Devoured
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.
"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.
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."