Consumed (Page 35)
The band doesn’t seem fazed by the pandemonium or the naked br**sts, thong straps, and ass cheeks being flashed at them at every turn.
After the second to last song on the set is performed—which is one of their newer tracks called “Tumbles Down”—I start to leave the pit to avoid the flood of departing fans that will happen in about fifteen minutes.
It takes me twice as long as it did before to get backstage, and I find myself flashing my wrist more than normal until I’m finally secured in the VIP area, which is where both Wicked Lambs and Your Toxic Sequel will be doing interviews with the press and then an acoustic show for a select handful of their fans.
As I push through the crowd to get to the hospitality room, I make up my mind not to say anything to Cilla. First, I’ve had an hour and a half to get some of my anger at her “I f**ked him first” line out of my system. And second? It’s not like it isn’t true. Admitting this makes my stomach feel like it’s swallowing my chest.
But my resolve to stay quiet changes a few seconds after I enter the packed room.
Cilla’s perched on the side of the plush armchair that Brady’s sitting in, a red Solo cup tipped up to her mouth, and her face turned toward the entrance to the room. When her gaze lands on her prey, me, a satisfied gleam crawls into her eyes. She mouths something, but it’s impossible for me to decipher it through the haze.
It’s probably best I can’t.
I have never wanted to hit someone so badly.
No, correction: I’ve never wanted to throat punch someone this much.
Her red lips widen as I stalk across the room to her. “Did you like the song?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” My voice is higher-pitched than normal, and I pray she doesn’t notice. “Do you like seeming like a desperate bitch?”
Cilla’s lips flatten into a sneer. “You’re really coming in here with that bullshit?” She glances back, probably to get some type of confirmation from Brady, but he’s staring down at a non-existent message on his phone. Grunting in disgust, she scoots her butt off the chair. “I’m getting a drink.”
If she thinks I’m anywhere near finished speaking with her, then she’s sadly mistaken.
I’m right behind her as she makes a beeline to the adjoining room. There’s a couple of crewmembers in here grabbing food, but Cilla pays them no mind as she slinks over to the refreshment table holding the liquor. She snatches a plastic cup from the stack on the corner and places the rim of it against her lips in amusement.
“Are you following me, Pepper? I guess this tour isn’t complete without me getting a brand new stalker.”
Cilla would say something so cocky.
“Trust me, you are the last person I’d ever want to stalk,” I say through clenched teeth, earning a dramatic pout from her. “And if you think being a bitch, or letting me know that you’ve f**ked my boyfriend in the past is going to make me turn around and go home, then you have another thing coming.” With each word, I move closer to her until I’m standing less than six inches from her face. Up close, I can see that her lips are trembling.
She races her tongue over the center of them. “Mmm, the submissive has a backbone. You must drive Lucas up the wall with that type of shit.” She reaches for a bottle of top shelf vodka, but I grab it first. She laughs coldly. “Just so you know, I don’t give a shit if you’re here or not.”
“Right.” I tilt my head to the side, sizing her up from the heels of her black, lace-up boots to the strands of dark hair damp against her forehead. “I’m sure you don’t. But just so you know, I’m not going anywhere unless Lucas asks me to.”
She pries the bottle of vodka out of my grip, sloshing some on the front of my white strapless shirt. “Well if that’s what you’re waiting for, I guess you know exactly what to expect then, don’t you?”
The only thing that stops me from flinching is just how hard I poke my nails into the palms of my hands. Cilla is watching me carefully for a reaction, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing that her bitter reminder of what happened in the past has stung me. I give her nothing but a distant smile that only confuses her and makes her shoulders hunch forward.
“Guess we both know our roles,” I retort.
Her face flushed, Cilla finishes pouring her drink in sharp, jerky movements. As soon as she’s done, she raises the plastic cup in a shaky toast. “Enjoy the after-party, bitch.”
I wait until she’s gone to move even an inch. My hands are completely numb as I grab myself a miniature bottle of Coke from one of the side tables. Every muscle in my body feels taut, and I’m unable to keep from working my teeth together. For a long time, I stand by the spread of refreshments, clenching and unclenching my hand around the cold plastic, oblivious to the comings and goings of the band and crewmembers.
Finally, I feel a familiar, possessive touch flare across my hip. I inhale deeply, breathing Lucas in, but not wanting to look at him. “The show was incredible,” I say flatly.
“Fuck the show, I care more about you stabbing someone with this thing.” He plucks the bottle out of my hand and places it on the table. “Look at me, Sienna.”
I’m reluctant to face him, but he pulls me around anyway. His look of concern changes the moment he’s able to study my face. Lifting his head to the handful of people coming into this room, he barks, “Get the f**k out and close the door.”
Like always, they comply, racing away to do his bidding.