Devoured

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 f**king 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 f**ked 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 c**k 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 f**king 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.”