny flicks of his tongue that causes my body to burn. He turns eating, something that is so basic, into a seductive art. I catch myself sinking my teeth into my own lip as I imagine him drawing it in between his teeth.


    "I''m offering you Ms. Previn''s home in exchange for your . . . services. Ten days. My rules. And you have to cater to my every need. Then, I''ll personally sign over the deed to your grandmother''s home."


    I let his words sink into my brain sluggishly, like spoiled molasses. Let the shame wash over me. "I''m not like that," I whisper, turning my face away from him so he doesn''t see the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks and ruin the makeup I so carefully applied.


    He catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to look at him. To face him. He gives me a sarcastic, pouty expression and I clench my fingers into the fabric of my dress so I don''t try to smack it right off. "I never said you were. Just took you for the type who likes to work for the things she wants."


    What he''s just said - it takes everything cruel comment Preston ever made to me when we were dating, adds them together, and multiplies them. "I''m not going to fuck you for money, Lucas."


    He doesn''t try to stop me as I stiffly maneuver my way out of the booth.


    I''m three steps away from the table, and struggling with the bitter urge to just break down bawling, when he says, "There''s no fucking involved." His voice is so soft and cold, it makes me shiver, like a gust of wind has just swept through the room.


    Warily, I take a peek over my right shoulder. He''s pushed his salad away, and has his arm draped over the back of the booth, expecting me to sit back down. But what''s surprising is his face. The sardonic look is gone, and is replaced by one that''s apologetic - a look that''s earnest.


    "What?"


    "Sit and we''ll talk."


    Another order, but he has my attention. He knows there''s no way in hell I''m exiting this restaurant without finishing this conversation now. Quietly, I climb into the booth, sitting in a way that we''re facing each other. I can feel his eyes blistering into me as I play with my fork, twirling it between my fingers while I wait for him to explain himself.


    He lets me sweat for a couple minutes - allows me to think of so many scenarios that I''m squirming in my seat. I tap the toe of my shoes on the hard floor, beating out a staccato rhythm. He takes a breath and then, at last, he speaks.


    "Kylie''s going on vacation to New Orleans and I need a personal assistant while she''s away."


    "A personal assistant," I repeat, and he bows his head, smiling at me so politely I''m sure it hurts his face. Polite on Lucas Wolfe is about the same as aggressive on me - outright awkward.


    "Mmmhmm, and naturally I want someone I already know. You."


    Me - the same wardrobe girl who was banned from ever working on the set of a Your Toxic Sequel anything ever again. The same girl who''d shot him down after he tried to convince her to be bound to his bed.


    The same girl he still wants to bind.


    "You want me to work for you because you just want to have sex with me," I snarl. Blowing out a noisy breath, I continue, "You can call me a personal assistant all you want, but this is because of sex. So why not just ask me to screw you?"


    He smiles that unsettling smile that makes me question my sanity for still being near him. The same smile that also makes me wonder why I''m not throwing my body into his arms right this instant. Because of what he''ll do to you, that little voice in the back of my head warns me. He''ll take everything and won''t give a damn thing in return.


    "I told you already," he says. "This is work of the non-sexual variety."


    "And where does my grandma''s house come into play?"


    "Isn''t it obvious? It''ll be your paycheck. You play my game for ten days, I give you the house."


    The sip of water I''m swallowing goes down the wrong way, and I choke on it, clutching at my chest. He moves closer, his face wrinkled with concern. Gasping, I manage to assure him that I''m fine. Then I squeeze the bridge of my burning nose as I try to give his words a chance to fully register.


    He wants me to work for him. In exchange for Gram''s house.


    Ho-ly fuck.


    "Are you smoking crack?" I demand, in a rough voice I''ve never even heard myself use before. His eyebrows arch, and the corners of his lips quirk up. "That''s not even - is that even plausible? That would have to be the most idiotic business decision ever."


    Chuckling, he places his elbows on the table and links his fingers together so that he can lean his chin against his hands. The sleeves of his gray and black Henley roll up just slightly and I find my eyes drawn to the tattoo on his left wrist, an ornate skeleton key surrounded by barbs.


    "It''s just a house," he says. I hope he doesn''t see the way I flinch just slightly. But inside, I feel like he''s reeled back and slapped me across my face with every ounce of force he''s capable of. What''s merely a house for him is something else entirely to my grandmother, to me and Seth. "It''s just money," he adds, with a nonchalant shrug of his broad shoulders. His unruly hair brushes his neck.


    "A lot of it," I hiss. "It''s a lot of money."


    "And I have a lot more of it. I''ve blown what I spent on your grandmother''s house on parties and strippers and booze in a month."


    For some reason, I''m not at all surprised if not more than a little disgusted. Shaking the thought of him raining enough money to buy a home on a spray-tanned pole dancer named Candi, I say in an even tone, "But what do you have to gain by this? If you don''t want me to have sex with you, why make this kind of offer?"


    "Do you know what I realized about you?" he asks, seemingly changing the subject. When I don''t answer, he keeps talking, "You are infuriatingly submissive to everyone around you . . . except me."


    And it hits me. Why he kicked me out of his house two years ago. Why he wants me right now. I am a challenge. "You want me to submit to you," I whisper, and I''m not sure if I''m disgusted or turned on.


    "I want you to do it willingly, yes," he says.


    "And if I say no?"


    "Then you finish your dinner, and leave, no strings attached."


    "Except I won''t get the house."


    He ignores my statement, offering the servers who bring our next course - shrimp and steak - a crowd-winning smile. From the way they''re looking at him, they''ve got to know who he is and that he''s using this restaurant as a setting for shady business deals. By the way they keep their eyes down and say very little, I don''t think they''re about to put up a complaint about what he''s doing. He''s probably paid them well for minimal interruption and autographed napkins for them.


    I push my food around the plate with my fork. I''ve lost my appetite and all I want to do is finish this so I can go home and take a shower. Yet, I hear myself ask, "You won''t make me have sex with you?"


    God, why am I even questioning him? I should be running away, not continuing the conversation. Everything about this conversation just screams escort.


    Lucas''s lips curl in a sneer. "I don''t have to pay girls to sleep with me, Sienna, and I''m not going to start with you. I just want you with me, for ten days, answering to my every need. My band''s coming so we can record the last couple songs for the new album. I''m doing a documentary with a film crew. Going to a birthday party where I''ll perform in Atlanta for a very close friend. I need someone to keep me organized."


    "And that person is me because you want to make me your little - "


    He leans forward, pressing one finger over my mouth. Instinct kicks in and I try to lick my lips, grazing his flesh instead. "Assistant," he says. "And yes, it is you. It''s always been you. You do this for me, I hand you the deed to the house and your grandmother doesn''t get evicted. I''ll go back to California and everyone will be happy."


    "And no making me do sexual favors?" I ask one final time.


    His lips curl up into a hungry smile and I know there''s a caveat. "Oh, we''ll fuck Sienna. Believe me, it''s been bound to happen since I first laid eyes on you. But this time it''s going to be because you beg me. Not the other way around. And when you do beg me, it''s because you''re consensual and ready to completely give yourself to me."


    Squaring my shoulders, I sit back stiffly on my side of the booth, glaring down at my plate full of food. "I see."


    He slides a folded square of paper across the table. I open it to reveal his name, a phone number, and a time written in precise handwriting.


    9:00 pm.


    "The offer''s on the table until tomorrow night."

 Page 6

    There''s not much else to discuss after Lucas gives me his ultimatum, so once again I ask to be taken home. This time he chooses to grant my request. Lucas sends Kylie a text message and true to her word, she comes back to the fondue restaurant to drive me back. She chats nervously to me as she steers the Escalade through the stop-and-go traffic on West End. I''m hesitant to talk. She''ll only turn around and snitch to Lucas. If I say anything to her, every word that comes out of my mouth will be filed into the mental folder he''s keeping on me.


    That''s the last thing I need right now.Advertisement


    Releasing an exasperated moan, Kylie punches a button on the radio, cutting the rock song that''s blasting through the SUV off in the middle of the guitar solo. "Would you just say something? Cuss me out and call me a vicious bitch if you want, but don''t ignore me." I hear the flick of a lighter, smell the menthol scent of her cigarette. I exaggerate a cough, even though I grew up around smokers and had gone through my Marlboro stage in high school. "My ex-husband used to do that ignoring shit, and it sucks. Bad," Kylie tells me, sniffling.


    Apparently, we have something in common because Preston used the same tactics on me but it''s still not enough to change my resolve. I press the side of my face to the cold window, sliding my teeth together.


    "You don''t understand how Lucas gets when he wants something like he wants you," she continues once she realizes I''ve got no intention of talking to her.


    So it''s her job to go out and herd the submissive redhead in? Wonderful. Doesn''t she understand that I''m not some object her brother can simply click his fingers for and have? That it''s wrong for him to even make me an offer like the one he''s just given me because he''s dangling something that I hold dear over my head?


    At last, Kylie turns the SUV onto the private drive to get to my grandmother''s home. Instead of parking the Escalade halfway down the driveway, as she did at the beginning of this evening, she drops me off right at the door.


    Before I get out, she grabs my wrist. I try to tug away but she tightens her grip. What was with their family and the unwelcome touching? She flips on the interior lights, and I turn halfway in the leather seat to look at her. Kylie''s gorgeous - in an untraditional way - but right now her face looks 20 years older with the way her features are all bunched up in distress.


    Maybe I shouldn''t have ignored her.


    Then I admonish myself for thinking that. This is the second time this evening I''ve felt bad for offending Kylie and if this time is anything like the first, she''s about to punch me square in the vagina.


    "Just hear me out," she says, her voice steely. The hardness doesn''t reach her brown eyes. "There shouldn''t even be a question of whether or not you''ll do this. Luke can be a jerk - I''ll be the first to admit that -but he''s offering you an ass load of money to spend 10 days with him. I don''t know the specific terms of the deal he offered you for working for him, and God, I don''t ever want to know, but it has to be worth all this." She releases my hand then gestures up at the house.


    "I''m not a whore," I blurt out. "Nothing''s worth feeling like that."


    She scoffs, shaking her head from side to side. "You''re only what you make yourself. And just so you know, if you were that, my brother wouldn''t waste his time pursuing you. He''s got more class than people give him credit for."


    Her words bother me. My hand flutters up to my neck, my fingertips rubbing anxiously over the soft flesh. My thumb still stings from cutting it on her ring, but it''s nothing compared to the sting in my throat. Reluctantly, she dips her head toward the door.


    "You know how to get in touch with me if you''ve got questions, okay?"


    I step out of the car, letting the crisp February air kiss my skin. I breathe in the scent of exhaust and chimney smoke - my grandmother must have started a fire. "Thanks for bringing me home, Kylie" I say, shutting the car door quietly behind me. I don''t look back at her again, but I hear the Escalade backing away and the angry pulse of heavy metal that''ll probably burst her ear drums before she reaches the main road.


    I''m so not ready to go inside, so I rest my forehead to the wooden front door, letting a few tears fall. Gathering my thoughts.


    What just happened? I almost feel like I''ve witnessed this entire night outside of my body. Almost like I''ll awaken tomorrow morning to discover that I''m still in L.A. and it''s time for me to get my ass to work before Tomas goes into convulsions.


    But then I hear the strains of the television from inside the house - Gram''s favorite reality show. I feel a gust of air hit the spot on my leg where I nicked myself with a razor a couple days ago. Sighing, I let myself into the cabin and lock the doors behind me.


    "I''m home," I say enthusiastically, poking my head into the family room.


    "You sound like you used to when you came home from a date in high school," Gram teases, grinning at me. She''s in her recliner across the room. I''m trying my hardest to make myself look happy but if she were any closer or wearing her glasses, I''d be screwed. "Did you have a good time with Tori?"


    I force a laugh. "Tori is the roommate, Gram - I went out with Kylie. Look, I''m pretty tired from getting up so early this morning so I''m going to head up to shower and read for a bit. Do you need anything before I go to bed?"


    Clearing her throat, her smile fades away. "Seth spoke to me earlier."


    "Oh," I manage to say. Did he say anything to her about what he and I talked about early today? It''s just like Seth to change his mind about a confrontation and try to wheedle a confession out of Gram anyway.


    "He wants the three of us to go house-hunting tomorrow," she says, and I mouth an inaudible "Oh." She takes a tremulous lungful of air, and stares down at her hands. "I''ve told him I''ll go as long as I have you two with me."


    "Always, Gram," I say. My feet automatically carry me to her, and I squat down to give her a long hug. Then, I kiss her cheek, being cautious not to look her in the eyes. I don''t want her to see where I''ve been crying. "Night."


    As I climb the stairs, it feels like I''m dragging a hundred pounds right along with me. I sit in the shower with my arms wrapped securely around my knees, allowing the hot water to serve as a diversion from thinking about and wanting Lucas. Even after everything that happened in the fondue restaurant and how confused he made me feel, just hearing his name in my head causes the pit of my belly to tighten.


    I don''t stop the water until I''m coughing, choking, from the steam. Then I simply remain where I''m resting, listening to the shrill ping of water dripping from the faucet and falling onto the porcelain.


    I''m shivering by time I crawl into bed but my body is on fire.


    And sleep - it doesn''t come because that momentary distraction I sought when getting into the shower is gone. Now I''m breathless and aching for a man who sees me as nothing other than an object he can easily win.


    I wake up to messages from Tori. My best friend is worried because I haven''t called or texted and she''s afraid I''ve fallen prey to Lucas''s charms. Groaning at just how close her assumption is to being true, I compose a reassuring email letting her know that I''m okay. I say nothing about Lucas because even 2,000 miles away from me, she''s got an insane ability of picking up on a concerning situation.


    Once I''m happy with the message, I hit send. Almost immediately I receive a new message notification, this one from Kylie Martin. Her message is simple and only one line:


    I''m so sorry for putting you through that.


    K


    It takes me twice as long to figure out what to say to her. Finally, I send her a short, but pleasant, message that reads: Don''t sweat it, I''m fine. Please thank Lucas for dinner for me.


    Then I change into a pair of skinny jeans and a dolman sweater. I grab my boots from the floor and walk barefooted downstairs. Gram is already eating breakfast and Seth''s with her.


    "Good . . . morning?" Considering my brother is here, I have to double-check the time on my cell phone. It''s 15 minutes until 9am. I wasn''t aware that Seth even knew there were hours between two in the morning and noon, but I guess he''s proven me wrong. "You''re up early."


    "You don''t look happy to see me," he pouts through giant bites of cereal. He''s wearing a baseball cap and a faded Polo shirt, and I''m instantly reminded of the frat boys in college who wore tiny shorts and boat shoes year-round.


    "Of course I am." I sit down in a chair at the middle of the table, flicking my eyes back and forth between Gram and my brother. I spend a good minute trying to come up with reasons why Seth is here. Then I remember what my grandmother said last night before I sulked up to my room, and I thunk myself in the forehead with my palm. "House-hunting?"


    They nod in unison.


    "You hung over, Si?" Seth asks mockingly as I scoot the chair I''m sitting in out so that I can put my shoes on. I cast a glare at him. He holds his hands up in front of him, defensively.


    "I don''t drink," I say darkly, jerking one of my leather riding boots onto my foot, then the other. I consider calling him out for the empty Jose Cuervo bottle I found in his center console, but then Gram gives us both pleading looks, and I squash the urge. There''s no need to upset her just because I''m irritated with Seth.


    Of course, my little brother is not at all the driving force behind my bad mood.


    As much as I dislike admitting it, I''m still fuming and bothered by Lucas. He effortlessly managed to make me come undone during one meal together - I don''t want to imagine what he''s capable of doing to my head and heart and body in the course of ten days, like he''s proposing.


    It wouldn''t be good for me.


    If seeing Seth out of bed early was a surprise, my heart almost stops when he reveals that he''s already taken the initiative to set up appointments at available places throughout the city. He insists we take his truck. He''s cleaned it out since the last time I was in it a few days ago, but it smells damp and suspiciously like spiced rum and vomit.


    Gram notices it, too, because she sniffs a few times but doesn''t say anything.


    As we drive to the first location, I try to steer the conversation we''re having about Seth''s school schedule - it''s boring - away from my brother delving into what Gram does on Tuesdays. He catches my gaze in the rearview mirror, giving me an angry, questioning look after I change the subject yet again to the Tennessee Titans because he knows I''m not a football fan. "Stop it," I mouth at him. Today is going to be hard enough for Gram as it is, so I don''t want him adding any more stress by bringing up Mom.


    But sooner or later, before I return to California, I''ll speak to her about it.


    Alone.


    The owner, a woman named Tiffany Bernard, who meets us at the first house has a megawatt smile that''s locked into a wrinkle and emotion-free face. She extends her French-manicured hand to Gram the moment we exit the truck.


    Mrs. Bernard gets five minutes into her pitch - and it''s a good one because the house is amazing with hardwood floors, a great neighborhood, and is only one story - and then she asks about rental and ownership history.


    Ashamed, Gram looks down at a dark spot of tile. "My home was recently foreclosed," she says in a shaky voice.


    Mrs. Bernard''s smile doesn''t change, but I can tell that the pleasant atmosphere has shifted. She speeds through the rest of the showing, giving us barely enough time to look at each room. At the end of the tour, I thank her and ask for a copy of the rental agreement. Despite the owner''s frosty attitude, Gram really seems to like the house and if I have to, I can place the rental contract under my name. The only thing I''ve ever bought using credit was a used ''04 Mercury sedan that I paid off late last year.


    Mrs. Bernard gives me her creepy Botox smile. "It''s available on our website, dear," she says sweetly and I realize that it doesn''t matter if we put the rental contract under the governor''s name - this woman wants nothing to do with us.


    Gram thanks her and says we''ll be in touch. On the way to the truck, I lag behind to walk with Seth, hissing, "Did you find that house on a website?"


    "Craigslist," he says in a gravelly house.


    The next two rental properties are just as disastrous. One realtor completely overlooks Gram, reaching past her to shake my hand instead and finally looking at her like a nuisance when I point out that I''m not the one looking for a place to live. The final property is an overpriced townhouse that smells so strongly like animal urine, Seth steps in and right back out, shaking his head.


    My brother and I pool our resources - well, I offer some money and I guess he donates some of my cash, too, considering he owes me - and take Gram to lunch at a fancy restaurant in Franklin,one of the suburbs a half an hour outside of the city. Gram points out that the last time she came here was before our grandfather passed away two years ago, but she doesn''t so much as smile. Throughout the entire meal, there''s a heavy silence that bears down on all of us.


    "John built that house for me as a gift for having" - she swallows, as if it hurts her to say the name that follows - "Rebecca. We had offers from country music stars and celebrities for that house because it was truly his best work, but it was our home. Our life."


    "Gram . . ."


    She forces a bright smile and nibbles on an oversized roll. "Now that he''s gone, she''s gone, I''m not sure at all if it even matters anymore."


    But it does. It always will. And I feel miserable that she has to go through this. I feel like I should be doing everything I can to prevent her from having to suffer, just like she''s done so much to protect me.


    Upon our return to the cabin and after Seth leaves, Gram claims exhaustion again. My eyes follow her as she disappears upstairs and the door to her bedroom creaks closed. Almost as clear as day, I hear Kylie''s comment to me from yesterday evening echoing in my head.


    The deal . . . it has to be worth all this.


    Before I can chicken out and change my mind, I fish the sheet of paper Lucas gave me from the bottom of my bag and walk outside. Pacing the driveway, I make the call.


    I listen to his pretentious ringback tone - one of Your Toxic Sequel''s dirtier songs - and I hope he doesn''t answer.


    Pray he refuses to acknowledge my call.


    At least then I''ll be able to say that I gave it my best shot.


    But then the song abruptly stops playing and Lucas comes on the line. "You changed your mind," he says in a gentle voice.


    "Ten days?" I ask.


    "Yes."


    "How soon do I start?"


    He takes a long pause before he answers me, and I almost think that he''s thought better of the whole offer and decided to take it off the table. I''m grinding my teeth together when he responds, "Kylie''s leaving first thing in the morning, so it would probably be best if you come tomorrow. I''ll have my attorney fix up the contract."


    "So you don''t try to fuck me on the house."


    He chuckles, a ferociously sexy sound that caresses my body with heat. I pace faster. "Of course. Bad for business to do it any other way."


    "Right," I hear myself say.


    "Message Kylie your email address so I can send you training instructions tonight - I''m guitar shopping. At Gibson right now."


    As if to prove his location to me or to taunt me because he remembers just how he was able to drive my body, my senses, to a breaking point with only his guitar and voice two years ago, he strums out the opening of - and I kid you not - a Britney Spears song.


    It''s the same song that had been playing when I changed the radio in his car the night I went home with him. He''d humored me for a minute or two, and then rolled his eyes, jabbing a button on the steering wheel to switch the station back to rock.


    "You into pop?" he''d asked, giving me a sideways glance. When I nodded, he said, "Figures. Come on, I''ll play you all the bubblegum shit you could ever dream of." And he had - my own private show as we sat on the granite countertops in his spacious kitchen. He only stopped playing every so often to pop a strawberry into my mouth or his or to trail his lips, his teeth, up my thighs.


    And then later . . . well, shortly after he was through playing for me, I found myself in the backseat of a taxi, furious and crying like a fool.


    "You''re sending me training?" I finally ask, thrusting the memory of the near-sex experience with Lucas out of my head. When he stops strumming the guitar abruptly, murmuring to someone with him in the Gibson store, it makes keeping my thoughts in the here and now that much simpler. I begin to ask him if Kylie''s job is really that intense to need specific instructions, but then I recall all the events and traveling that he''s got to do over the next 10 days. And how our deal is contingent upon one major aspect:


    Me being obedient, doing exactly as he says for the duration of the week and a half.


    "I am," he confirms. There''s a smile in his voice. "So you''re mine?"


    Fighting back fear and pride and something else that causes my heart to beat erratically, I shiver and say, "Yes, I''m yours."

 Page 7

    Lucas doesn''t wait until the evening to get the list of training instructions to me. The email shows up in my inbox rapidly, less than a couple hours after I send Kylie a Facebook message with my email address. Lucas has personally sent it himself, along with a short note that makes my breasts tingles and my nipples harden with excitement.


    Miss Jensen,Advertisement


    As promised, I''ve attached the training instructions. Look over them. Learn them. Don''t forget the deal you''re making.


    Can''t say I''m not looking forward to the next several days. I''ve already got this vivid idea of how you''ll taste after you''ve said the words. How you''ll feel when I''m inside of you. Have you imagined it yet?


    -Lucas


    Without thinking, I reply and ask him if workplace sexual harassment laws apply to being employed by a cocky rockstar.He responds while I''m opening the training instruction attachment.


    Why? Do you feel intimidated by me?


    No, not in the way he''s referring to. I feel drawn to Lucas. I know for a fact I shouldn''t allow myself to give in to my attraction to him because it''s one of those things where there''s no possibility of a happy ending. Even if we wanted to be together for something more than sex, it''s impossible thanks to his career and the steady influx of women he comes in contact with. That''s what''s so damn intimidating and frightening about him.


    I''m shocked to discover that Lucas''s "list" is in reality a multiple page Word document that''s contains more black writing than empty white space. Sighing, I tote my laptop downstairs, grab a bottle of water and an apple from the kitchen, and set up shop in the family room. I place my computer on the coffee table and open the document. Reading every word carefully, I study the instructions laid out for me. As I read, my skin grows more and more flushed, until it''s hot to the touch.


    When Lucas said he wants me to submit to him, he wasn''t shitting me.


    "You will report to me at 8am sharp on Thursday morning. You will live with me in the residence of my choosing for approximately 10 days, which includes but is not limited to my current rental and hotels, etc. during out of town business," I read aloud in a soft whisper. "You will be provided your own room."


    My chest clenches up because I realize that I''ll have to say a temporary goodbye to Gram. Hello will be so incredible when I return, though, I remind myself, picturing her face when I slide the deed to the house into her hands and tell her she doesn''t have to worry about having to move.


    "You will consent to carry an electronic tablet for the purpose of note-taking and a cell phone provided to you by myself and reply to any calls or messages in a timely manner. You are not to give this number out to personal acquaintances." A special cell phone and iPad? Just . . . wow. I shake my head incredulously. "While you are in my service, you will awaken no later than 7am unless otherwise discussed."


    Further down the page, there''s information on my public uniform - all black, either pants or dress, it''s my choice along with dark underwear, though I''m not sure why that matters - and private and public protocol. I''m to call him Mr. Wolfe or. . . .


    I scroll to the next page and my heart beats a little faster as I whisper, "Sir."


    On the final page, the fourth page, the training is broken down into categories and what''s expected of me: Physical and Mental and Verbal.


    Personal appearance and concentration and speech restriction. Under no circumstances am I to speak to the press or paparazzi, though I''ve never seen a paparazzo in Nashville and the last thing I want to do is seek them out.


    The next category is Punishment and Discipline, but there''s not a single instruction to be found beneath the heading save for three words that send a trill of excitement through me: "To be discussed."


    "You are so not spanking me, Sir," I murmur.


    The two final categories are Sexual Training and Emotional Training. There are strikethroughs through both, but I wish he''d simply removed them from the document all together because they give me thoughts that I''m not quite sure I dislike. Thoughts that make me wet and confused.


    As I send Lucas an email, informing him that I''ve read over the instructions and will follow them to the best of my ability, I realize something that would almost make me giggle if the situation were any different.


    On the last Your Toxic Sequel album, the final song on the CD was called "Your Master." I remember the first time I listened to it, on the way to work one morning on a radio station that censored a quarter of the lyrics, and how Lucas''s every other word made me fidget in my seat. Now, I can vividly picture Mr. Wolfe going through this list of instructions and changing every reference to himself from "Your Master" to what''s currently in front of me.


    Because most of what''s here in front of me was in that song, leaving me to wonder who the hell he wrote it about in the first place.


    I lie to my grandmother about where I''m going.


    It''s the third time this trip that I''ve deliberately lied to her, the third time I''ve let something dealing with Lucas make me be dishonest with the one person I''ve always been upfront with, and I feel like shit when I do. I convince myself that I''m doing this for her own good, and it''s better to let her believe something else entirely than to misinterpret the truth.


    I''m taking the same approach with Tori. After I first agreed to go along with Lucas''s deal a few hours ago, I immediately picked up the phone to call her. As soon as she picked up, though, I froze. She''s been warning me since I arrived in Tennessee to avoid Lucas like the plague and sure enough, one of the first things she asked was if "Shithead" had been in touch again.


    I told her he hasn''t but made a promise to myself that I''ll fill her in on everything that''s happened during this trip the moment I step foot off my flight home to California. At least then I''ll be able to explain the motives behind my decision face to face instead of over a bad connection.


    "And you''re sure your boss needs you back already?" Gram asks me, gazing across the narrow trail at me.


    I take a few more steps forward so I don''t have to meet her stare and let the cold wind slap me in the face before I continue with my story. "Just a little over a week. The other wardrobe girl has gotten ridiculously sick and it''s important for me to go back so nobody ends up jobless."


    It took me half an hour to come up with a story that made sense and couldn''t be easily ripped to shreds if Seth decided to stop being lazy and do some research. Once I had my lie prepared, it had taken me an additional forty-five minutes of practicing in front of my mirror so that I could sound convincing. Once I was prepared, I convinced Gram to take an early evening walk with me.


    "That''s a shame they don''t have someone who''s willing to take both your places for a little while."


    I rush to reassure her. "It''s totally fine, Gram - it''s just that wardrobe is such a picky business and my boss is. . .. Well, he''s Tomas. Don''t worry about a thing, okay? I''ll be back here to help you here before anything else is done to this place."


    Mouthing a silent "Ah", she nods her head understandingly. "You do so much for everyone else, Sienna."


    I wish she wouldn''t say things like that when I''m lying to her face!


    "And this is coming from the most selfless person I know," I point out, pulling my bobble cap down further onto my ears to cover how hot they feel.


    Gram flushes, the sullen expression she''s been wearing for the past couple days slowly giving way to a look that''s both shy and pleased. "Do you need me to drive you to the airport in the mor - "


    "No!" When her blue eyes expand, I squeeze my hands together and reply in a more collected voice. "It''s an early flight so it''s probably best I just call a taxi."


    "But it''s so expensive to call a cab, I really don''t mind."


    "Don''t worry, my boss is totally covering the expenses back," I say. And another lie because I''m totally full of them today. Gram easily accepts each one and as she does, I feel more awful, more helpless, and more doomed.


    I pray with all my might that in spite of the fact I''ll be working for Lucas Wolfe, rockstar extraordinaire and Asshat, Gram will never find out any of the details surrounding this charade that''s less than twenty-four hours from going down.


    While my grandmother and I are eating a late dinner - I invited Seth but he called at the last minute to back out - Kylie stops by unannounced. To be honest, I''m grateful for the interruption. I prepared the meal of baked chicken breast and steamed vegetables and I''m the lousiest cook I''ve ever met.


    Kylie comes bearing a gift for Gram, an oversized Valentine''s Day edible arrangement, and a bottle of French champagne for me. "Told you my boss gives me free reign with his credit card," Kylie says, flashing a hopeful look that''s brimming with apology. I respond with a brisk bob of my head. To Gram, she smiles sweetly and asks, "Do you mind if I speak to Sienna for a few minutes? I swear I won''t keep her for too long."


    Gram''s more interested in the chocolate dipped strawberries, so she shoos us away. I usher Kylie out to the front porch, where she lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply as if it''s her very last one and she''s expecting the apocalypse at any moment. "I''m giving them up next week - hence, the vacation to New Orleans," she explains, firing up a second one. "You don''t even want to know what my friend Heidi''s sacrificing this year. Don''t judge me."


    "Wouldn''t think of it."


    Kylie slows her roll on the cigarette she''s presently smoking, slides one of her palms in the back pocket of her paint-splashed jeans, and says self-consciously, hopefully, "I''m guessing I''m not on your shit list anymore. Or maybe I''ve been upgraded to your mini-shit list."


    "Don''t hold grudges for too long," I say. Of course, that''s a lie, but I don''t feel at all bad about hiding things from Kylie. The truth is, I still hold a grudge against my mom for the things she did to my grandparents and to Seth and me a few years ago, and it probably won''t ever be void, even when Lucas hands me the deed to this house. And damn, I still have to have the talk with Gram about her seeing Mom.


    When I''m done with Lucas, I promise myself. I''ll talk to her when I''m done earning back the house, and if I have to, I''ll drive myself to the prison and talk to Mom too.


    Or let her talk down to me, which is probably what my mother is waiting for anyway.


    I hug myself to keep from trembling at the thought itself. I haven''t seen my mom in a long time because of the way she''s able to dig her claws into my self-esteem with only a few words. I already know that opening up that corroded relationship again just to try and warn her away from my grandmother is a horrible idea. I mean, I only speak to my dad once or twice a month and he''s my normal parent.


    "You''re worried," Kylie says.


    Pushing myself away from the toxic thoughts that have started to rot my mood, I look across the porch at her. She''s staring at me attentively as she takes slow drags of her menthol cigarette. "Why do you say that?"


    "You''re grinding your teeth."


    I hadn''t even realized I was doing it this time. Running my tongue along the smooth surface of my teeth, I manage a lame, "Oh."


    "You''re going to ruin them," she says emphatically. "And Lucas will probably make you buy a mouth guard." As soon as the sentence leaves her mouth, her cheeks turn the color of my hair and she polishes off the cigarette in two elongated puffs.


    If she hadn''t blushed, I wouldn''t think anything of what she''s said, but now . . . "Why does he want to do it?" I ask, referring to his need to possess me.


    Kylie leans against a wooden post, her face drawn together as if she''s deep in thought. After a while she says, "I don''t question anything he does with his girlfriends or - "


    "I''m not his girlfriend; I''ll only be his personal assistant." I say. I want to add just like you but even I know that my role is the complete opposite of what Kylie''s is.


    He''s already sworn my role will eventually transcend that of his personal assistant, and that I''ll be the one begging for it to happen.


    "Yeah, I know. Look, if you''re wondering about his vices, ask him about it. Nobody is going to tell you better than Luke himself. Personally, Lucas''s personal life is one of those squick things for me. I''m sure you understand."


    I think of digging through Seth''s center console and I find myself wrinkling my nose and bobbing my head back and forth. "So why''d you come here tonight?" I ask, suddenly desperate to change the subject.


    "A few reasons, actually. First, I wanted to wish you good luck and tell you I''m so glad you''re doing this. Every time you think of quitting . . . just think of how happy you''ll make her." She pauses for a moment, either for dramatic effect or to give me time to sort out what she''s said or perhaps both. I don''t want to process her words because then all I''ll be able to do is stress over why she''s warning me already not to give up on the job.


    "Second, I wanted to tell you to watch out for the band. Because you will meet them. And they will act like man-sluts. I don''t give a shit what any of them tell you, if they make you feel weird or uncomfortable, send me a message."


    And now Kylie''s succeeded in making me feel like I''m going on my first date and my mom is telling me not to let the horny boy touch my boobs. Wonderful. I give her a smile that I just know looks lopsided and awkward.


    "But most of all I came to give you this" She slides a stiff white card with an address written on it in loopy handwriting into my hand. I wasn''t even aware anyone still used cursive. "So you can know where to go tomorrow. And so I could apologize in person for last night." She motions her chin toward the house. "And I brought you a peace offering, though I''m sure your grandma is in there getting sloshed right now. That champagne is that good. Hell, I buy it for my parents and they''re youth ministers."


    Lucas and Kylie''s folks. Ministers. Wow.


    "Courtesy of your expense account?" I tease, trying to hide my disbelief at what she''s just told me. She nods, grinning. "And let me guess, the trip to New Orleans is a company-paid vacation."


    "Oh hell yes."


    I find myself laughing right along with Kylie, the ministers'' daughter, and Lucas''s younger sister - the same blue-haired woman who deceived me last night all for the sake of helping him obtain what he wants. I can''t hold a grudge against her.


    Lucas is just . . . a force that not many people can reckon with, least of all either of us.


    "Well, thanks. For, you know, making me feel like an eighth grader. And for the offering, of course." This time, I mean it. I fully intend on getting a little sloshed myself on the champagne she brought me.


    Because starting to tomorrow, while Mr. Wolfe is taking pleasure in training me as his assistant, I will begin counting down the days until the deed is in my hands.

 Page 8

    I don''t sleep well. I''m fitful and nervous about the coming days so it takes no physical effort at all to leave the comfort of my bed behind at 5am. The force holding me back is mental, emotional, and I take my time carefully making the bed, running my fingertips over the worn pink and orange comforter as I smooth it out over the sheets.


    "Jesus Christ, Jensen, pull your shit together," I mutter to myself, clenching a large chunk of fabric in either hand and then re-tucking it. By the way I''m acting, you''d think it were the last time I''ll ever see Gram''s house and not like I''m going only six miles up the road.Advertisement


    To a house where I''m expected to do as I''m told, but still.


    After I open up an Internet radio station, I flip my suitcase open and set about the tedious task of pulling my clothes down from the hangers and neatly storing them into the bag. As I work, I sit as many of my black items of clothing aside.


    Black drop waist dress that I''ve only worn once.


    Ankle pants and a tight black cardigan, a lace edged camisole.


    The flutter sleeve top I wore when I first came her and the 4-inch pumps that Tori swears make my legs look amazing but I''ve always been skeptical because they boost me up to well over 6 feet. The tweed pencil skirt, too, which is charcoal gray, but I doubt he''ll notice.


    The music straining softly from my laptop switches to another song - an older Your Toxic Sequel sex ballad called "Crave It".Automatically, the corners of my lips drag up into a nervous smile because of the irony of it all.


    "I''ll hold out ''til you crave it," Lucas Wolfe sings and tingles that border pain and pleasure streak through me, from my nipples to between my legs.


    "Ten days," I muse aloud. "I can hold out on your ass for ten days." I pad into the bathroom, shrugging out of the spaghetti strap tank top and shorts I wore to bed last night. The tips of my thumbs skim over the dampness in the skimpy pink shorts, and I shiver. "I mean, I''ve worked for Tomas for more than 10 months."


    Of course, Tomas is a short, balding guy prone to temper tantrums and breaking things. Lucas Wolfe is a rock god with the ability to inspire spontaneous wetness just by me listening to him over Internet radio. Lucas Wolfe is a gorgeous and infuriating and unavoidable man prone to . . .


    Dominant behavior.


    Pressing my forehead against the shower wall, I support myself with my forearm and let the downpour of water beat down upon me, first icy cold and then so hot my skin screams. Neither really bothers me at all. My mind focuses on Lucas, on whether today and the nine following it will work well in my favor.


    I''m still thinking of Lucas when my fingertips push past my damp folds, seeking out my swollen clit. My breath catches in my throat as I draw the sensitive flesh between my thumb and forefinger, carefully rubbing my fingers in a back and forth motion. Slip and slide. Forward and back. My knees buckle, and I moan. Trailing my fingers away from my clit, I slip two inside of me, moving against them. My hipbone beats against the tile wall but I imagine it''s Lucas''s body touching me, his hands digging into my hips as he plunges his cock into my tightness.


    I sink my teeth into the wrist of the arm supporting me to hold back a sob. When I think of his face hovering above mine - and his sweat-dampened hair clinging to my wet skin - I come quick and hard. Slumping, I reach up and grab the shower bar for support. I tell myself that by getting this over now I won''t want him. I won''t let myself be sucked in by the inevitable that he swears by.


    But damn me, he''s still on my mind as I send Tori a message, a brand new lie for yet another person I care about. Hey, I''m still alive. Still immune to Lucas''s charms. Still . . . well, you get the picture. I''ll call you when I get the chance - things are busy around here what with everything going on. Miss you.


    I dress in the ankle pants, the cardigan, and the camisole - all black, just as he''s requested.


    And I wear red underwear beneath my clothes.


    My grandmother insists on preparing breakfast for me, though to be honest, I''m not the least bit hungry. I feel nervous about lying to her. And sick to my stomach whenever I think about the next week and a half. There are millions of tiny butterflies in the pit of my stomach, swarming around, making me more and more nauseous as the time seems to zoom by.


    6:02.


    "I''ve left some clothes in the closet, for my return, so don''t give them to Goodwill, okay." It''s my best attempt to lighten the dark mood that hovers over the dining room table and a poor attempt at that.


    Gram smiles, genuinely, and the corners of her blue eyes crinkle. God, Kylie was right about one thing - there is nothing that''s not worth seeing my grandmother face light up that way.


    "So you''ll certainly be back then," she replies, taking a sip of her black coffee. I can''t mistake the relief in her voice or how her face seems less strained once her smile fades.


    "There''s nothing that can stop me. And then we''ll fix things."


    She laughs. "If determination could win this thing we would be set, sweetheart."


    That''s something else that I''ll have to work on while I''m with Lucas - coming up with what to tell Gram when I suddenly show up with the deed to her house and, quite literally, save the day. I nearly groan out loud because it means I''ll have to tell Gram more lies and dig myself deeper into holes I prefer not to sink my shovel into.


    6:37.


    "Determination and hope have won wars," I say and Gram just smiles, granting me one of those looks she gave me when I was younger and I came up with wistful dreams. While my mom shot them down, my grandmother nurtured it. Even if she didn''t believe something was possible, she never let me know that.


    "Yes, I suppose you''re right."


    More than you''ll ever know.


    6:45.


    The cab driver seems skeptical about taking me to an address that''s in Green Hills, the ritzy part of Nashville, especially since Gram tells me to have a safe flight right in front of him. I tell him I''ve got to make a stop to visit a friend, and that they''ll take me to the airport, though I don''t know why I feel the need to explain myself to him. The long driveway to the palatial corner lot mansion is gated, but Lucas quickly answers the intercom.


    "It''s me," I say, blushing when the cab driver gives me a knowing look in the rearview mirror. A second later, the gate buzzes and the driver pulls forward.


    The home itself is stunning - three stories and all brick, with a long, high fence encompassing the back yard. Over the years, I''ve retained very little information from the days I spent helping my grandfather in the office of his construction business, but I know enough to definitively say this house is Euro style.


    And probably worth more than I''ll make in my entire life, save for the house Lucas has promised me, but then again that''s not really mine.


    I''m almost reluctant to let go of the $40 the cab driver collects from me - my bank account is just that pathetic - but I take a deep breath, reassure myself again that it''s only money. For some reason, when words like that come from me, they don''t have nearly the same effect as when Lucas says them so flippantly.


    It''s 8:04 when I ring the doorbell. To my surprise, Lucas''s attorney opens the door - the male lawyer. I wonder if Boobs McBeal is inside the house, too, but I hope like crazy she''s not. I''m not in the mood to witness her jutting her breasts out toward Lucas first thing this morning.


    "I''m Court Holder and you must be Ms. Jensen," he says pleasantly, taking my hand into his as soon as he closes and locks the door behind us. As he activates the security system on the wall behind him, I decide that his name has got to be the most kickass lawyer''s name I''ve ever heard in my life. "I''ve heard so much about you."


    My body freezes in place. What exactly has Court Holder heard about me? The idea of Lucas revealing details about me to his attorney is enough to make me sweat. I mutter my mantra over and over again in my head to keep from turning around and saying screw this.


    It has to all be worth this.


    "Nice to know Lucas - I mean, Mr. Wolfe - talks up all his help," I reply through a clenched smile.


    Court chuckles, reaching out his hands to take my suitcase. My fingertips brush across his palms as we make the exchange. His hands are smooth and his fingers are neatly manicured, the opposite of Lucas''s calloused hands. Placing my Coach suitcase with its worn, brown leather piping at the foot of the stairs, Court tells me that the couple who comes to clean every afternoon will take it in the room Lucas designates to me. Then, motioning me to follow him, he ushers me through the house.


    "This contract is ready for your signature," he explains, and I bob my head in understanding. "You will, of course, agree to take over Ms. Wolfe-Martin''s duties until she returns and then I''ll assist Mr. Wolfe in initiating the transaction to return Mrs. Previn''s home. The contract is extremely . . . simple." But another word hangs in the air, and silently, I mutter it.


    Generous.


    Does the contract mention anything specific from the instruction list I received yesterday evening? My agreement to obey, to listen, to Mr. Wolfe in exchange for the house? Our mutual agreement about emotions and sex?


    Unless I ask for it, I''m safe from his affections, and I''ve already decided that I''ll fight the temptation with all my might.


    As Court and I navigate our way towards the very back of the house, I take in the place I''ll be living in over the next couple days at least. There are photos and awards lining the walls of several of the rooms, and when we pass through the living room, I notice a giant image of a short man in a suit along with the members of Your Toxic Sequel and the lead singer of Wicked Lambs, Cilla Craig. She and Lucas have their arms around each other, and my stomach hardens.


    "Their record producer?" I ask Court, pausing in front of the photo. I choose to ignore the sliver of jealousy I felt a second ago.


    Jutting his square chin out, Court corrects me. "The executive. It''s his house, and I''m his personal attorney, of course." He sounds incredibly proud of himself for being able to handle everything from carrying out eviction proceedings to acting as an entertainment attorney.


    I consider patting him on the back, but I stop myself, locking my fingers in an uncomfortable angle by my side. This attorney will be handling the transfer of property once I''ve fulfilled my agreement with Lucas. The last thing I want to do is piss him off thanks to some sudden burst of rebellion and cause a delay in the whole freaking process.


    Smiling sweetly, I say, "It''s a beautiful house."


    "I live right up the block," he tells me in an almost superior tone. "In the Tudor."


    Lucas is waiting for me in an office with bamboo flooring and a high ceiling. He looks every bit the kickass rockstar with his shaggy dark hair tousled about, distressed jeans, and a vintage Pink Floyd t-shirt, but he''s so much more that.


    Seated behind the L-shaped desk with his hands clasped together, he''s all business. All in control.


    Suddenly, I''m tingling all over.


    "It''s 8:10," Lucas points out, standing up. "You agreed to be here at 8am."


    I take a tentative step forward. Then another until I''m on the other side of the desk with my thighs pressed against the hardwood. I stare up into Lucas''s eyes and say, "Sorry, Lu - Mr. Wolfe - my taxi was late picking me up from my grandmother''s place."


    His hazel eyes seem to go from green to toxic brown in a matter of seconds. "Do you make excuses like this to Tomas Costa?" he asks me, his voice dark. Oh God, he knows my bosses full name? Has he contacted Tomas? What else has he discovered about me? "I play music but I''ve got the same expectations as any other employer you''ve had. Probably more. Do you understand?"


    I nod. "Yes," I whisper, and when his eyebrow shoots up, I quietly add, "Mr. Wolfe."


    He gives me a smile as if he wants to eat me, and then motions Court - who''s lagged cautiously behind and is staring between the two of us with the blankest face he can manage - forward. "We''re ready to sign the contracts," he says.


    Court produces three copies of the document from the expensive leather briefcase that''s sitting beside of the plush, black leather couch across from the desk. Hobbling over to us, he hands one copy to Lucas and another to me. Then, he goes over the terms of the agreement, explaining all the technical terms in detail. Lucas pays close attention to everything Court says, even though he''s probably already read over this a hundred times.


    Thankfully, the contract is only a couple pages long, and there''s very little reference to the instructions I''ve received except for a one line blurb. I heave a sigh of relief, pleased that Court Holder has very little - if any knowledge - about just how significant the words like "rules" and "obey" are to this agreement.


    I start to scribble my name across the section for my signature on my copy of the contract but I stop after I''ve written the "A" in my first name. I glance up at Court and Lucas. Lucas gazes down at me expectantly, but Court''s face creases into a frown.


    "Is there something wrong with the language in the - "


    Shaking my head fiercely to each side, I wave my hand in protest. "No, no, nothing like that, it''s just that . . ." I roll my tongue back and forth in my mouth to get rid of the sudden case of dry mouth and drop my eyes back down to the papers on the desk. "I want to make sure none of this will be mentioned to my grandmother."


    "Maybe it would help if you looked up when you''re talking," Lucas says in a voice that''s sympathetic and strong. Commanding


    Slowly, I drag my eyes back up. Lucas is leaning back, his body at ease, his smile satisfied. "I want your word that nothing about this agreement will get back to my grandma or her attorney, Richard Nielson."


    Court begins stuttering, so Lucas confidently takes the reigns to answer my question. "Although Court is bound by attorney and client privilege, I''ve went ahead and had him sign another agreement. Trust me, if he wants to keep his practice and all his cash cows, he knows better."


    Court laughs - a nervous, cough-ridden sound - as I finish scrawling my name. I complete the other two copies and afterward, he and Lucas do the same. Then Court claims he''s got to go - client meeting in an hour - and Lucas smiles at him dismissively.


    Feeling a little overwhelmed, a little wary, and utterly confused, I turn my attention away from the door and to Lucas when he clears his throat. "And now they are official," he says, his voice and eyes far away.


    That they are.

 Page 9

    The downstairs bedroom that I''m given - conveniently located a few rooms over from the office - is nearly twice the size of my bedroom across town. Just like most of the rest of the house, it has wall to wall bamboo flooring and smells like lemon cleaner. Unlike the remainder of the house, there''s a high, cathedral ceiling with skylights. Lucas explains that this is the record executive''s college-aged daughter''s room as he slides my bags in the closet. He''d insisted on going to the front of the house and grabbing them for me, telling me how he prefers to bother the housekeepers with as little as possible. When I argued with him that I was capable of carrying my own shit, he gave me a frigid, piercing look.


    I''d lunged for the suitcase anyway.Advertisement


    "You''re not even halfway into our agreement, Sienna," he said, plucking the bag from my hands and stalking toward my bedroom. If I hadn''t followed closely behind him, I wouldn''t have heard him add, "And I already want to punish you for not showing up on time, so don''t fucking push me."


    Drawing my mind away from how the authority in his voice had made my face tingle, how I wasn''t sure if it was from nervousness or irritation, I clear my throat and say, "If you''re staying in their house, where are they?" Whoever they are.


    He sits down on the sofa at the food of the bed. "Artie Morgan, the owner, and his new wife are vacationing in Ireland and his daughter''s at school. Vanderbilt student," he says. I''m not sure I like the fact that I''m holing up in a room that belongs to someone who may potentially know my little brother. I make a move to sit down, but Lucas shakes his head slowly to each side. "Not a chance. You''ve got work to do, Sienna. No sitting on your ass."


    Seething, I return with him to the plush office a few doors over. "Stand there," he orders, pointing to an area in front of the desk. Lucas seems pleased that I comply without as much as a whimper. "You read the instructions, right?" he asks, digging in one of the desk drawers in search of something. His unkempt hair flops over his face. It gives him an almost vulnerable look, and my fingers tingle to touch the part of his forehead and cheeks it brushes.


    I''ll save wants like this, ideas like wanting him, for when I go to sleep and keep them far away from my reality.


    "From cover to cover," I answer.


    "Good, these are yours," Lucas says. He hands me a small Best Buy bag, and I reach out and take it. Our fingertips skim, causing the hair on my arms and nape to stand on end.


    I focus all my attention on the contents of the bag - a cell phone and a Samsung tablet - so I don''t spend too much time dwelling on his easy effect on my body. "Mine to keep?"


    He deadpans. "I''m giving you a house. Don''t push your luck, Sienna."


    "What do you want me to do now?" I ask.


    His mouth draws up into a grin. Oh, he''s got me right where he wants me and he''s abso-fucking-lutely loving it. I curse at myself for ever showing my timid nature around him two years ago, yell at myself for showing balls for long enough to go on his radar. When I return his look - an expression that makes my face hurt - his smile fades. He gestures his head toward the leather couch.


    "Sit down, Si, and take those god-awful chopsticks out of your hair."


    I slam my bottom down on the couch and drag the pretty silver hair accessories from my red locks, letting the tangled strands fall in a mess around my shoulders. Lucas is by my side, standing over me, in a matter of seconds. His hand hovers by my face, as if he wants to run his fingers through my long hair, to tug on it, but then he clenches his fingers.


    "I''m not going to touch you," he promises. "I''m not going to have any physical contact until you fucking ask me to."


    "Maybe I won''t," I say. And, though I know it''s cruel, I find myself swishing my hair over my shoulders, and running my fingers through it in an effort to comb out the tangles. I sense when his body goes stiff. He mutters something to his self. I make out a few words like ass and red. "You said that I''m submissive to everyone but you, so maybe - "


    "There''s no maybe to it," he growls between bared teeth. "By time you leave me - if I send you away - you''ll grow a damn backbone and the only person you''ll ever answer to will be me."


    What does he mean by if he sends me away? I want to ask him, but he begins talking, taking long strides back and forth while he explains in detail everything we''re going to do over the course of the next ten days. There''s a photo shoot tomorrow for a magazine spread. Then a film crew is coming in from Los Angeles the day after tomorrow. They''ll be filming him, outside of his personal space, for a documentary that''s being released for a movie about the future of rock and roll. That''s on day four, Sunday -


    Wait - day four?


    When I stop him to ask if he has his days mixed up he shakes his head to each side. "Don''t interrupt. But to answer your question, since you accepted my offer early on yesterday, I''ve decided to be nice and give you credit for it."


    Well this is unexpected. I clack my teeth together, side to side, so I don''t show how surprised I am that he''s taken time off my . . . work schedule. I''m ridiculously grateful, because what he''s decided to do will give me an extra day with Gram once I''m able to return to her cabin.


    "I''m not a total douchebag, Sienna. I do give a shit what happens to you and just so you know, I''ll never, ever humiliate you. That''s never my game."


    There''s a lump in my throat and I choke out a thank you.


    Then his mood changes and he raises an eyebrow almost mockingly, saying, "Now, no more interruption or I really will punish you." I open my mouth, but he holds out a finger in front of him, stopping me from speaking. "God, when will you listen? No, I''m not going to physically punish you because that requires . . ."


    When he nods his head, giving me permission to speak, I whisper, "Touch."


    "And the only way I''ll do that is if . . ."


    "I beg."


    He grants me a smile and then continues giving me a play by play of the schedule for each day after Sunday. Day nine will be a recap of everything I''ve learned and on the final day, ten, he''ll conduct a small assessment. Of what, I''m not sure. "Nothing fucked up or" - he raises his eyebrow wickedly - "too strenuous."


    Yeah, right.


    "Now, tell me what I''ve just told you," he says.


    I make it to day four, knowing that I''ve left out important details, and then I completely falter. "I-I don''t remember."


    "Verbal training," he reminds me, and I flush.


    "Sorry, Lucas."


    I''ve not called him Mr. Wolfe or Sir like he''s asked me to, but instead of pointing this out or correcting me he seems to shrug the mistake off.Maybe today counts as like an orientation. "Let''s try this again, this time" - he pulls a long strip of dark fabric from the same desk drawer he found the Best Buy bag in - "let''s try this." He hands it to me, making sure our skin doesn''t touch.


    "A blindfold?"


    "Yes, a blindfold."


    "I won''t be able to see. And then - "


    "You don''t have to see anything to listen. To speak. To learn."


    I feel like an idiot for even trying to protest because he has a point. I don''t need my eyes for any of those things. Sifting the cloth back and forth between my hands, I ask, "And you want me to put it on right now?"


    "Why else would I give it to you?" Lucas demands, in a husky voice, wiggling his index finger to let me know he''s ready for me to follow through with his request. Hesitantly, I press the fabric to my face, over my eyes, shivering at how soft it feels, how very dangerous.


    As I sit in darkness, I listen carefully, intently, as he repeats our schedule to me. When he finishes, asking me what we''re doing on day seven, I don''t miss a beat. "Wednesday. A tour of your childhood neighborhood and an interview with your parents with the documentary crew in Atlanta."


    He quizzes me a little more, and I ace each question. The entire time he speaks to me, I feel hyperaware of everything around me. It gets to the point where I have to dig my fingernails into my knees because my nerve endings are prickling so fiercely. When I answer Lucas''s final question, my voice trembles. He''s quiet for a long time, but I feel how close his body is to mine as he paces the floor in front of me. Smell his mind-altering scent. My skin flushes.


    "Take off the mask, Sienna," Lucas orders in a strange voice. A moment later, after I''ve slid the blindfold down so that it hangs around my neck like a supple cloth necklace, I raise my blue eyes up. He''s touching the base of his neck and his eyebrows are drawn together. When I stare into his hazel eyes, there''s something there that makes my belly twist into an even tighter knot:


    Hunger.


    The entire mood of the conversation with Lucas seems to shift after I realize he wants me at this very moment. "Sienna?" he whispers.


    My eyes close and my back arches. "Yes . . . sir."


    "You have a license, right?"


    "Why do you - "


    "One word," he says. "It''s a single word answer."


    "Yes."


    "Good. Now you won''t have to spend the rest of your day at the DMV. They''re a pain in the ass."


    "Oh," I say, opening my eyes. I push my hair back from my face with damp hands. I know there''s more that he wants to say to me. With my body still humming from the experience with the blindfold, now would probably be the best time for him to get it off his chest.


    Instead, a few seconds later, Lucas sends me away.


    I''ve done a lot of work - all through high school and college and my job with Tomas - and this is the first time my boss has actually uttered the words "You''re dismissed."


    "Dismissed?"


    "Do I need to have you pull the blindfold back over your eyes? Leave."


    I''m shaken and suddenly a little lightheaded at the way his tone has hardened. Gone is the almost teasing voice he''d taken on while he was admonishing me over my lack of listening skills and drilling his schedule into my head. Now, he just sounds . . . like I''m the biggest nuisance he''s ever met.


    "No sir, no blindfold," I say, a sarcastic edge creeping its way into my voice as I stand up stiffly, and walk past him toward the French doors. When he shuffles his feet, clears his throat just slightly, I know he''s watching me leave.


    He stops me before I step over the threshold, and into the sitting room outside the office. "Kylie''s left a list of her own for you in the smaller office on the bottom floor."


    I nod this time because there''s a massive lump in my throat and I don''t think I could possibly call him sir again without my voice breaking apart and giving away my disappointment. Gripping the Best Buy bag, I clench my teeth and do as he''s asked. I don''t even know why I''m upset to begin with.


    Grabbing my laptop from my bedroom, I take it along with the new phone and tablet Lucas has given me. I find the stairs that lead to the lower section of the house in the kitchen and head down there. It''s cooler in this part of the house, like purposely colder, and my nipples harden under my thin cardigan.


    This whole floor was probably a basement at some point, but the contractor who did the conversion managed to make it look as elegant as the rest of the house. When I pass by a piano room, my letdown from the Lucas debacle momentarily disappears and I creep inside.


    I was never the pianist my mom was - she had wanted to perform before she met and married my dad - but I had taken years of lessons. One of my few incredible memories of her was sitting at the Steinway my grandfather had bought for her when she was a kid. She had guided my fingers to the correct keys, teaching me to play some cheesy eighties song. Of course, twenty minutes later she was yelling at me for tapping a flat instead of a sharp, and my dad was forbidding she ever try to teach me anything ever again, but it was fun while it lasted.


    I''m suddenly aware that I''m quietly playing that eighties song, and I drag my fingers from the keys. Rub my hands down the front of my black pants.


    Leaving the piano room behind, I find the office Kylie''s been using. She''s left me a long list of things I should be aware of such as the email address and password for answering Lucas''s fan mail along with a credit card paper-clipped to a note that reads: Spend to your heart''s content!


    But after I''ve collected Kylie''s folder, I find myself standing in the doorway to the piano room, staring inside. That Steinway piano that had belonged to my mom - it was one of the many things Gram sold to help pay for her legal fees.

 Page 10

    Usually, driving is a therapeutic experience for me. I''ve never taken the Metro in Los Angeles because despite how long my daily commute is, it gives me time to gather my thoughts, flush out any anger from the day. Sometimes, it''s the one chance I have where I feel like I''m in complete control of my life.


    Driving Lucas from point A to point B, though, is almost painful.Advertisement


    "Stop grinding your teeth, Sienna," he says, his voice weaving from the third row - where he insisted on riding so that he could write music in "peace" - up to the driver''s seat to irritate me.


    "It''s stop and go traffic. It''s nerve-wracking," I hiss. Then, reluctantly, I add, "Mr. Wolfe." I won''t mention that Kylie''s notes explicitly said that a car would be sent to take him to the photo shoot this afternoon. That I heard him cancelling said vehicle this morning while I was making myself a cup of coffee. Or that the only reason I personally think he''s having me escort him around is so that he can screw with my head.


    Make me fail.


    Tempt me.


    I glance into the rearview mirror. My gaze locks with frustrated hazel eyes. "Just stop with the teeth," he growls.


    Before what? You discipline me? I take a breath, ready to verbalize the taunts, but then I decide better on it. Lucas is holding something important over my head. Plus, despite his promise not to touch me unless I ask, I know he doesn''t have to lay a hand on my body to punish me. He''s proven that to me more times than I''d like to remember. Wetting my lips, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel to stop my hands from shaking.


    For the rest of the ride, I slide my tongue back and forth between my teeth to keep from grinding them together.


    When we reach the location for the shoot - a historic diner in the heart of downtown Nashville that''s been rented out for the entire day - Lucas stops me before I open my door. "Look, I don''t . . . do very well with this kind of thing with other people around."


    Shyness is not something I expect from Lucas, and I''m taken aback. "Meaning you want me to stay outside," I say.


    "Don''t sound so dejected. You''ve got the business credit card Kylie left, right?"


    "Yes," I say.


    "There''s seven more days after this. You have a tendency to dress like a first grade teacher and since you''re a direct reflection of me - well, do something about it."


    "I''m a wardrobe girl."


    "Who dresses like a 23 year old teacher."


    "I am 23."


    "And you''re my assistant who''s agreed to do as I say. Right now I''m telling you to buy clothes that fit the role. Don''t tell me you can''t because I know you''re fucking incredible at what you do," he says. Then, lifting his eyebrows suggestively, he leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. "Because as it stands, the only thing I want to do when I look at you is take a ruler, bend you across a desk and - "


    "I''ll do it!" I cry out, squeezing my eyes shut to flush out the imagery that''s just thrust itself into my brain. Every time I think I''m making a little progress of not thinking about sex and Lucas, he stomps all over it.


    If he notices that I''ve not referred to him as Mr. Wolfe or Sir once during this exchange, he doesn''t say anything. He sits in the same position, staring at me expectantly until I realize at last that he''s waiting for me to let him out.


    Seven days.


    He winks at me as he steps out of the Cadillac. As he slides past me, his body brushes mine. It''s just the tiniest of touches, the back of his wrist against my belly button, his shoulder skimming the top of my head so that strands of my red hair cling to his V-neck tee, but it''s enough to make us both pause.


    Tentatively, I shift forward. The muscles jump under his cheeks, and he reaches up, past me, to close the car door. He keeps his eyes off of my face as he says, "When you''re shopping . . . remember you''re dressing a rocker''s personal assistant, remember we''ve got a semi-formal birthday party to go to while in Atlanta. And if I so much as see one lame ass cardigan, I swear I''ll burn it."


    He stalks past me and into the diner. Instead of following him with my gaze, I close my eyes.


    Fantasize about what would''ve happened if our lips had touched.


    Feel parts of me that I shut down two years ago wake up once again.


    As I shop at the trendy boutiques and vintage stores downtown Nashville is popular for, my mind pings back and forth between Lucas, my duty to finish up my seven days and get the house back.


    And my life in California.


    And I can''t resist wondering if I had given in to Lucas when we almost spent the night together, would things be different now? Would I be different? My attraction to him was immediate, one of those things that took my breath away, numbing my senses and making me ache all at once. I was drawn to his music, the way his voice had a way of tearing away my layers and digging to my very core, even when he was singing about strippers and partying.


    Apparently, Lucas was drawn to me because . . . I had a hard time saying "no" on set.


    Except to him, and he was too infatuated to realize that until it was too late.


    The back of my neck tingles, and I tilt my head to each side to stretch it. I''ve got to quit letting the past mess with my head. I just need to forget Lucas Wolfe and all of this and move on. I just need -


    "Sienna?" a female voice calls my name.


    I glance up from the black skinny jeans that I''m clutching to face a girl with short, spiky turquoise and pink hair and snake bite piercings. I squint for a second, trying to place her. As she comes closer, her face unblurs, and I mentally take away the facial piercings and picture her with blonde Jennifer Aniston-esque layers and a pink Polo shirt. I feel my lips automatically curl into a grin. Jessica rushes forward to hug me.


    Drawing back, she squeals. "Dude, I haven''t seen you in - what? - four or five years? What are you now, a teac - ?"


    "Wardrobe assistant for Echo Falls," I say before she has the chance to call me a teacher. Self-consciously, I tug at the hem of my flutter sleeve top. Guess it does its job of making me look professional. To the point that my boss wants to spank me with a ruler and an old friend assumes I spend my days drilling addition into first graders'' brains.


    Nice.


    "No shit," she says. She drapes the armful of clothes she''s carrying across a mannequin''s arm, despite the nasty look the sales girl working the floor gives her. Jessica rolls her eyes. "I fucking hate that show."


    "Me too," I say, and she grins.


    "How long you here for?"


    Glancing down at a rack, I shrug. "Just another couple weeks. I''m doing a favor for a . . . um . . . friend and helping my grandma with a few things."


    "How''s she doing?" When I tell her that Gram is well, she tilts her head to the side, nodding. "And your mama?"


    That familiar buzz of humiliation makes me bow my head a little, but I fight back the urge to flinch. When my mom and her husband had gone down for selling and trafficking prescription drugs, they''d taken Jessica''s uncle with them. Jessica never seemed too hurt about it - and she''s not mentioning it right now - but I hate that she''s asked about my mother.


    Trust me, if your mom went to prison for one of the biggest drug busts in state history and snitches on every dealer within 20 miles . . . you''d be afraid and embarrassed when someone asks about her too. "She''s fine," I say stiffly.


    Jessica murmurs something inaudible in a sympathetic voice.


    "Your parents still run that bar?" I ask and she rolls her eyes dramatically.


    "I thought it would be awesome getting all the free booze, but yeah. My dad''s a fucking slave driver." As if on cue, her phone beeps and she drags it out of the pocket of her fuchsia jeans. "And as usual, work calls. I''ve gotta pay for these and run, but if you''re not busy tonight . . ."


    She digs in her messenger bag and hands me a red and black flyer. It''s an advertisement for a Your Toxic Sequel cover band performing at her parents'' Broadway bar. I nearly choke on my own saliva.


    She squeals, clapping her tattooed hands together. "Ahh, a YTS fan, I see? I adore them. My boyfriend''s in the band and they''re amazeballs - almost better than the real thing. Come out if you can. See you around," she says, plucking her clothes off the mannequin. "And find me on Facebook if I don''t see you tonight!" she yells as she walks away.


    I pay for my own selections soon after. I ball the pink flyer up and throw it in the bottom of the shopping bag.


    Lucas has that look of worshipped star as I drive him back to the house on Green Hills, so he doesn''t complain about how the ride back is twice as long, or how I nearly run into the back of a minivan that boasts about a hundred of those kid and animal pictures on the very back.


    "You''d think they give blow jobs with photo shoots," I say under my breath.


    "What was that?" he asks.


    "Nothing at all, Mr. Wolfe."


    Of course he asks to see the clothes that I''ve purchased the moment we enter the house. My head hurts from the long day spent out, so I gesture toward my room, and he follows behind me.


    "For someone who plays with clothes all day, you didn''t buy much."


    My face tightens. "I don''t play with clothes all day, Lucas. I . . . work with them." But my voice falters as if I''m unsure of myself.


    He raises his hands up in front of himself defensively. "Hey, I didn''t mean anything by it. I think it''s" - he pauses and bends his knees a little so his face is closer to mine - "are you crying?"


    I swallow hard. "No."


    "I huff and puff and yell and you say nothing. I make a joke about your job and you cry?"


    Well, at least he acknowledges that he''s a bully. Crossing my arms over my chest, I sit on the arm of the couch that''s at the end of my bed. He doesn''t move from his spot in front of me, tapping his foot as he waits impatiently for a reply.


    Sighing, I begin, "I just - "


    "Don''t lie to me either," he says in a stern voice. I glare up at him.


    "My mom used to call it playing with clothes. Hell, she probably still calls it that, that''s all." I say. Shrugging my shoulders, I slide the heel of my foot up and down the side of the couch. "I''ve got a few mommy issues."


    Shaking his head to each side, he says, "I bet." I furrow my eyebrows, and he adds, "My mom''s never been the biggest fan of what I do. I mean, she jokes about it at Thanksgiving and her friends think me and Kylie are demons, but she''s never made me feel like what I love to do isn''t important. If she did . . . well, I don''t think I''d want much to do with her."


    I want him to elaborate because this is one of the first times he''s given me insight into his life outside of music and fame, but he nods his head down toward the bags strewn out across my temporary bed. "Now, show me what you''ve bought for yourself." His voice is soft now, encouraging. Just another reminder of just how puzzling Lucas is. His moods switch at the drop of the hat, and it''s suicidal to be attracted to someone I can''t predict.


    I scamper over the back of the couch, landing on my knees on the bed. He hisses in a deep breath of air, and my head pops up, red hair flying everywhere. He''s frozen in place, looking down at me with his face drawn and his full lips parted.


    "What?" I whisper.


    "Don''t do things like that, that''s what," he growls


    I drag my hands through my hair, knotting it into a loose pile at the top of my head. "You''re incredibly uptight."


    "Try living with someone that''s hard to resist."


    "Or someone you want to control?" I ask.


    "Exactly."


    Now painfully aware of his every move, his every inhale and exhale, I show him the clothes. He murmurs appreciatively at the piles of rocker-friendly gear, rubbing his fingertips over edgy t-shirts and vintage lace tops and the leather jacket I''d picked out. I''m folding the clothes into neat piles when I hear something crinkling.


    I look up to see the red and black flyer for the Your Toxic Sequel cover band in his hand, held between his index and middle finger. When I make a move towards it, he backs up, shooing me away. I watch with my heart in my throat as he unfolds the paper. He reads it carefully, a shit-eating grin growing wider and wider as his eyes scan the page.


    After smoothing out the wrinkles and folding the flyer into neat creases, Lucas drops it on top the clothes I''ve just folded. "You''re going to be my DD tonight, Sienna."


    I groan and he cocks an eyebrow at me. Plastering on a smile, I grind out, "Yes, Mr. Wolfe."

 Page 11

    Lucas and I argue for what seems like an eternity before he clasps his hands together almost demurely and tells me to go pick up his dinner. By time I return from the part of town we''ve just came from, he''s already dressed to go out to Jessica''s parents'' bar.


    I''ve got to give him credit - he''s managed to perfect his disguise. And I have a feeling that''s all thanks to the fact that in Los Angeles, he doesn''t get to enjoy the peace he''s found in Nashville. During the video shoot for "All Over You" there were daily incidents of fangirls (and fanboys) finding ways to sneak themselves on set to try and hook up with members of the band, not to mention the diehard Your Toxic Sequel fans who''d camped outside the studio every day to get a glimpse of Lucas and the rest of the guys.Advertisement


    Tonight, Lucas is wearing his usual jeans, but instead of boots, he''s got on old school Converse shoes. A black and white Henley covers every last one of his tattoos. His messy hair is covered by an oversized black beanie and he''s wearing . . . glasses. Nerdy ones at that.


    I stand at the door to his office for a moment, taking in the sight of him. No man should look that sexy in nerdy glasses.


    "Borrowed from wardrobe?" I ask, making his head jerk up toward me. He bites his bottom lip and instinctively, I nibble mine too. "The glasses, I mean."


    He beckons me to come into the office and I comply, sitting the Styrofoam platter of food on the desk. Up close to him, I realize that those glasses have to be - hands down - the sexiest thing I''ve ever seen him wear.


    He laughs, "Not borrowed. A nearsighted bitch."


    "You look . . . rocker geek."


    Tilting his head to one side, he considers what I said for a moment then bites the tip of his tongue to suppress a grin. "You''re not going to take pics and send them to the paparazzi, are you?" he teases.


    "Only if you''re doing this to humiliate my friend''s boyfriend," I say. "You''re not, are you?"


    He''s on his feet and towering over me an instant later, his eyes unreadable. "I''d never hurt my fans. There the reason I''m here and not in Atlanta strung out on something. But to answer your question . . . I''ve got a soft spot for cover bands."


    "Why?" I ask.


    "Google''s your friend," he says, winking at me. "Now go get dressed - your clothes are on your bed."


    I move to go and do what he''s asked me to, but then ice travels down my body, freezing me. What am I doing? This is the first time he''s issued me a command where my mind automatically compelled me to follow it, and that''s a realization that frightens me.


    "You want to get me dressed, too, Mr. Wolfe?" I demand, forcing a sugary smile when I say his name.


    He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, and then blows a stray strand of hair away from my neck. "God, if only. You''re thinking about it, aren''t you? We''re only three days in, and you already want to give in to me." Despite his words, there''s not the slightest hint of mockery behind his voice. It''s teasing - yes - but so full of promise. I back up until the desk hits my bottom. My fingers curl around the wood.


    "If I did?" I whisper breathlessly.


    He thinks for a moment and then grants me a look that''s so delicious it sends heat spiraling through me. "At this point I''m not sure if I''d fuck you or spank you with that drumstick over there." He motions to a set of signed sticks on the opposite end of the desk. "Maybe both. Maybe just tie you to a chair and taste you ''til you can''t move or think or breathe."


    "And after?"


    "There are seven more days," he reminds me. "There''s so much I can teach you, so much we can do, and after that . . ."


    I roll my eyes, but I can''t deny that he''s affected me by what he''s said and the way he''s looking at me. It should be illegal for any man to have such a magnetic, irresistible effect. "I''m good," I say.


    "For now."


    "No, for - " In twenty years if you ask me who initiated the kiss, I still wouldn''t be able to tell you. It''s that sudden, that breathtaking, and all-consuming. Lucas''s tongue glides across my lips, tracing the outline of them - once, twice, a third time and then once more. I cry out and my backside slumps onto the desk behind me because my legs are trembling so violently. He makes a noise that''s part curse, part moan, and enough to send me over the edge. I splay my hands out on either side of his chest, digging my fingertips into the soft fabric of shirt, into his skin, and pulling him to my body.


    His hands are locked behind his head because he''s so determined to make me beg before he uses them on me.


    My lips part easily the moment his tongue probes the space between them. I''m wet. Wet and moaning and rubbing my body against his. Yet he still doesn''t move his hands.


    Touch me. Touch me. But I can''t bring myself to give into him. Not yet.


    When he drags his mouth away from mine, I catch his lower lip gently between my teeth. He winces as my teeth rake over the tender flesh before releasing it. Then a sexy smile creeps across his face. "You a biter, Red?"


    He knows I hate it when he calls me Red, just like he knows he''s gotten me too flustered to complain at the moment. "Lucas?" I murmur against the side of his mouth. Suddenly brave, I kiss his upper lip, his strong chin. I draw his lower lip between my own and suck it.


    "Mmmhmm?"


    I lean back and gaze up into his hazel eyes. "Is it really inescapable - this . . . us?" I challenge, running my hands down the front of his chest. He trembles.


    "Always has been."


    Our mouths meet one last time. I can''t fight the temptation to skim the tip of my tongue across my lips, tasting the places he touched me after he pulls away, reluctantly. "Go on and get dressed - no shower, leave your hair down. Don''t even think about fucking yourself."


    I turn to leave the office and go to my bedroom, but a thought occurs to me. Glancing over my shoulder, I speak again, my voice so low I can barely even hear myself. "Why''d you remember me? Why when you fucked so many of the others?"


    "Because you''re the one I didn''t."


    A few minutes later, when I''m in my bedroom shrugging on my clothes and staring into the bathroom at the bathtub I''ve been forbidden to use, I decide I''m satisfied with his response.


    Before I leave the bedroom, I let my hair fall loose.


    Jessica''s parents'' bar - a little dive called The Beacon - is filled to capacity when Lucas and I show up. I''m ready to turn around and head back to the Cadillac when the big, red-bearded doorman tells us we''ll have to wait, but Lucas shakes his head. "Get us in now," he says.


    Of course that''s an easy order for him to give. All he''s done since we stepped out of the vehicle is shove his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and look down at the ground so as not to be noticed. He was right when he swore up and down that nobody would recognize him, though. He exudes shyness, the complete opposite of the Lucas I know, and irritatingly similar to myself.


    "You should be in movies," I hiss as I stalk back toward the door with him in tow. "Mr. - "


    He stops me with a promise I''m certain he''ll actually keep. "Say it and I swear the second you do I''ll spank your ass with those drumsticks."


    Tossing my hair over one shoulder I gaze back at him, grinning. "Sir."


    "If only you were this sarcastic and infuriatingly confident with everyone you meet," he points out, as we come back up to the doorman again. Red Beard rolls his eyes and tilts his chin to one side. Mimicking my best Lucas impression, I place my hands on my hips. There''s not enough lighting out here for him to be able to see how my fingers are nervously working the thick fabric of my black skinny jeans.


    "I''ve got a personal invitation from" - then, I see Jessica''s small body grinding on the dance floor several feet away, and I take in a deep breath. Screw it - "Jess! Hey, over here!" I yell at the top of my lungs. Several people passing by turn to cock eyebrows at me, but the yelling works. Jessica pushes her way through the throng of people in the bar and pokes her head out the door.


    She gives the doorman a pouty look. "You''re not being a dick, are you, Nicky? She''s with me."


    Begrudgingly, Nicky stamps my and Lucas''s hands and moves his giant body aside so we can go in. I almost want to give him a triumphant smile but even a small victory isn''t enough for me to press my luck.


    Hundreds of Your Toxic Sequel fans surround us - their hips swaying and their sweaty bodies gliding together. I glance up at Lucas. His eyes are still downcast, but his face says it all. He''s in heaven right now, witnessing all these people who''ve come out to pay homage to his band.


    How much cockier can he get?


    Jessica finds the only empty table in the whole place and leads us to it. "Here, sit here and I''ll go and get you - "


    "I''m good," I say, and she gives me a skeptical look. "I''m DD."


    "Sam Adams," Lucas says in a very deep voice that makes me give a tiny snort.


    Jessica grins, bows her back a little and tilts her head trying to get a good view of his face. When he tucks his chin closer to his chest, she purses her lips and stalks off.


    "This isn''t going to work." I warn him and he glances up at me.


    "Well, no. It typically never does."


    Feeling my temperature rise, I study him. He''s so full of contradictions. One minute he''s talking about wanting peace and quiet and the next he''s craving the adoration that comes with his world, his fame. It''s enough to make my head dizzy. When I gather up the courage and say this to him, he grins.


    "I just wanted enough peace to finish my solo project and I''ve - " His voice breaks off and he traces a heart that someone has carved into the table.


    "You''ve what?"


    Snapping his hazel eyes up, he tells me in a barely controlled voice, "I''ve written enough goddamn material on it the past few days for two or three albums."


    "Ah . . . I see."


    "No, I don''t think you do."


    Confused and tired of playing a game of words with him, I change the subject back to his reasons for wanting to come here tonight. "So why risk being noticed and groped by your fangirls just to see a cover band?"


    "You never Googled it, I see."


    I shake my head. "It wasn''t a direct order, sir."


    His face breaks out into a smile and he tilts his head back and laughs. It''s one of those full-bodied expressions that sends warmth pouring into my belly. "God you''re so frustrating it''s fucking with my head." He regains control, slumping down in his chair and getting an unfocused look in his eyes. "When I was in high school, me and Sinjin Fields and Wyatt McCrae had this god-awful cover band. It was how we were discovered eventually - us and Cilla."


    Cilla. Why do I feel a pang of jealousy every time I hear or see her name? It''s ridiculous because I''ve never met her - all I know is that she and Lucas are friends. What exactly the word "friend" entails I''m not sure nor do I think I ever want to find out.


    "So you''re here to discover Jessica''s boyfriend?" I question.


    He shrugs, and corrects me, "I''m here to say I appreciate them." Then his eyebrows knot together. "But I''ve got to admit, they''re really fucking awesome and I don''t mind dropping their names to a few of my contacts."


    Lucas''s drink slides across the table and he looks up, meeting Jessica''s curious stare. "I knew it was you," she whispers excitedly. She plops down in the chair beside me, directly across from him. I watch fascinated because she''s on the verge of salivating and her eyes are practically glittering under the dim lights.


    "Before or after you eavesdropped on the last minute of what we were saying?" he demands, taking a giant swig of his beer.


    Jessica''s naturally tan skinned flushes but then she quickly regains composure. "Sorry about that, but. . . . Dude, you''re Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe. You''re in my parents bar and sitting at table with me and I''m about to freak out." The way she says his name, whispering it reverently brings out the panty-slaying smile. Turning to me, Jessica says in an accusing voice, "You didn''t tell me you know him."


    "He''s my boss," I murmur.


    "Your work involves going out to bars with him at 10 at night. Ugh . . . I need to become a wardrobe person. I''m in the wrong field, I - " Then she bites her bottom lip. "You''re going to play, right?"


    "Wait, he''s - " I start but Lucas shoots me a warning stare.


    "Fuck yeah."


    I''ve got no other choice but follow them as they weave their way through the crowd toward the front of the bar where the band is rocking out to "Lucky You''re Wasted." Jessica bounces on the balls of her feet as she waits impatiently for them to finish up. When they''re through, she waves the bassist over to her. He bends his head, attempting to brush his lips across her lips but she shakes her head, too excited to deal with her boyfriend. I watch as her lips move rapidly and she gestures over to me and Lucas.


    His eyes widen - and I swear to this - at least three sides. After he gets over the momentary disbelief, he nods and crosses the stage to have a powwow with the rest of the band. At some point, I can clearly hear one of them say "Holy fucking yes."


    The crowd''s going crazy at this point, wondering what''s up, if the band is calling it quits early but then the lead singer saunters back up to the microphone. He''s grinning and his voice is shaking as he gives Lucas the only introduction someone like him needs: "It''s the real Lucas-fucking-Wolfe, people!"


    For a moment, everyone in the audience is utterly unclear of what''s going on and they''re hushed, murmuring among themselves. But as Lucas strides across stage, taking the lead''s guitar and bowing his head graciously, the silence turns from confused to stunned. Lucas calls out "All Over You" and then the hell-raising guitar intro begins.


    Nicky, the giant grumpy doorman, and another bouncer who Jessica says keeps watch over the bar make their way to the stage, but none of Lucas''s fans tries to bum rush him or anything. Everyone''s too entranced by the music, myself included.


    I''m so spellbound that it takes me a moment to realize that at certain lines of the song, Lucas''s eyes drag to the far left of the stage, seeking me out. Making me feel like I''m the only person in this crowded bar. When I grind my teeth together in frustration, Lucas''s eyes narrow a fraction and he shakes his head slowly to each side.


    Drawing in a deep breath, I do the only other thing I can do. I sing along with the rest of the crowd. I ignore the wetness that has built up in the lacy black panties I''m wearing.


    Panties that Lucas himself had touched and laid out for me to put on.

 Page 12

    There are at least twenty YouTube videos of Lucas''s performance circulating the Internet by time I wake up at 7am on the dot the next morning. There are already - and I shit you not - death threats about the "red-headed cunt" Lucas was serenading on one of the Your Toxic Sequel fan sites.


    And I find out about all of this because Tori sends me links, messages, and enough texts to make me want to turn off my phone.Advertisement


    Finally, I just suck it up and answer. It''s 5:30am in California. "There are pictures of you with Lucas Wolfe online," she says in a monotone voice. "Why are there pictures of you with Lucas Wolfe on the Internet?"


    "I-I . . ." I''m stuttering ridiculously, staring down in horror at my computer screen at the video of Lucas performing, and wondering who else has seen these videos. You know, besides every rabid Lucas Wolfe fan. For once I feel fortunate that Tomas, my boss, is such a media snob and refuses to read gossip magazines. I don''t need this getting back to him - not when I''m supposed to be here in Nashville to take care of my Gram. Not when -


    I feel a sinking feeling in my chest, and I ball my hand into a fist, massaging it over my heart. What if my grandmother sees this? It would literally break her heart.


    "Sienna, talk to me," Tori says pleadingly.


    "I . . . I work for him," I admit.


    And just as I expect, she starts freaking out. She starts doing the exact thing that made me avoid telling her about my deal with Lucas in the first place. "Since when? Why? Sienna . . . he''s trying to take your grandmother''s goddamn house away. How could you work for him? Why would you work for hi - "


    "For the love of God, shut up for just one second so I can think," I snap. I hear a sharp gasp for air on the other end, and I immediately feel horrible for barking at her. In all the time that I''ve known Tori, I''ve never once raised my voice at her.


    I''ve never spoke to anyone like that besides Lucas Wolfe.


    "Tori . . . I''m sorry," I whisper.


    She sounds dazed when she speaks. "I''m actually hovering somewhere between really fucking irritated you told me to shut up and being impressed. Sienna, what''s really going on? Please . . . I''m your best friend."


    I cry as I tell her. I leave nothing out except for Lucas''s sexual habits, and when I''m done all she''s able to say is "Wow" over and over and over again until I tell her that she''s giving me a headache.


    "You''ve got to be the most . . . selfless and ridiculously awesome person I know. To be doing something like that with someone like him."


    I don''t like the way her tone implies that he''s a bad person. Hell, I don''t like the way I''m so willing to jump to his defense, but I do it anyway. "He''s not all bad," I say, my voice sounding totally convincing.


    "Oh. My. God."


    Thinking that there''s been a new article put out about me and Lucas, I frantically refresh Google news search I have open on my screen. "What? What?"


    "You''re in love with him."


    The second those words come out of her mouth, sounding like an accusation and a curse and a crime all at once, I wish she had said there was a new set of rumors instead. I''m not in love with Lucas. Completely in lust, yes, but not in love.


    Never in love.


    "That''s ridiculous I don''t know him well enough to love him."


    "Then, he''s got to have the most - " Tori''s words are cut off mid-sentence by the sound of my cell phone beeping. I pull it from my ear and my heart launches into my throat, gagging me, when I see that it''s Seth. God, this can''t be a good thing.


    I promise Tori that I''ll call her back and she warns me that she''ll fly to Nashville tonight, spending our rent money and leaving us homeless, if I don''t. When I click over to Seth, he''s already cursing. Seething.


    "You lied to Gram so you could go fuck the douchebag who bought her house?"


    "Seth, I - "


    But he doesn''t want to let me get a word in.


    "You''re disgusting. Guess you''re more like her than you let on, huh? Don''t worry . . . what you''re doing won''t ever be big enough news to reach Gram and I sure as hell won''t tell her. Maybe if you''re lucky he''ll - "


    My heartbeat picks up wildly when Lucas plucks my phone out of my hand and jabs the END button. "You''re going to sit there and let him talk to you like that?" he demands. "That''s your brother, right? The skinny little prick with the big mouth from court?"


    I never realized Seth had ever said anything to Lucas, and I glance down at my lap, at my hands. "He was angry," I whisper.


    "That''s no excuse for him treating you like shit."


    "We''re all over the Internet," I say. "You and I are everywhere because of last night."


    Even though he shrugs, I can tell it gets to him, too. That he regrets having ever looking at me while he sang. "It''s not a big deal. And stop changing the subject. We''re talking about your brother speaking to you like you''re nothing."


    "He''ll - " I want to say that Seth will get over it, but I don''t even know how to defend him to someone like Lucas. My brother hadn''t even said very much to me but somehow managed to take a pair of scissors to my self-esteem.


    Lucas kneels down in front of me, on his knees, and places his forearms on either side of my body so that they''re almost brushing my hips. He bends his head toward my lap and a primal ache stretches across my belly. "Call him back and stand up for yourself."


    I shake my head, my long hair sweeping back and forth over his face when he looks up at me. "No," I whisper.


    His eyes narrow. "You''re going to have to one of these days. Stand up to your brother and your mom. You don''t have to take shit from people. You don''t have to try and explain yourself."


    He climbs to his feet, looking down at me with almost sad hazel eyes. "Today''s the first day of filming for the documentary and I''ve got some studio work that needs to be done. Take the day off."


    "Bu - "


    "Take the day off," he orders. "I can''t - you can''t expect me to be able to be around you like this when I want you so bad. When you''re not willing to let me have you."


    And now - now I think I fully understand why he''s encouraging this. Because Lucas Wolfe thinks that if I take on the things and people that I always back down to, I''ll allow him to conquer me.


    The sound of a piano awakens me a little after 1am. I had stayed up until a few minutes short of midnight waiting up for Lucas and texting Tori as she hopped from night club to night club.


    After I slide a short cotton robe over my t-shirt, I follow the noise down to the lowest level of the house. Once I hit the bottom step, I let the scent of what Lucas is smoking guide me. I''ve always hated the scent of pot because it reminds me of Preston, of the people who used to hang around my mom''s house, and I automatically wrinkle my nose. Lucas doesn''t look up when I open the door to the piano room, but I know he knows I''m in here because his back straightens and his shoulders tense up. I sag against the doorframe, listening to him, drinking this moment in. He''s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans that ride low on hips. Lucas Wolfe is all muscles and tattoos and sexiness, but it''s his music that has a way of getting to me. It strips me down.


    Then devours me.


    And I let it. The only difference is that now, it''s in person and once it''s over I''ll have to face the real Lucas Wolfe and not the poor excuse I keep in my nightstand drawer.


    Lucas''s shoulders relax a little as he pushes out the last few chords. He scribbles something into a tattered blue notebook, reading over his notes a few times before he lifts sleepy, hazel eyes to mine. Locks of his messy, dark hair spill into one of them. "I didn''t call for you," he says huskily. "What do you want?"


    "I-I didn''t realize you played," I whisper. God, where''s my voice? My nerve? Why the fuck do I come apart when I''m around him?


    "Google is your friend."


    I feel my body ignite, but when I turn to leave, he says softly, "Stay. I don''t want to . . ." And though there''s a part of me that wants to take advantage of the vulnerability in his voice, there''s another part that''s reminding me of my deal with this man. I''m at his beck and call for the next five days.


    And now, he wants me with him.


    Tentatively, I walk forward. The tile is cold under my bare feet, and I wish I''d never gotten out of bed. I stand next to the piano and cross my arms over my chest. "How long do you need me for?" I demand, glaring down at him.


    He''s writing in his notebook again - shorthand lyrics from the look of things - but his lips move into a slow grin that makes those uncomfortable flutters start in the pit of my stomach again. Does he realize how much these little gestures screw with my resolve?


    Of course he does.


    "Long as it takes," he says.


    "For what?"


    Lifting an eyebrow, he tilts his head to one side and studies me for a good minute before starting to play again. It''s the same song from before, but now he''s changed the key, slowed it down. Now it''s haunting and unnerving. He sings along in some spots. The lyrics aren''t whole enough to fully make sense, but paired with his voice, they''re the sexiest I''ve ever heard. He sings about keeping the lights on and fucking right now, and I feel like it''s an invitation meant only for me. All of the sudden, my throat is dry.


    He glances up at me when he''s done. "Well?"


    I flick the tip of my tongue over my lips. His body stiffens. "The end is wrong," I murmur. "Too happy. It should be" - I move forward, lean down, and play several chords - "this."


    "You play?"


    "Google is your friend, Wolfe."


    He stands, slides the bench to the wall and gestures almost sarcastically to the piano. "Play it again."


    I don''t argue. I''m too tired and too worked up and all I want is to go back upstairs and climb in bed. I stand behind the keyboard and repeat the chords.


    "Again. Slower. And this time, close your eyes, Red."


    I do what he asks. The moment I smell his cologne, though, I miss a key. "This is when you tell me to have sex with you then make me run out for Cheetos, right?" I ask, my voice high-pitched and strained.


    He laughs. I swear I feel his mouth on my skin, even though he''s not touching me. "Cheetos suck. And you know what you have to do for me to have sex with you," he says.


    Gritting my teeth, I slam my palms down on the piano. The keys make a horrible screeching noise. I glance over my shoulder into his hazel eyes. "Since you don''t need me, can I go to bed, Mr. Wolfe?"


    "Abso-fucking-lutely not. Look Si . . . all you''ve got to do is say the words."


    "And what would those be?"


    He dips his face down, bringing his mouth so close to mine we''re only a breath away from kissing. From tearing each other down. From the inevitable. "Take me all the way, Lucas," he drawls in his best impersonation of my accent. "And that''s what you''re going to say the first time we fuck. My name. Just Lucas."


    But the thing is, the last - and only - time I was weak enough to avoid the inevitable with this man, he treated me like shit. I won''t let him do that to me again. "Fuck you, Lucas."


    My words don''t faze him. He''s boasting that cocky look that always makes me want to chop him in the throat. Instead - like an idiot - I rise up on my toes and crush my mouth to his. His tongue parts my lips. He still refuses to touch me, so I whisper, "Please . . . your hands . . . I want your hands touching me from now on."


    I''m safe as long as I''m in control.


    Keep telling yourself that.


    He doesn''t cup my face or touch my hair or anything romantic like that. He roams his hand down my body, over the curve of my hips, until he''s between my legs, his palm pressing against my panties. He draws his mouth away from mine. "Fuck me, you''re wet," he says. "Say the words."


    "No."


    "Turn around, and play. Same as before and don''t stop," he orders.


    I expect him to take his hands away from me when I start, but he doesn''t. I''m one chord in when his fingers slide under my panties. Three measures when he pushes one finger inside me. I gasp and he growls in my ear.


    "Don''t. Fucking. Stop."


    He slips another finger inside of my body, and then moves his hand, hard and fast. Back and forth until I swear I''m dying. I whimper. He breathes heavily into my hair, and I curve my bottom toward him. He''s hard. He''s so fucking hard that I''m suddenly grinding against his hand. And the moment his calloused thumb presses on my clit, I come. I slump against the keyboard on my elbows, my ass in the air. I don''t have it in me to play anymore, but I don''t think he could give two shits. He''s staring down at me with his lips pressed into a thin line and all I can think of is how I want them and his tongue on me.


    And my mouth on him.


    "Lucas, I want yo - "


    "Go to bed, Sienna."


    Carefully, he pulls his fingers out of my body, and I shudder again. Though my flesh feels like it''s scorching, I manage to stand upright. "No," I say.


    "Let''s try this the way you''re familiar with then: Get the fuck out. I need to work and like I''ve told you before, you''re fucking horrible for music."


    Something sharp and prickly twists my chest. He knows exactly what to say to piss me off. I want to tell him he''s the dumbass who came up with this arrangement in the first place, but I choke back the words. All he''ll do is turn it back on me and remind me why I agreed, throw the deed in my face. I keep my face emotionless and my hands clenched by my sides as I say, "Good night, Mr. Wolfe."


    As I leave the room, I become aware that my panties are still pushed aside. And that as long as I''m around Lucas, he''ll keep consuming me until there''s nothing left.

 Page 13

    I spend the rest of the night alternating between tossing and turning and hating myself, and wishing Lucas was between the sheets with me. When the alarm on my phone goes off at 7am, I drag myself out of bed and pad into the bathroom. Stripping down, I climb into the shower, turn the water as hot as it will go, and stand under the stream with my head leaned against the tile wall. The heat is uncomfortable - in fact, it burns -but it''s helping the vomit-inducing headache beating the hell out of my skull. Today, I''ll need my brain totally clear to deal with Lucas-fucking-Wolfe.


    What the hell was I thinking when I asked him to put his hands on me last night? Frustrated, I bang my fist against the shower wall. Pain shoots through my hand. I ignore it. I''m more concerned at the way I''d melted in Lucas''s hand - literally. And I hate my body for reacting to thoughts of Lucas right now. I''m wet and horny and I feel stupid for letting him fuck with my body and mind.Advertisement


    The water is running cold and the bathroom is a cloud of steam by time I finally step out of the shower. I''m wrapping a thick towel around my body when I notice my phone is blinking. There''s a text message from Lucas. From 3 o''clock this morning.


    Meetings all day. Wake me. 8 sharp.


    It''s 8:12 right now. Fuck my life. Groaning, I rush into my room and shrug on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt then speed walk upstairs to the room Lucas has been sleeping in. The door to his room is closed, and I can hear an old Seether and Amy Lee song playing softly on his iPod dock. It''s fitting for how torn he makes me feel. Clenching the door knob, I linger for a moment and try to gather my bearings. I''ve only got five days left, and three those will be spent out of town on the go. If I can''t hold it together for a week then I''m screwed all around.


    Every blanket is at the foot of the bed, in a black pool of fabric. He''s sprawled across the mattress on his stomach. Completely naked. Holding my breath, I tiptoe to the bed. I''m standing over him like a creeper and his text explicitly said to wake him up over half an hour ago, but God, I can''t get over how amazing he looks while he''s sleeping.


    I have a full view of the tattoos covering his back, and my hands drift over them as I study each one carefully. I decide my favorite is the stopwatch tattoo at the bottom of the piece - inside of the watch is a queen of hearts. I''ve never seen a tattoo like it, and I decide there must be a story behind it. A dare from a band mate, maybe, or something to remember a girl who broke up with him.


    That''d explain why he''s such a dick half the time.


    Lucas groans into his pile of pillows and mumbles, "Keep your mouth right there - I''ll roll over for you."


    Startled, I bolt straight up, but he catches my wrists, pulls me onto the bed and on top of him. If I was hot before, I''m on the dangerous verge of spontaneously combusting right now. I''m sitting with his cock pressed against my bottom and it''s as hard as it was last night in the piano room. The only difference is that now, he''s not pushing me away. I feel my pulse in my throat, my body temperature rise. Lucas cradles my face between his hands and guides my face down until it''s a mere inches away from his.


    For what seems like an eternity we stay this way - staring into each other''s eyes while I straddle his erection. Does he realize that I''m a hip grind away from breaking my oath? That now that he''s touching me and his fingertips are entwined in my hair and his body is so warm against mine I can barely function?


    I''d be a liar and a coward if I didn''t admit to myself how good he feels.


    "I was a shithead last night," he whispers. He traces his fingertips down the right side of my cheek, his stroke feather soft. The shape of an "L" - like he''s branding me.


    "Is this your way of begging for my forgiveness?"


    "No." He groans, racing his large hands from my face, to my shoulders, and finally to the small of my back. This closes the little bit of space left between us, and when he shifts to get comfortable, I gasp. "Ugh, yes. I''m apologizing for being a douchebag. It''s just - you fuck with my head, Si."


    You fuck with my head, says the confusing man. I roll my eyes and start to call bullshit. He pulls my lower lip gently between his teeth.


    "The next five days don''t have to blow," he points out, cupping my ass cheeks.


    I fight back the guttural moan building in my throat. I can think of several ways to keep our week civil and most of them involve us in this position - or similar - except there''d be no clothing between us. Only sweat.


    "They will if you''re doing that to me day in and day out," I murmur, referring to the events from last night. He chuckles. The expression sends a warm vibration through my whole body.


    "You could just give in right now."


    "Why not just sex? Why does it have to be complicated?"


    He pushes me back gently, his hazel eyes burning into me. He lifts his head a little and his hair falls into his eyes. Automatically, I reach out and brush it back. He grabs my fingers and kisses them, one by one. "Because I want you to submit completely to me."


    "Maybe I''m not a very good submissive," I murmur.


    Cocking his head to one side, he gives me a funny look. His hair falls into his eyes again but this time I don''t bother pushing it back. He gives my bottom a little squeeze and raises me off of him. "I''ve gotta be at the studio by 10, so get dressed."


    Another order, but at least I won''t be stuck in this house all day answering Lucas''s fan mail. Yesterday had been a beast considering a good majority of his emails were frantic demands from fans about the chick he was filmed in the bar with.


    Despite the tenderness of the last fifteen minutes, he''s grinning like the Cheshire cat. I grit my teeth into a sugary smile. "Right on it, Mr. Wolfe."


    "Your teeth," he warns in a low grow, and I stop grinding them. Just as I reach the door, he says, in a voice that has dropped an octave, "That thing you said about not being a very good submissive?"


    "Yes?"


    "You will be."


    Lucas''s words play like a song on repeat as I get dressed. Since he didn''t specify what we''re doing after the studio, I opt for a vintage-looking polka dot dress. It''s cute and when I plucked it off the shelf a couple days ago, I instantly thought of Kylie. It''s definitely more her style than mine, so I snap a picture of myself in the bathroom mirror and send her a text. Then I dab on minimum make up and leave my long red hair loose.


    Not because Lucas always tells me to wear my hair down.


    Of course not.


    While I wait for Lucas to call for me, I check my Facebook.


    There''s a message from Tori. Okay, three messages from Tori. They all pretty much say the same thing - don''t have sex with Lucas - but the last one makes me laugh. She''s gone the extra mile and put her message into one of those eCards she sends me whenever Tomas is behaving badly at work. It''s a picture of some Edwardian woman being groped and the caption reads:


    May your attempts at having sex with me result in a guitar being smashed over your head. Which head is open for debate . . . .


    Shaking my head, I shoot her back a quick message: Be nice. Hope you''re being good. Miss you like crazy, you beautiful girl, and thanks again for listening to me yesterday. I move the mouse up to close out the page, but someone sends me an instant message. It''s Kylie.


    Kylie Martin: Loved the dress! I see Lucas made you go shopping. He treating you well?


    Me: Besides bossing me around and being hell-bent on making me his submissive?


    Kylie Martin: . . . I could''ve lived without knowing half of that.


    I snort. She had asked how her brother was treating me. Did she really think I''d hold anything back considering she''s already fully aware of all his vices?


    Kylie Martin: Look on the bright side - 5 more days and I''ll be back, your job will be done, AND you''ll be able to give your grandmamma the deed to her place back. Easiest mega-chunk of change ever made, right?


    No, wrong. Very, very wrong. How can anything be easy when being around Lucas makes my emotions feel like they''re in a game of extreme tug of war? Was Lucas always so dominating or did it happen once he became famous? Was there ever a point in his life where he wasn''t so dynamic? Regardless, I know one thing: Gram is the only person I would put myself out there like this for - I wouldn''t have even agreed to this arrangement to save my own place because of all the physical and emotional turmoil involved.


    And we''ve got five days left.


    Me: Yeah, real simple.


    Kylie Martin: Got to run. Tell Lucas I said be nice to you - well, as nice as he''s capable of. Text me or call if you need anything! <3


    She logs off before I can ask her about Lucas''s obsession with being dominant over me, but even if I had asked her, I''m pretty sure she wouldn''t answer. Kylie seems to stay as far away from her brother''s kink as I do with my little brother''s . . . everything.


    I curl my toes at the thought of Seth, at the thought of confronting him after yesterday. I clutch my phone, considering whether or not I should call him. I get three-digits in and end up dialing my grandmother instead. The voicemail box picks up.


    "Hey Gram . . . haven''t talked to you in a few days. Just wanted to let you know that I''m thinking about you and that I love you. See you soon, okay?"


    Staring down at the phone, I sigh. Then, there''s a knock at my door and Lucas yells, "Let''s go, Red."


    Because I''m feeling facetious, I return to the message Tori sent me of the eCard and email it to him.


    Live rock is all dark lights and grit and sweaty bodies slicking against each other, but studio music is the total opposite. The Music Row studio is all ambient lighting and luxurious-technology. Lucas is the first of his band members to show. He tells the pretty blonde-haired assistant that we want to wait in a private room, and then she asks us if we''d like refreshments.


    Lucas goes for a bottle of water and I order a Coke. From the way the size nothing assistant looks at me, I''m almost afraid she''s never heard of caloried-drinks, but then she nods and sashays off. I hate Lucas''s effect on other women just about as much as I hate the way he glances at her butt as she leaves. Reminds me of what a player he probably is.


    "Nice," I say. He must hear the bitterness in my voice because he smiles. It''s that lopsided one that always gets to me.


    "Not really. But I''m a huge fan of your ass. I could write a song about your ass."


    "You''ve never even seen it."


    He cocks a dark eyebrow and gives me a wicked look. "Feeling is believing."


    I smooth a bunched section of my dress down and ease into one of the plush leather seats. I cross my legs at the ankle. Stuffing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, he follows my every movement. Every flinch. Every sigh. He''s still looking at me like he wants to pull my panties off with his teeth when Size Nothing returns with our drinks. She hands me a Diet Coke and I start to accept it, but Lucas shakes his head.


    "Ms. Jensen asked for a Coke," he says.


    "But - "


    He shakes his head, cutting Size Nothing off. She just stands there obediently, her hands clasped in front of her, waiting for him to speak. To give her an order. "Run to the grocery store if you have to."


    She glares down at me like I''m scum under her 4-inch pumps and then casts a beaming smile at Lucas. "I''ll get it ASAP, Mr. Wolfe." She leaves, but this time, he''s not staring at her backside.


    "Do you always have to be in control?" I hiss.


    "That wasn''t controlling, that was - "


    "Asserting your dominance?"


    "Don''t be a sarcastic little shit, Sienna. You asked for a Coke, she brought you diet."


    "I don''t need you to speak for me."


    "Then learn how to do it for yourself. God, you''ve had no problem telling me to fuck off from the start, but everyone else . . ."


    He turns away from me, and I focus on a tiny piece of lint on the hem of my dress. My heart is beating erratically - faster than it was last night. I wait until it slows down and I catch my breath to say, "Because you scare me, Lucas."


    His shoulders shake. He''s laughing at me. "I scare you? Do you realize what you''re doing to me, Sienna? What you did to me two years ago?" When I shake my head slowly because I don''t know how to answer what he''s asked of me, he continues, "Of course you wouldn''t realize how dangerous you are for me."


    I''m lucky his band members begin showing up shortly after he says this, because I''m at a loss for words. I follow him into the studio and he instructs me to wait with the sound engineer and the creator of the documentary that he''s taking part of inside of the control room. Lucas raises his eyebrows like he''s waiting for me to argue with this too, but I don''t.


    Where the hell else am I going to go while he makes music?


    As Lucas steps through the glass doors leading to the live booth, I hear the drummer, Sinjin, say in a nasty voice, "Snap your fingers and she comes, huh?"


    Lucas shoots Sinjin a dark look, jerks his guitar from its stand, and says something icily to the rest of the guys. The engineer flips the sound on in the booth in time for us to catch the tail end of what Lucas is saying.


    " . . . her and I''ll break your fucking fingers."


    It''s obvious the "her" Lucas is talking about is me, and that he''s probably warned his band to stay away from him while they''re here because there''s a ripple of nervous laughter amongst them. I''m half expecting Lucas to drawl in a thick Southern accent, "Sienna is mine!" but he doesn''t.


    Apparently, I watch way too much cable TV.


    Shrugging the strap of his bass guitar onto his shoulder, Wyatt McRae makes a soft tsking noise. "Not into redheads," he says, meeting my eyes. He''s grinning like the damn cat that ate the canary and his head is tilted to one side. Suddenly, it feels like the entire band, minus Lucas, as well as the sound guy and the documentary creator are staring at me.


    Waiting with baited breath for me to snap under the pressure.


    Digging my fingernails into my palms, I decide I should go ahead and nip any snide remarks from the band in the bud right here, and right now. Being around these guys is awkward enough as it is without them making me feel like I''m just one of Lucas''s fuck buddies. "Instead of trying to get a rise out of me, maybe you should focus on the music. After all, Mr. Wolfe''s schedule is very, very busy."


    Lucas smirks, and glances sideways at Wyatt. "Dude, I think Red just told you to fuck off. You heard her, let''s do this."


    The sound engineer asks if they''re ready to begin. Lucas bobs his head, and the cameraman inside the booth with them gives him a thumbs up.Holding my breath, I watch as he becomes the Lucas Wolfe I''d fallen all over myself for two years ago. He winks at me before gazing into the camera and saying, "This is Your Toxic Sequel and you''re getting an exclusive first look at music from our fourth studio album. This is "Handcuffs".


    And this is when I feel my body go numb. Maybe it''s pretentious and silly of me, but I''m about 99% sure this song is about me, specifically the night I almost spent with Lucas. It''s not rude and he''s not saying anything fucked up, but I feel completely naked right now.


    "Did you hear me, Ms. Jensen?" I hear a voice ask. Slowly, I tilt my face up toward it. The documentary maker''s pockmarked face comes into focus. He''s looking at me expectantly. "Would you like to comment on your relationship with Lucas Wolfe?"


    "I''m standing in for his assistant while she''s on vacation," I say.


    The man gives me a smile that reminds me of the ones my mother gave me when she was tolerating something I had to say when I was a child. "I''m talking about your romantic relationship."


    "There is no romantic relationship," I argue.


    Another you-poor-stupid-girl smile. "I looked at your digital resume. You worked the video shoot for "All Over You" in 2010, right? And you''re currently working on the set of Echo Falls, correct?" When I nod my head carefully, he wrinkles his nose. I decide I hate this guy because everything he does reminds me of my mom. "You''d skip out of work and come all the way out here to substitute for his assistant?"


    "I - "


    "You know, the people who are watching this movie would probably kill to get the inside scoop of how your relationship with Lucas went down."


    I look toward the sound booth, but Lucas is still performing. His words from earlier haunt me, though. "Learn how to speak up for yourself," he''d said. Squaring my shoulders I give the documentary guy the steeliest look I can muster, "I''m from Nashville. Kylie Wolfe is a personal friend. And Lucas is paying me to work for him. If you can''t figure out the correlation between those three then maybe you''re in the wrong profession. If you want something for the people watching your movie, here it is: Lucas Wolfe is not my type. You think you can handle that?"


    It''s not until I exit the control room and step outside the studio into the brisk cold that I break into a nervous sweat.

 Page 14

    The creator of the documentary doesn''t try to ask me any additional questions, and I''m sure he thinks I''m a massive bitch now. Still, I make it a point to stay away from him. I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my face, though, as if he''s just dying to confirm whether or not something is actually going on between Lucas and me. As if he knows that the reason why I do my best not to meet Lucas''s eyes is because my mind goes to places it shouldn''t go in public.


    Or in private.Advertisement


    The band performs four takes before they nail the song. Then Wyatt disappears, directing a dangerous look at Sinjin and swearing he''ll rip the walls down if he doesn''t get a break. I take this opportunity to check my personal cell phone. There''s a missed call from Seth and one from Gram. Even though I called her earlier, fear slices through my body. Does she know where I am? Has Seth told her what was on the Internet yesterday morning?


    Numb, I excuse myself from the control room yet again and call my voicemail as I pace the hallways. Seth''s message is short, and surprisingly, sort of sweet. "You can''t ignore me forever, Si. I was wrong. I''m a shithead. Let''s talk, okay? You and Gram are all I''ve got so call me back."


    I listen to my grandmother''s message next - she''s just returning my call and wants me to dial her back when my work isn''t so crazy. "And I''m so happy you''re coming home soon," she says before ending the message. She doesn''t say anything about Lucas or the videos or pictures of us that ended up online and I feel a weight lift off my shoulders.


    For now.


    I start to return Seth''s call but then decide against it. When I call Seth, I want to have plenty of time to get some things off my chest, and I don''t want to do it in a studio where pieces of my conversation may end up in some documentary about rock bands. I pass by the private room that Lucas and I were in earlier, pausing when I hear the sounds of someone moaning on the other side. I move forward, but a hand closes around my upper arm.


    Startled, I jump and spin around to face Sinjin. He holds up his hands, wiggling them around as if to show me he''s not armed. Then he grins. "Spying is rude," he tells me. "Though if you want to join Wyatt and the little blonde with the tits, I''m sure he''d let you, red hair or not."


    Size Nothing and Wyatt. I don''t want to be surprised but I am, especially after the way she eyed Lucas earlier. "I''m good, thanks," I say, starting to walk off. Sinjin plunks his hand on the smooth wall next to my face, stopping me. Feeling my muscles tighten, I shove it away and continue towards the exit. He follows.


    "You look really familiar, you know."


    "I''m sure you meet a lot of girls doing what you do, even redheads." If my grandmother could hear the coolness in my voice right now, she''d pop me in the mouth for being so rude. I can''t help it. There''s something about Sinjin that rubs me the wrong way, but then again, it always has.


    When I worked the "All Over You" video, I had tried my hardest to stay as far away from him as much as professionally possible, but of course he''d been unavoidable. If Lucas had fallen head over heels in kinky lust with my submissive tendencies it was because of Sinjin. Back then, he had freaked me out and even now I just want to shake him off of me.


    I push open the exit doors, breathing in fresh air. Sinjin is right on my heels. "No, I don''t think that''s what it is at all. Did we fuck? Or did you fuck one of the others before you started up with Lucas? I mean, I know I don''t remember you from him because he doesn''t hold on to ''em for very long, if you know what I mean?"


    "Actually I don''t," I say. Now, my voice is hard. "I was under the impression that he''s had the same personal assistant for years."


    Sinjin''s nose wrinkles and he shakes his head in pity. "Is that what he says you are - his personal assistant? Whatever keeps your mouth around his dick, right?"


    He''s just trying to get a response out of me, but God, he sure is going for a big one. When I say nothing, crossing my arms over my chest, he begins to laugh. Loud, boisterous laughter that makes a woman in the next parking lot glance over at us with her eyebrow lifted.


    Turning his body in her direction, he yells out, "What are you looking at, you fat bitch?"


    Even from several feet away I hear her gasp before she flushes a bright red, rushes into her car and speed off. What''s wrong with this man? He''s shaking with laughter, raking his hands through his short, blonde hair, and singing. I back up towards the door to get inside of the studio, banging on it so that the guard can let me in.


    Sinjin turns back around to face me, and there are tears streaming down his cheeks. Now, instead of laughing, he''s sobbing violently. I move closer to him, finally noticing the beads of perspiration on his upper lip. He shakes his head, backs up.


    He''s messed up, completely obliterated. I''ve not been around drug addicts for so long that it''s taken me this long to notice it.


    "Don''t touch me, you slut," he hisses, pulling at clumps of his hair.


    "I''m trying to help you, and - "


    He lunges toward me, and out of reflex or watching too many movies with Tori, I ram my elbow back into his nose and bring my knee up to strike him in the stomach. He stumbles backward, glaring down at the blood on one of his hands and holding his belly tight with the other. Then he vomits all over himself.


    The door behind us buzzes open.


    Lucas orders me to go home, to the house on Green Hills, and wait for him while he handles things for Sinjin. I don''t argue, despite having a million questions and even more concerns. But I find myself pulling Lucas close to me, our hands clasped and his chin on top of my head. He inhales my scent for what seems like forever before gently nudging me into the Escalade. When our eyes meet, the fear in his is enough to paralyze me.


    I''m still shaken the moment after I enter the house and lock the doors and activate the alarm, but I call Seth. After seeing Sinjin fall apart and realizing how much of things similar to that Seth had seen as a kid, I know it''s the perfect time to talk to my brother. Plus, Lucas is right. There''s so much I need to say to my brother and until I do, I won''t ever be able to do anything else.


    Seth sounds anguished from the moment he answers. "Sienna, I''m - "


    "No, you listen for once," I say. "You can''t just take out your frustrations on people you care about without even giving them a chance to explain themselves. And by the way, I don''t have to explain myself to you, the same way you don''t want to prove yourself to me. You ripped into me without knowing a goddamn thing about what was going on. If you had only asked me, I probably would have just told you what you wanted to know."


    "Look, I - "


    I cut him off again. "I''m not finished. If you ever talk to me like you did yesterday again, I will kick you in the balls, Seth. You''re so pissed at what Mom did to you, the way Jeremy used to talk to you, the people they brought around you, and yet you act just like them." And here I am, the total opposite of Seth. Wincing every time someone so much as breathes at me.


    "Seth, I don''t want to be the fucked up people they''ve made us," I whisper.


    He inhales and exhales heavily for what seems like minutes, hours, but in reality is only seconds. "Me neither."


    "So what do we do?" I ask.


    "God, I wish I could tell you. But I''m sorry, Sienna. I shouldn''t have ever spoken to you like that. I-I love you."


    "Holy shit, are we having a creepy talking card moment?" I ask, and he laughs.


    When he finally stops, his tone of voice turns serious. "Can you tell me what you''re doing with Wolfe? Please?"


    "It''s best I don''t," I say honestly.


    "Well then, let me ask you this: Does it have something to do with the house?"


    "Yes."


    And no. It started out as having everything to do with the house and now . . . I''m not entirely positive what it is anymore. The only thing I do know is that no matter how happy I pretend I am in five days, I''ll be dying inside because I''ll have to let this go.


    I''ll have to let Lucas go.


    I''m sure my brother''s mind has gone to the worst possible assumptions but after he clears his throat a couple times, he says, "Then I''m sure you''ve got a good ass reason for what you''re doing."


    It''s the closest thing to an acceptance that I''m probably going to get from my brother, but for now it works. I have a feeling that in order for Seth and me to really get all of our feelings out on the table, we''re going to have to do it in front of our mother.


    And when that happens, we''ll go ahead and take Gram along for the ride too. That way Mom can finally explain to us why she convinced Gram to take out a six-figure loan on her house to bail her out of jail just to turn around and skip town.


    It will be a good old family reunion, complete with tears and hatred.


    Lucas comes in while I''m answering his fan mail, looking absolutely exhausted. I feel awkward asking him anything about Sinjin, so I don''t keep him in the little downstairs office for long. An hour after he arrives, though, he messages me to come upstairs to the main office.


    I''m at a genuine loss for words as I linger by the door, my fingers gripping the elaborate crown molding as I wait for him to say something, anything at all.


    He stands, coming around to the front of the desk and motions me forward. I go to him but leave a foot of space between ourselves. "Sin''s agreed to go back to rehab," he says.


    I can still see the wild look in Sinjin''s eyes when he came after me. Honestly, I don''t think he was sober enough to hit his mark, but it was still terrifying to think about him being high enough to try and hurt me. "I''m so glad. D-do you think . . . he''ll be alright?" I whisper.


    Leaning his tall body to the desk, Lucas shrugs, frustrated. "He''s been before. Every time we gear up for a tour or an album. And it''s prescription now, so who the fuck knows."


    My chest clenches painfully, and I bring my hands up to my mouth. "God, Lucas. Ugh, I''m so very sorry," I say. And this is why I hate drugs and the people who dole them out like Skittles. They tear families into a million pieces, and Sinjin is like a brother to Lucas. They''ve been making music together for ten years, since they were eighteen, and were friends long before that.


    I don''t want this to be the end of their relationship.


    "I''m the one who should be sorry, Sienna. For whatever he said to you. For putting you in such a fucked up situation to begin with - Kylie warned me he was back on the pills but I didn''t want to listen."


    "He''s your best friend," I point out. "And he needs a lot of help."


    Tentatively, as if he''s still unsure of whether or not he should still take my invitation to touch me to heart, he lifts my hands up, pressing them between his. Closing his eyes, he touches my fingers to his lips and kisses them softly. "He is. He''s my oldest friend, but I wanted to rip him to fucking shreds when I found out he was out there with you alone."


    "Really, he didn''t say anything that bothered me," I lie. "And besides, I''m us - "


    "If you say that you''re used to people treating you like that I swear to God I''ll bend you over this desk and keep my promise with the drumsticks."


    My breath catches, and he squeezes my hands a little harder, a little more desperately. "I called my brother earlier," I whisper, dragging my hands away from his and sliding them down the front of his body.


    "Stop," he warns as he grabs my wrists. His lips are inches away from my lips. I stretch my neck up to touch them but he moves his head a fraction.


    "I told him what you told me to say. I told him - "


    Groaning, he very gently pushes me away from him and drags his hands up and down his face. "Unbelievable. I come in from, literally, one of the shittiest days of my life and you''re being obedient and - "


    His cock is hard. I can see its outline straining against his jeans and he''s not making a move to hide it. "Do you want me to go away, Sir?" I murmur.


    "Come back over here, Sienna," he growls. I obey, moving closer to him until I can practically feel static electricity thrumming from our bodies. "Get down on your knees."


    I know where this is going to go. I know that if I do this I''m only a few steps away from uttering those words he''s challenged me to say since even before day one began. Nevertheless, I''m at the point where I want to see this through. Where I have to have him, even if I have to come to terms with giving myself over in the process


    Where I know that the chemistry between the two of us isn''t worth fighting.


    Carefully, I slide down to the floor, one knee meeting the hard bamboo wood at a time. I don''t miss the way he shudders when I lock my eyes with his, waiting for the rest of his instructions.


    He traces his fingertips around the outline of my face, gently stroking my temples, my cheeks, my lips. Tucking his fingers under my chin, he draws my face up until my head is tilted all the way back and my hair sways against my bottom.


    "You are so fucking beautiful," he murmurs, before bending over to claim my lips. He drags my tongue into his mouth, teasing it in a desperate game of cat and mouse - wolf and sheep -with his own tongue.


    I lift my hands to touch his face but he barks out a rough command for me to keep them behind my back. I clasp them together, linking my fingers tightly. He moves his own hands to my breasts, testing their weight before rolling and pinching my nipples between his fingertips.


    My breath comes out in sharp, pleading gasps as he alternates between sliding his tongue into my mouth and sucking on my top lip, between squeezing the tips of my nipples and pushing my dress aside to probe the wetness between my legs. He nudges my slit with his knuckles, never moving my panties.


    Whimpering, I squeeze my eyes together. I feel like I''ll come at the slightest provocation, at the slightest glance from him, and I grind my teeth. To punish me, he takes his hands and mouth away from my body. I convulse anyway, and then open my eyes. His cock springs forward and rubs against my cheek. Despite not having received directions from him, I flick my tongue out, taking his head into my mouth.


    He tangles his hands into the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling my mouth away from his body. "You''re so amazing. So good," he says, stroking my beck. "You''re going to learn, Sienna."


    I nod my head, ready.


    Willing.


    Craving.


    He teaches me slowly. The way to take my mouth down his length until he moans and rakes his hands through my long hair. The way he likes it when I use my teeth, placing just the tiniest bit of pressure on him. How he goes frantic when I squeeze my lips together, swiveling my tongue around his cock until he climaxes in my mouth.


    Afterward, when I move to sit down on my bottom, he shakes his head and says roughly, "Stay exactly as you are."He sinks down to his own knees, going around my body in careful, animalistic circles as he drags my panties down to my knees with his mouth. I''m shivering, dying for his touch. His hands are warm and gentle and rough as they guide my thighs apart. Then, he parts my wet slit with the hard tip of his tongue.


    And as I remain there, with the flooring hard beneath my weak knees and my fingernails raking my hands behind my back - as I remain there with him making me shudder and threatening to spank me if I so much as move my hands or body - I know that I''m ready to learn everything about his world.


    Even at the risk of losing my heart.

 Page 15

    Day six begins in what can only be described as a manic frenzy. At 6:30 a.m., I receive a text on the phone Lucas has given me from Kylie.


    Hey, babe, what email address did you send Luke''s confirmation for the flight to Atlanta to? Don''t see it in the regular email and was worried.Advertisement


    I should be irritated that she''s checking up behind me, but I''m more concerned with the fact I have no earthly idea what she''s talking about. I shoot her a quick text message back, asking her what''s going on. Fifteen seconds later, the phone vibrates in my hand.


    "Okay, please tell me you''re just kidding me and you sent the confirmation to your personal inbox. You did, right?" Kylie pleads. She sounds half asleep. As if to confirm my suspicions, she yawns rudely into the receiver.


    Tossing the warm blankets off of my body, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch my toes. "No, I didn''t. How was I supposed to know the reservations needed to be made in the first place?" Although, when I say it out loud, it seems like it would have been a good idea for me to check up on that sort of thing. I have to be the worst assistant ever because the only thing I''ve been able to focus on for the last five days was how sexually drawn I am to my boss.


    At some point, I''ve even lost sight of the objective that made me say yes to working for Lucas in the first place. Getting Gram''s house back.


    Kylie releases a tiny yelp. I hear her headboard thud against the wall, and a low male voice murmurs something. "Go back to sleep," Kylie whispers, doing a horrible job at muffling the receiver. To me she says, "Sorry about that, errr - "


    "Housekeeping?" I suggest, stifling a snort.


    "Right, housekeeping. Sienna . . . this is bad. I could''ve sworn that I left instructions for you to make the reservation on the list of - "


    "You didn''t."


    She groans as if she''s in despair, and I can imagine her raking her hands through her mess of black and blue hair. "I had an awful dream about this, you know? Like I woke up in a cold sweat and freaking out, it was that awful. What are we going to do?"


    The solution seems simple, but after I start up my computer and pull up several tabs to search for available flights, I see why Kylie has contacted me on the verge of a major meltdown. This is one of those messed up instances where the universe is laughing at me because I discover there are absolutely no flights left for the day.


    "I''ll have to drive him, then," I say. There''s no other way around it. I cringe at the idea of making the five hour drive from Nashville to Atlanta with Lucas staring at me, making me nervous. He''ll probably do everything in his power to get me hot, wet, while I''m driving, which in his case, isn''t much.


    She groans, and the sleepy guy - housekeeper - beside of her moans. The bed squeaks again, but I pretend like I don''t hear it.


    "He''s not going to be happy," she whispers. I hear her shuffling about and a moment later, the sound of a horn honking and sirens somewhere in the background.Then I hear her inhaling - she''s smoking. "I mean, after what happened with Sinjin yesterday . . ."


    I swallow hard. Wyatt and Cal, Your Toxic Sequel''s lead guitarist, had come by late last night for drinks with Lucas. None of them seemed like they were in a drinking mood, but they took down shot after shot as if the world was coming to an end. I stayed out of their way, pretending to do work in the other room, until Lucas called for me to drive Wyatt and Cal to a strip club to meet up with some of their friends. But when I dropped them off, Wyatt had pulled me aside.


    "The way Lucas looks at you . . . don''t fuck him over, okay? You fuck with him and it messes with our music. I might not hit girls but I know chicks that''ll beat your ass for me."


    I guess he knew very little about the solo album Lucas''s was planning to release or if he did, he didn''t say anything. I came as close as I could to smiling without breaking down.


    "Really? You''re threatening to have some girl beat me up over something you''re imagining. You rockers are so sensitive."


    "And very protective of our careers," he''d said, as he fished his ID out of his wallet and approached the door to the club. Turning on his heel for a second, he says, "Have fun in Atlanta."


    "Sienna? Hey, Sienna? Are you listening to a word I''m saying?" Kylie demands, drawing my attention back to the present.


    "Yeah, I''m here. Hey, I''m going to make some calls directly to the airport. I''ll get back to you in a few, okay? Bye," I say in one breath. I hang up before she has a chance to start fretting again.


    But in the end, before Lucas is up two hours later, it''s Kylie who saves the day. She sends me the confirmation for a private jet she''s managed to charter to my personal email, CCing Lucas. When I see the cost of the flight, I''m left wheezing. It''s enough for Tori and I to pay all of our expenses for a good three or four months.


    Lucas doesn''t seem fazed by the change of plans or the amount of money Kylie spent when he calls me in to eat breakfast with him. I sit across from him in the kitchen, drinking coffee. He eats fresh fruit, his eyes locked intensely on me. I slump down in my seat, touching my hand to my face.


    "Why are you looking at me like that, Mr. Wolfe?"


    He slides a chunk of cantaloupe between his lips, leaving them wet and sweet and sticky. I cross my long legs to try and squeeze the want away. "Remember that time I ate strawberries with you on them?" he asks.


    A flush spreads down my body. I bring my coffee to my mouth, taking a giant sip. The hot liquid rushes down my throat and I rub my tongue back and forth between my teeth. "God, I wish I remembered that time."


    "I plan on making you sit on making you sit perfectly still," he says, his hazel eyes gleaming with desire and power. "Dipping my fingers, my fruit, inside of your body. Tasting you. I''ve grown addicted to the way you taste, Red."


    I feel the throb deep inside of me, and I shift in my seat. "And let me guess, you don''t plan to do any of that until I say the word, right?"


    "You''re so fucking smart, Sienna."


    Lucas is broody the entire jet ride to Georgia - which, really, is over before it even begins. He sits sideways, taking up two seats and writing in his notebook. Every once in a while he glances up at me, tilting his head to one side, reading me.


    I want to know what he''s writing - if it''s about me or us. I want to know what thoughts creep through his mind every time his eyes settle on me. There''s so much I want to know about Lucas Wolfe that it''s dizzying and I''m left with a racing heart.


    He finally acknowledges my presence when the jet lands, as we prepare to come off board. Towering over me, he cups my face with one hand, pushing hair away from my temple. I reach up and pull the tips of my fingers through his hair. He trails his lips down my face, pausing for a moment to claim my mouth. "This is going to be so hard."


    "What?" I pant, as his finger - fingers - slide between my lips. He slides them back and forth, and I gently bare my teeth down the way he''s taught me.


    "Being around you, knowing you''re so close to becoming mine, and not being able to fuck or taste or have you whenever I please because the next few days are so hectic."


    "There''s always our hotel," I say, stroking my hand against his erection.


    He releases a muffled noise, grabbing my fingers away from his body and trapping them over my head. "Yes . . . there''s always that."


    A limousine - the first one I''ve ridden inside of since prom more than five years ago - carries Lucas and me to the hotel, the Four Seasons Atlanta. Even though I''ve been able to witness Lucas''s fans reaction to him in Los Angeles and at The Beacon bar in Nashville, it''s nothing like the reaction he gets in his hometown. The hotel has had to beef up security because some gossip column leaked that Lucas is in town.


    Before I exit the car, he stops me, pulling me back down to straddle his hips. He pulls one of his oversized beanies over my head. Sliding a set of ridiculous hot pink shades over my face, he says gently, "Wouldn''t want more gossip about you and us finding itself onto the web." He tucks my hair underneath the knit cap, making sure every red strand is hidden out of sight. The gesture is so intimate it makes my breath wobbly. "Do not talk to the press," he commands.


    "Yes, Mr. Wolfe."


    "Say my name one more time."


    "Mr. Wolfe."


    Then he kisses me with a hunger that makes me want to rip his clothes off right then and there. "God I could write songs about the way you say that."


    "Just like you''ll write songs about my ass?" I tease.


    "Every part of you," he says in a voice that tugs at my heart. Squeezing my breast hard one final time, he taps on the window, indicating to the driver that he''s ready to face his fans.


    Almost as soon as we''re settled into our hotel room, Lucas has to leave to take care of some last minute details. I don''t mind his absence, at least not for a little while, because it gives me an opportunity to admire the view of Atlanta from our room. And it''s stunning. We''re staying in the Presidential Suite, on the top floor, and the room itself is decked out, with marble flooring and lush furnishings and a king size bed. I''d be lying if I didn''t admit how anxious I am to test that bed out with Lucas.


    After I take a long bath where I shave my legs and wash my hair, I spend my time making phone calls and answering emails, both his and mine.


    When I call Gram, she sounds relieved to speak to me. "Are you doing alright?" she asks.


    "Yeah, I''m fine, I . . ." I start, pausing when I hear her sniffling. "Gram, what''s going on?"


    "It''s Rebecca," she says. I listen, stony-faced, as she tells me about how my mom had gotten into a fight in prison with several other inmates after stealing a pair of shoes. I feel that bitter feeling in the pit of my stomach, the shame, as she talks about Mom having to be sent to the county hospital for surgery. "I don''t understand why she''d take someone''s shoes, Sienna. I put money on her books. I give her as much as . . ."


    I sink down on the floor, leaning my back to the side of the sofa. It looks like I won''t have to confront Gram about my mother. She''s revealed that she''s been going to visit mom herself, but I wish with everything inside of me that I could be the one suffering instead of her.


    My grandmother has stopped talking now. I hear her sobbing quietly on the other end and a creaking noise. She must be in bed. I ball my hands into fists, banging them into the couch.


    "Gram, I can''t yell at you about going to see her.I''m not going to argue with you or any of that because I''ve got no room to talk, but please, please, please stop letting her take advantage of you."


    A few years ago, when Mom''s whereabouts were discovered after she skipped town, the bounty hunters had caught up to her approximately two days after the $300 grand cash bond Gram paid was forfeited to the court. If my mother''s worthless ass had been caught just 48 hours earlier, Gram would never have been in this situation.


    But even after Mom screwed her over, tried to talk Seth who was just a teenager into taking the rap for her - even then Gram stood by her side.


    My grandmother, with all of her kindness and humility, deserves so much better than my mom. Seth and I deserve so much better than our mother, and though I hate to admit it, more than our dad, too.


    Because a phone call every other week and the occasional awkward visit on holidays was about the equivalent of a hello from the homeless man who trolls the coffee shop I go to for Tomas in Los Angeles each morning.


    "I know," Gram says, her voice catching on a sob. "It''s hard - what with the house and Rebecca. I don''t know whether I''m coming or going anymore."


    "Don''t worry, I''ll be home soon and we''ll take care of everything. I swear it."


    "It''s hard," she says once more. "I-I''ve got to get to bed, sweetheart. I''m going to go back to the hospital for your mom tomorrow morning and I''ve got a doctor''s appointment of my own. But baby, I love you so much."


    "Love you too, Gram."


    But when I hang up, my teeth are gritted together. Lucas finds me like this with my head buried in my hands, grinding my teeth furiously. "Don''t gri - " Then he sucks in a mouthful of air, striding his way across the marble foyer and into the living room in a matter of seconds. "What the hell is going on?"


    "I''m fine."


    "Sienna," he says in a cautioning voice, and I glance up at him, revealing my tear-streaked face. He rolls his body down the side of the couch until he''s right beside of me. It''s almost comical, how absolutely helpless he looks when confronted with my tears, but he pulls me into his arms. Lucas Wolfe, the most commanding man I''ve ever met, lets me sob into the front of his white shirt, allows me to drip mascara all over him.


    I sniffle. "My mom got beat up in prison."


    Holding me by my shoulders, he pulls away from me slightly, placing just enough space between the two of us so that he can look into my eyes and feel me out. He frowns, rubbing his lips together. "I''m taking it you''re not exactly sad about your mom getting an ass-whipping."


    I laugh, in spite of the tears, and drag the backs of my hands across my face. "God, no. She''s had it coming for years. It''s" - I let out a small, strangled sound and he buries his head in my hair again, stroking the back of my neck, making me feel safe - "my grandma, you know. My mom''s been so awful to her, and yet Gram keeps taking the kicks over and over again. It just hurts. It hurts so fucking bad."


    Lucas murmurs that he understands, but I can''t miss how his voice hitches. How it feels as if there is something left unsaid between the two of us.


    But he listens to me sob, listens to every complaint I have about Mom. It''s like a dam bursts and I tell him everything, breaking every dating rule in the book. When he firmly tells me to go to bed, tucking me into the king sized bed in the master bedroom, the unsaid words are clear to me simply by the way he looks down into my eyes.


    What I had said to him earlier about Gram - about her taking the kicks repetitively - that person used to be me.

 Page 16

    I get the pleasure of seeing the documentary maker again the very next morning. He meets us in the hotel lobby, briefing Lucas on how today needs to go down. He gives me a curious once over and a courteous greeting, but other than that he doesn''t say much to me. As I walk behind them, typing notes on my Samsung tablet and trying not to roll my eyes, it takes a lot of effort not to point out that nothing about this documentary seems very realistic. He''s even prepping Lucas about how to act around his own parents.


    And speaking of Lucas''s parents . . .Advertisement


    Biting my lip, I send Kylie a message asking what I should expect. I know this is probably something I should have asked her before, but a few days ago my feelings were nowhere near this strong for Lucas. Something has happened between us, just as he promised. I don''t want to make a fool of myself in front of their folks or leave a horrible impression that might last forever.


    Because this evening, I plan on accepting the rest of his offer. Aside from rescuing my grandmother''s house - which I can safely say that I''ve done at this point - there''s nothing I''ve wanted more in a very long time than to be Lucas''s.


    My cell phone goes off and I check the message from Kylie. Dude, my parents love everyone. They liked my ex-husband, so you can run naked through their yard if you want and still be okay.


    A moment later, she sends another message. But really, don''t run through their yard naked.


    Feeling a sudden sense of relief, I take Lucas''s hand as he helps me into the limousine that will take us around Atlanta for the day. He holds my hand a little too long, skimming the tip of his thumb over my knuckles. I flush. Stare away.


    The documentary creator leans forward, a slow smile forming on his pale face, but Lucas shoots him a look. The cameraman is the last person to climb inside of the limo. Lucas and the creator of the documentary - which I find out is called Rock on the Road - sit on one side of the car, and I sit with the camera guy on the other so I won''t be seen. The whole time Lucas talks about his life growing up in Atlanta, he''s staring at me and not the camera.


    "I played baseball - first baseman - at that high school over there my freshman year." He points out the window at a school on the right side of the street. It''s a private religious academy, much to my surprise. "Took a hit in the balls with a baseball and that shit ended pretty quickly," he adds, rolling his eyes dramatically for the sake of the camera.


    "What about the music? What would you say had the biggest impact on your sound growing up?" the documentary guy presses.


    Lucas looks deep in thought, though I have a feeling he''s just pretending. These questions have more than likely been asked by hundreds of reporters in more scenarios than he can count. "My dad. He was a huge Metallica fan. I - uh - may have been in a Metallica cover band with Sinjin and Wyatt once upon a time ago."


    Metallica. I cock my eyebrow at him and he gives me a shrug and a grin.


    The limousine slows down to the crawl necessary for residential communities. When we stop, pulling to the curb of a brown and white bungalow, a woman who looks like a pint sized version of Kylie comes out onto the porch, smiling brightly.


    By the way she hugs Lucas, pulling him fiercely to her and burying her face into his chest she''s either been prepped by the documentary creator as well or Lucas goes home just about as much as I do. I''m leaning towards the second and wondering what kind of past he has here. By the obvious affection he has for his mom and the adoration he showed when talking about his dad in the limo, I don''t think he feels anything other than love towards his parents.


    "Where''s Kylie?" she asks as I take off my beanie and sunglasses and take a seat in their cramped sitting room on the piano bench. "Is she at the hotel?"


    "She had an emergency trip to take care of in California," Lucas explains easily. He winks at me. "Don''t worry, Ma, she''ll be here for Easter."


    I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. His Georgian accent seems to magically appear when he''s with his mom. Plus, I think it''s sexy as hell that he''s almost 29 but respects his mother enough not to tell her his sister is partying in New Orleans.


    Mrs. Wolfe is just as kind and charming as Kylie, speaking to the camera with a natural ease as she boasts about her kids. Lucas''s dad shows up halfway into the filming. He''s got on a sweaty golf shirt, but he hugs me when I introduce myself as Kylie''s temporary replacement.


    "She didn''t send any of that champagne, did she?" he teases, and I force a grin.


    The mood in the Wolfe''s home is happy, easygoing, but I find myself withdrawing. I have to remind myself that I have Gram, that my grandparents were just as wonderful as anyone else''s parents, as I witness Lucas interacting with his folks.


    Somehow, I manage to keep the feeling of jealousy at bay.


    When we leave, both Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe give me a hug goodbye and embrace Lucas. "Before I forget," his mom says, stopping him before he gets into the limousine. "Sam''s been trying to get in touch with you. Said it was - "


    "Already taken care of," Lucas tells her, his voice tight, rude. His face is drawn into a harsh frown as he hugs his mom one last time. Whoever Sam is, I bet money he''s one of those things keeping Lucas from coming to Atlanta regularly.


    Sam is Lucas''s version of my Rebecca.


    When we ditch the camera crew and I have Lucas all to myself in the limo, he tells me to come into his lap. I climb across the seats a little too eagerly, sliding my bottom down on top of him. He splays his hands out on either side of it and bounces me up and down, grinning at how I squirm in agony.


    "I want you doing that over my face later," he whispers as he squeezes my bottom.


    "How much later?"


    "Lunch with Cilla won''t take long and then we''ll - "


    I freeze as soon as he says we''re having lunch with Cilla, the rest of his words drowning and suddenly becoming a warbled mess. Pulling away from him, I hug my arms around my stomach. "I didn''t know Cilla Craig was in Atlanta." Despite all my best efforts to control myself, there''s a hint of wariness in my voice.


    He opens my arms, spinning me around so that my back is to him. Positioning my arms behind his neck, he caresses my breasts, flutters his fingers softly against my nipples and then twists them just enough to send vibrations through me. "That''s what we''re here for," he says between strokes, between kisses on my neck. "Besides the documentary, the only other reason I came to Atlanta is for Cilla''s birthday party tomorrow."


    "Oh," I say.


    He doesn''t seem to notice how angry I am by the time we arrive at the restaurant, or how my hand goes slack in his as he guides me inside. I almost want to retract my invitation to let him touch me even though I know doing so would be silly and a waste of time - he would simply refuse to stop.


    Though I''m hoping that Cilla''s beauty is a product of Photoshop and M.A.C, she turns out to be just as stunning as she is on all the magazine covers and music videos. Lucas introduces me as Kylie''s temp, and she nods at me, giving me a hint of a smile. Cilla''s got this husky, sexy voice that turns heads when she laughs and she orders Bud Light and a messy cheeseburger.


    Cilla doesn''t say much to me - she''s mostly focused on Lucas - but at one point, she tosses her mane of black hair over one shoulder and stares me down. "So, Pepper, how''d you get caught up with Luke?" she asks. "Because I didn''t even know Kylie knew what a vacation was. That kid works way too much."


    Lucas answers for me. "Sienna worked on the set of one of my music videos a few years ago. She does wardrobe in L.A."


    "Fun," Cilla says, though she doesn''t look like she means it and I''m glad I never had to work on a Wicked Lambs music video.


    The rest of lunch seems to drag by uncomfortably. Each second I spend watching Cilla and Lucas catch up is difficult. Finally, I excuse myself. I linger in the restroom longer than appropriate before going out to face them again. When I reach the table, Lucas is paying the check.


    Cilla grins up at me. "I was just inviting Luke - and you, of course -to come over and - "


    "I''m good," I say, not even willing to hear what she''s got to say. Lucas''s hazel eyes narrow into tight slits. I look away from his face.


    We''re quiet during the limo ride back to the hotel, sitting on opposite sides of the backseat with our bodies stiff with tension. But the moment we walk through the door of the suite, he drags me to him, pinning my hands above my head and forcing my lips apart until my knees go slack.


    He pushes me away from him. Keeping his voice level, he points to the chair by the desk. "Sit down, Sienna."


    "No, I''m not going to - "


    "Sit," he repeats. I''m fuming and my body is trembling, but I sink down, my bottom hanging off the edge of the chair. Then he demands to know why I was so rude to Cilla. I turn my face away from him when I answer him.


    "Because she looked over me like I wasn''t fit to lick her motorcycle boots." Because I''m afraid of your past together. "Because I want you," I whisper in a ragged voice.


    He takes my face between his hands and kisses my lips hard. "Don''t tell me you''re threatened by Cilla," he hisses against my mouth. I nod my head and he tangles his hands in my hair, releasing a low growl from the back of his throat. "You drive me fucking crazy, Sienna. She''s one of my best friends - we grew up together - but she''s not you. Never in a million years."


    It feels so good to hear him say those words, and I circle his neck. "I want you," I tell him again, pulling back from him. "I want to be that person you need me to be."


    "I won''t believe that until you''ve calmed down, until you''re absolutely sure," he says, but I grind my body against his. "Stop or I will punish you this time."


    I take his hand, pressing it between my legs. He cups my chin, turns my face until we''re eye to eye. Releasing a groan, he sets me away from him and removes his own t-shirt. I watch, holding my breath, as he rips it into several long strips with ease.


    "What are you - ?"


    "Be quiet and get naked."


    I strip down so fast he cocks an eyebrow as he comes toward me. He tosses one of the hotel towels in the chair. "Sit down," he says and I slide into the seat. He kneels down in front of me. When I reach out to stroke his hair, he catches my wrist, tethering it to the arm of the chair. I gasp. Giving me a dangerous look, he ties my other wrist to the opposite side of the chair. Then, spreading my legs wide apart so that I''m completely exposed to him, he binds my ankles to the legs of the chair.


    "Lucas, I - "


    He covers my mouth with the tips of his fingers, bending his head to touch me. I squirm, grasping at air with my own fingers. For what seems like eternity, he tastes and bites and sucks. When I''m close to coming, when I''m rocking back and forth in the chair almost violently and bucking my hips to his mouth, he stops.


    "I''m going to make a phone call," he whispers, untying me. "You are not to touch yourself until I return, do you understand?"


    I nod as he helps me to my feet. Opening my legs with his hand, he nudges his finger inside of me. "Do you understand?" he repeats in a harsh voice.


    "Yes sir."


    The moment he leaves our suite, I sulk into the bathroom.

 Page 17

    "You were in there a very long time, Ms. Jensen," Lucas muses, startling me, as I pad out of the bathroom. When had he come back to the room? He''s sitting in the seat he''d bound me to a couple hours ago, quietly strumming his guitar. Heat floods my body because I can''t help thinking about how his mouth had teased my body. How he''d warned me not to come. How he''d left me wanting more, wanting him to finish.


    "I was dirty from - "Advertisement


    "You were fucking yourself."


    He''s not asking me, he''s telling me what I''ve been doing. Before I can think of something witty to say, I blurt, "You refused to finish."


    "And that''s what you want now. For me to finish. For me to keep fucking you."


    "Yes," I whisper.


    "Yes, what?"


    "Sir."


    "There aren''t any more barriers between us," he says, his words hovering somewhere in between a question and a statement. I nod my head.


    He rises to his feet, placing the guitar to the side of the bed. Now, I''ve got his full attention. Static runs through my body, making every inch of me feel as if it''s been electrocuted. "Turn around and put your forearms and hands flat on the desk," he says.


    "Why? So you can spank me like a little kid?" I demand, recalling some of his earlier threats. There''s a sarcastic edge to my voice - one that lures a slow spreading grin from Lucas. God, why does he have to look so beautiful, so perfect, and yet so sinfully dangerous?


    "Not at all like a child," he says.


    Shivering, I face the desk and bend over in the position he''s instructed. I would be stupid if I said I wasn''t the tiniest bit frightened, but the other feelings that course through me - blurry and wonderful and intoxicatingly confusing - trump the fear.


    I feel sadistic and crazy for wanting him and this.


    I feel so fucking alive it burns.


    Lucas removes the white robe from my body, leaving me bare. His fingers are feather soft against my skin as he guides my hips further away from the desk and bows my back so that my bottom is jutted up at him.


    Gliding his fingertips down my damp skin - down my hips, past my thighs - he squats down behind me. Carefully, he spreads my legs apart and repositions my feet so that there''s a wide space between them. When he stands up, his hard body slightly skimming mine along the way, I moan. "Lucas . . ."


    He swats my left ass cheek with the palm of his hand, the same palm that was playing such beautiful music only minutes ago. It''s not hard enough to bruise, but the sting is enough to make me shiver.


    In pain.


    Anticipation.


    Need.


    Punishment lasts for approximately two more swats, one for each side of my bottom and then Lucas presses his lips to the base of my neck. My shoulder blades arch together. For a moment, I feel him go completely still. "You''re so fucking sweet. So beautiful."


    The dark cotton blindfold drapes over my eyes.


    My breath catches in my throat.


    I feel bare, deliciously blinded to the world around me. On the outside, I''m patient as I wait for his next move, but my heart is throbbing. My breath is coming out in short, choppy wisps.


    Please . . .


    Running one of his hands down my arm, he intertwines my fingers with his and tugs me around to face him. "Do you want me, Sienna?"


    I know what he wants from me. And I''m strong enough to give it to him. When I say the words, a ripple of pleasure flows through me. It settles into the pit of my belly. "Please . . . sir." I sound submissive and confident, all at once.


    I gasp as he lifts my body effortlessly and slides my bottom onto the wide desk behind us. There''s part of me that''s dying to see the expression on his face - whether or not his hazel eyes have darkened or if he''s staring at me with animalistic lust - but I love the way my senses seem heightened. The way my skin tingles in some places before he even touches me, almost as if it''s sensing his next move.


    He slides his hands between my thighs, splaying his rough fingertips on my smooth skin. Slowly his fingers move up, and I feel one - no, two . . . three - slide inside of me, delving into the wetness. My knees buckle together. He opens them back apart and positions his body between them.


    I grind my teeth together to keep from moaning, and I feel a tiny sting across my right breast, as he flicks me with . . . something. Momentarily surprised, I gasp. Then, I wiggle my hips against his hand.


    His fingers push and pull, filling me, taking me under. I arch my back. "Please," I say, barely recognizing my own voice and he gives a raw chuckle.


    A second later, I get the sweet release he refused to give me a couple hours ago.


    I pray he''s nowhere near done.


    Lucas tugs the blindfold down. I blink rapidly as my eyes adjust to the light. When they finally focus in on him, he brings his fingers to his mouth. Teasingly, he flicks his tongue over the tips, tasting me. I groan and reach out to him. He captures my fingers in his, kissing them, tasting them too.


    When he guides my hand to his cock, I''m hesitant at first. What if he''s only wanting to tease me again and has no intention of fucking me? What if -


    He nods his and closes my grip around his shaft.


    I run my hand up and down the length of his hardness, slow at first, and then faster, tighter until he''s moaning. He shoves away from me for a moment, staring down at me with a look that''s enough to make me come without even being touched. Then, lifting me up and off the desk, he cups my bottom in his hands. His cock slides inside of me in one breathtaking thrust.


    The room seems to tilt on its side.


    He shudders when I tighten around him - my arms circling his neck, legs locked together around his waist and the length of him clenched deep inside of me.


    And suddenly, my back is to the wall and his hands have left my ass to tangle into my long red hair. He drives his cock into me, slides my body up so that I lose him, lose this. Then he grinds his hips up.


    He''s inside of me again.


    Out.


    In.


    Gritting my teeth, I say, "Oooh, Lucas" - another sting, this time my left breast - "I want to fucking come again."


    Shaking his head, he crushes his lips to mine. I taste wine and menthol and myself. His tongue and cock seem to be working in unison, exploring and demanding until I''m incoherent.


    Until I''m begging him.


    Then, he lets go of my hair. It spills between our faces, clinging to our slick skin. His hand squeezes between our bodies, and he rubs my clit between his thumb and forefinger. Crying out, I squeeze my legs around him.


    I''m falling.


    Hard.


    Fast.


    And in more ways than one.


    A moment later, he shivers, and presses his hands into the perspiration at the small of my back. Keeping himself inside of me, he carries me into the bathroom. When he unravels our bodies, he kisses the tips of my fingers.


    His eyes never leave mine.


    Not when he starts the shower and we wash each other''s bodies.


    Not when we towel each other off.


    And not even when we lay facing each other, exploring, squeezing. Tasting.


    It''s only later - after he''s asleep -that I find the object he flicked my breasts with whenever he caught me grinding my teeth in the palm of his hand.


    It''s a black and red guitar pick.

 Page 18

    Lucas''s 7am wakeup rule flies out of the window the next morning because we both oversleep. The sound of the hotel room''s telephone shrilling in our ears is what drags us out of bed at a little after nine. I answer the phone, and I''m greeted by a chilly female voice.


    "Kylie, put Lucas on the phone, it''s Sam."Advertisement


    Sam. I try to remember where I''ve heard the name and then I realize this is the person Lucas''s mother had mentioned yesterday, the person who made him tense up in anger. And she''s a woman. I bite my bottom lip, clutching the phone until I feel like I''m seconds away from shattering it.


    "I''m sorry you - "


    "Don''t you dare try that I''m sorry you''ve reached the wrong room act with me. I talked to your mom, so put him on the goddamn phone."


    Lucas is sitting up in bed now, staring down at the receiver with a blank expression on his face. "It''s Sam," I say, hoping to elicit some kind of reaction from him. Nothing happens and a chill turns my blood to ice.


    He takes the phone from my hands, grasping it as tight as I had only moments before. "Leave," he says. There''s no cruelty behind it or any emotion at all, for that matter, but I feel numb as I slide off the bed. Leave the room. Draw the door closed behind me.


    I sit in the living room, hugging my knees to my chest. I try to focus on watching television - some trashy talk show about a woman and the six men who were possibly her "baby''s daddy" - but I can still hear bits and pieces of Lucas''s conversation with Sam. Every snippet that reaches my ears only intensifies the cramps in my chest.


    " . . . you can''t keep doing this to me," he yells.


    Then there''s silence for a little while. I pretend like I''m interested in the woman on the giant, flat-screen TV weeping at another negative test result. I pretend like I''m not at all spying on Lucas.


    ". . . it''s nobody, just - " He pauses, and I can hear a guttural noise rip from his throat. "I''m sending you money. I''ll send you whatever you want, but you can''t expect me to do this with you for the rest of my life."


    I flinch. Is Lucas in some sort of trouble with Sam? And then, a more frightening thought comes to me: is Lucas involved with drugs, just like Sinjin? I wipe sweaty palms on the hem of the t-shirt I''m wearing, Lucas''s shirt.


    And then, I hear him say something that makes me shudder.


    "You psycho bitch, sometimes I wish you would just go to them and get it over with."


    Go to whom? Get what over with?


    I hear the sound of something slamming repeatedly followed by the pipes in the bathroom turning on. When Lucas comes out of the shower nearly an hour later, there''s a blood-stained towel wrapped around his knuckles.


    "Lucas . . . is everything alright?" I whisper, hesitantly.


    He gives me a strained smile and then motions me to him. "Come here," he says, pulling him to me.


    He covers my lips with his mouth, drowning out all the questions I have. He kisses me like I''m his last meal, like he''s never tasted me before, even though he had me many, many times last night. He pulls me into his lap and slides his finger into my mouth, between our lips. I nibble on the tip of it.


    A moment later he stands, with me straddling him, and carries me back to the bedroom. There, he keeps his promise of eating strawberries and me. There, he finally gets the chance to cuff me, turning me over on my stomach and sliding his cock in and out of my body until I''m sobbing.


    And it''s there that I come to terms with the fact that I''ve fallen in love with Lucas Wolfe.


    My dress for Cilla''s birthday party is the sexiest piece of clothing I''ve ever owned. It''s short and black, made of scalloped lace with a cutout back. When Lucas sees me in it, his eyes darken and he promises me that tonight, my dress will become binds for each of the four posters of the bed.


    I get wet just thinking about it.


    Cilla''s party is being held at a swanky night club, and I immediately recognize several of her guests from Fuse TV and my iPod playlists. Any other person would be star struck but I''m not. I only have eyes for Lucas. I play my part well, standing by his side as his personal assistant, but wanting him more than anything.


    When nobody''s looking, he drags me into a corner with him, kissing me deeply and sucking on my ear. He wiggles his fingers inside of me, causing me to almost lose control on the spot.


    "Soon," he promises.


    When Cilla''s boyfriend, the bass guitarist for an up and coming band from Ohio, seeks Lucas out, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. As I''m passing an empty lounge, a long-nailed hand closes around my wrist, slamming me up against a wall. I expect to see Cilla - she''s been prancing around drunk off her ass most of the bight - so I''m surprised when a different face hovers in front of me.


    A woman with henna red hair and gray eyes. She''s beautiful, but so are most of the women here tonight. What really strikes me about this particular woman are her eyes. They''re unfocused and wild. Scary. "So you''re Luke''s little bitch?" she demands between clenched teeth, pressing all of her body weight - which isn''t very much considering she''s short and skinny - against me.


    "I''m his personal assistant," I say. But even then, the word doesn''t sound quite right or believable.


    She opens her mouth to say something but then her face changes from furious to a look of understanding. "That wasn''t Kylie this morning, was it?"


    I suck in a deep breath through my nose. "Sam?" I blurt out.


    Her lips curl up into a sneer, and she bobs her head. "If you go near him again, I swear to God I''ll ruin you," she says. "I swear to God I''ll - "


    "You''ll what?" I demand, shoving her away from me. "And just who are you anyway?"


    "I''ll ruin him," she promises, choosing not to answer my second question.


    That feeling of dread that I felt when Lucas was on the phone with this woman comes back to me, hitting me hard, and it''s impossible to get it to go away this time. Who the hell is she? And what does she have on Lucas that lets her provoke such a nasty response from him? That gives her enough courage to threaten me?


    "Stay the fuck away from me," I warn, brushing her aside so I can leave. She grabs my arm again, this time, raking her nails into my skin. This time, I slam her up against the wall. So hard that the back of her head makes a loud thumping noise.


    She laughs like a crazy person, shaking her head from side to side, and saying, "You have no idea who you''re talking to, slut."


    "Hey!" a voice shouts out. Both of our heads snap to see Cilla standing in the doorway, her eyes squinted and a shot glass in each hand. "What the fuck are you doing in here?" She touches the earpiece that she''s wearing, hissing "Security!"


    I almost expect Cilla to have me escorted away by the two bouncers who come back just moments after they''re called, but instead, it''s Sam she tells to literally fuck off and burn in hell. Sam gives me one last look, shrugs off the bouncers, and stalks off.


    I rub my hand across the spot on my arm her fingers clawed. "You alright?" Cilla asks me, and I shake my head.


    "You know, I''m not your biggest fan because you''re with Luke, but nobody deserves to have to deal with people like Samantha," she says.


    "Who is she to him?"


    Cilla''s beautiful face is suddenly surprised, but she recovers quickly. "His ex-wife."


    Lucas doesn''t waste any time taking me back to the hotel. It''s another one of those painfully quiet car rides. As we ride the elevator up to our suite, a horrible feeling slinks its way through my chest. As soon as we enter the room, he tells me to sit on the couch. I obey, wringing my hands together.


    "Sienna . . . I can''t - " He heaves a sigh and glances away from my face at the marble flooring in the foyer. "You''ve got to go."


    I feel everything inside of me shut down, as he refuses to look into my eyes. "What the fuck are you talking about?" I demand at last.


    "I''m dismissing you. You''ve fulfilled the terms of our contract," he says.


    I come up out of my seat, rushing across the room to stand in front of him. "No. No. I''ve got two days left. Lucas, tell me what''s going on?" I plead.


    He drags his hands through his thick dark hair and makes a low, violent noise. "God, Sienna . . . just fucking go, okay? The house is yours. You''re done - just go before I call security on you."


    He doesn''t sound like the Lucas I know. He doesn''t sound like anyone I''ve ever known. My heart is beating wildly as I take another tentative step in his direction. He backs up, shaking his head.


    "So, that''s it?" I demand, tears rolling down my cheeks, singeing my skin. "No explanation, no . . . nothing."


    "I''ve given you a house. I don''t fucking owe you anything else," he says, his voice cold. I start to argue with him more but he turns his back to me. Clenches his hands - the same hands that touched me so intimately hours before - into tight fists. "Concierge is taking care of your flight to Nashville. Be out before I return tomorrow."


    I''m shaking so hard that''s it''s impossible for me to speak. I hold myself close, wheezing. When the words do come to me, it''s too late.


    He''s already left, slamming the door behind him.


    Slamming the door on us.

 Page 19

    There''s 750 dollars in my bank account when I arrive in Nashville the next morning, day nine, and I use a little less than half to rent a small rental car that smells like stale fast food. The guy at the rental counter says that I''ll get $150 of my money back when I return the car, and all I''m able to do is nod.


    I''ve not cried since leaving the Four Seasons. To be honest, I can''t. And believe me, it hurts but I just . . . can''t.Advertisement


    I drive around for two hours, unsure of where I should go, what I should do. I know what it''s like to be used. My mom had made sure I was well-equipped with that knowledge over the years. Yet somehow, the few days I spent with Lucas seem like so much more than a lifetime with Mom.


    And I find myself wanting to wake-up. Wanting to open my eyes and kiss him. Wanting him to devour me just a little more.


    When my phone rings, I don''t even look to see who''s calling me. I just answer. Exist. Kylie''s crying when I lift the receiver to my ear.


    "Please tell me he didn''t," she sobs.


    A tiny portion of the numbness fades. I feel the splitting headache. Nearly swerve off the road. "Why does it matter?" I ask her.


    "He''s letting her control him. I checked his - he sent her a wire this morning for 250 grand and then I called him, and . . ."


    More of the detachment floats away, constricting my throat. "Sam?" I ask in a hoarse voice. I think of her words to me last night at Cilla''s party, of Lucas''s argument with her yesterday morning.


    "She''s got something on him, Sienna. I''ve got no fucking clue what it is but she threatened him. She doesn''t want him happy. She''s - "


    Sam is the queen of hearts inside of the stopwatch.


    Sam is calling the shots on Lucas, so he feels he has to call them on everyone else, on me.


    The rest of the numbness is gone now, leaving a nauseating pain in the center of my chest. I pull over at a gas station and rest my head on the steering wheel. "Kylie, I''ll call you back," I whisper. She''s still talking, begging me not to go, when I draw the phone from my ear. I hang up on her, powering it completely off.


    And then, the tears finally come.


    When everything is said and done, and after I spend the night feeling sorry for myself in a seedy pay by the hour motel, I go back to Gram''s house. Her eyes are damp when she meets me outside on the porch and it takes everything not to cry too.


    "You''re back," she says, embracing me.


    I breathe her scent in, nodding. "Only for a few days."


    "I should probably go ahead and tell you that the new owner, Mr. Wolfe, won''t be moving to Nashville after all. He''s very generously given me the house back," she says. I feign surprise, gasping, and her grip tightens around me. "Sienna, I know where you''ve been."


    My blood runs cold as I lean back slowly, ashamedly, to meet her gaze. "What?"


    "When we went to see your mom yesterday, Seth told me. Now, don''t get angry with him - he was only trying to give me some peace of mind, but to be honest . . ."


    And as Gram leads me into the house - her home - I hear myself telling everything. I leave out the specifics, of course, but she listens, hanging on to every word I have to say. I put enthusiasm into my voice; make my actions lively and happy.


    After I''m finished, she holds me close. She doesn''t ask any more questions of me, even though I know they''re on her mind and she''s fully aware there''s so much more to what''s happened between me and Lucas. "You and Seth are two of the greatest things that have ever happened to me."


    "I know, Gram. I don''t know where I''d be without you," I murmur, digging my fingers into her sweater, holding on for support.


    A long email from Lucas arrives in my inbox late that evening. As I read it, I''m forced to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying again. Or from grinding my teeth.


    Sienna,


    It''s sad that this is what I do for a living and I can''t even come up with a decent explanation for myself. Then again, maybe that''s because I''ve never had to or wanted to explain my actions before you. I know I hurt you. I know you must want me to fucking die right now, and I''m so sorry.


    -Lucas


    I start to just erase it - because really what good does replying do - but then I find myself hitting reply. I find myself typing a message that''s just as short but so much more succinct than what he''s given me.


    Dear Lucas,


    One of these days, you''re going to have to stand up for yourself. No matter what someone''s holding over your head.


    Sienna


    I don''t dwell on what I''ve said or read over it 50 times, I just hit send.

 Page 20

    I return to Los Angeles, to the life that I thought I''d made for myself, heartbroken. But while my heart feels weaker than it was before I know that I am so much stronger. So much more my own person.


    But even that realization does very little for the fact that at first, I try to avoid anything dealing with or reminding me of Lucas at all cost. Even then, he still finds me - on a giant ad for Your Toxic Sequel''s new album on the side of a bus and staring across from me in a magazine carousel in the grocery store checkout. Photos from the shoot he did in Nashville. A month or two ago, I''d have plucked another magazine from the shelf and covered his face, but why bother?Advertisement


    By time Micah, a mutual friend of mine and Tori''s who''s been stopping by our apartment more and more often just to see her, puts on an entire Your Toxic Sequel playlist at a get-together we have, I''m numb enough to Lucas that I don''t even flinch.


    Brea pulls him aside, her dark eyes wild, hissing, "You don''t play that crappy music here Micah Daniel or I will - "


    But I save him, worming my body between the two of them. Even in five inch stilettos I''m still taller than Tori, and I glance down into her eyes, giving her a tight smile. "It''s one of their best songs," I say. Micah agrees a little too fast. I give him a sympathetic look as he slinks away. I mean, he doesn''t actually know what''s going on or why Tori is bitching at him.


    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."

 Page 21

    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.Advertisement


    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."