Devoured
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 . . .
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.
"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.