Devoured

“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 f**king 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.

CHAPTER TWENTY

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?

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.