Authors: Emily Snow
"But you need me," she says, and though she doesn't say anything else, the rest of her words linger in the air.
You need me if you want to be happy. You need me to let you go before you do.
I turn my back to her in time to maneuver around a family that's making their way toward the park attractions. As I leave, I say in a quiet voice, "When you figure out how we'll make that happen, when you're done playing games—you fucking let me know."
I know she’s close enough to hear me.
***
Keeping with tradition, Sam doesn't call or text me for the next five days, a few of those probably spent with her dealer and a needle in her arm. By the weekend, I start the mental countdown because I know it's only a matter of days before I hear from her. I busy myself with music—mostly my solo project but stuff for the band, too.
Which is a disaster since Sinjin, our drummer, is still in rehab.
"Can you at least pretend this isn’t a waste of your time?" Wyatt asks me. It's Saturday night, and we’ve been sampling material for our new album with Cal, our lead guitarist, since mid-afternoon inside the small studio in my house. Cal’s been outside for the last 30 minutes taking a call, leaving me in here with Wyatt who wants to talk about nothing but the tour that’s coming up this summe¬¬¬¬r.
This is the first time since we formed the damn band over a decade ago that I don’t want to go on tour. Somehow I’ve managed to undo all that motivation that had driven me for years.
Wyatt shakes his head. “I swear, you’re in a daz—”
"I want to be here," I say, and he gives me a skeptical look. "Just upstairs in my bed."
"Pathetic." He starts to add something else to his insult, but I cut him off ahead of time.
"This is coming from the same mother fucker who called me crying his ass off about my sister for two weeks." Which would still be the case if Kylie hadn't contacted him to work things out a few days ago. Being able to call her bullshit when she’s said she's done with him has always been an extra talent of mine, but this time when she said she was done, I believed her.
Guess my bullshit detection skills have gone to hell along with my ability to make music and give a fuck.
"There's no shame in picking up the phone and calling Sienna, Wolfe."
"Did Kylie put you up to this?"
There's a look of surprise on his face, but then he sets the guitar he’s been strumming to the side and stretches his arms out on the back of the couch. "We haven't had time to talk about your problems."
I don't know if he's implying that he's been too busy screwing my sister or fighting with her, but it's not something I want to hear. "I still want to fuck you up for what you did to her."
"We're working it out. But your problems . . ."
Again with that shit. I start to tell him to get the fuck out of my house but then my phone vibrates from the piano bench. I turn it over and scan the screen, reading the text Cal sent. “Cal already left. Something came up.”
“A woman. Sounds like him.” Wyatt’s on his feet before I can say anything, heading toward the door. When he turns around to face me again, he releases a long breath and scratches his head. “Fuck, don’t look at me like that. Go out. Get her out of your system if you’re not going to see her. But don’t sit around doing this. It’s not you.”
I put my phone back down on the bench and pick up the half-empty beer that’s sitting on the corner. I’ve been “drinking” it for the past hour. “Tell Kylie to call me tomorrow.”
He leaves then, muttering something under his breath that I don’t manage to make out. For a long time, I stay in the music room, nursing the same Sam Adams. Fucking pathetic. Just like Wyatt said.
When I finally get up long after both Cal and Wyatt leave, I don’t go upstairs to my bed like I originally planned.
Lucas Wolfe
Tonight, I drive my Jeep, which I’ve had since the “Sam Days,” because it’s low-key. I don’t drive to Sienna’s place, even though it’s the place where I know I’d find the most happiness. I go out to one of the local bars that I frequent when I’m home in Los Angeles, taking a break from the other bar I’ve been frequenting. Located downtown, its a little shithole that’s nestled between a larger bar and a nightclub. The beer is cheap; the music is good; and the crowd, a bunch of regulars, doesn’t give two shits about whether or not I’m Lucas Wolfe or a bum with a few dollars to spend.
It’s busy tonight, so it takes me a few laps around the area to find a decent parking space. When I finally do park the Jeep—two blocks from the bar—I feed about twenty dollars in change that I find in my center console and cup holders into the meter. Sleeping in too late is a constant curse of mine when it comes to late night drinking, and I’ve had my car towed before after failing to pick it up on time. The hassle of getting it back always pisses Kylie off and things are strained enough with my little sister thanks to what I did to Sienna.
“Get Red out of your head, mother fucker. At least for tonight,” I tell myself.
Shoving my keys into my pocket, I walk the two blocks to the bar quickly. The security guard doesn’t stop me to check my ID. He steps aside, lifts his chin slightly in acknowledgement and gives me a shit-eating grin. I haven’t been here in a while, but the last time, in early January, I left with one of the bartenders and her friend.
As I settle into a seat at the dimly lit bar, my phone vibrates. At first, I ignore it and focus my attention on Drowning Pool’s “Bodies,” but after it buzzes a few more times, I drag it out of my pocket. I’m not surprised to find a string of messages from my sister.
11:29 PM:
Are you alright, Lucas?
11:44 PM:
Because Wyatt said you’re having a hard time.
11:48 PM:
Lucas?
Making a mental note to strangle the shit out of Wyatt the next time I see him, I release a frustrated noise as I message her back. I’m nowhere near as quick as Kylie, and no sooner than I let her know that I’m alright and that I hope she has a good night not screwing with me, she responds again.
11:52 PM:
You answered too fast. Did something happen?
One of the bartenders—thankfully not the same one who took me home a couple months ago—leans across the counter and her lips thin into a wide smile. “Relax, Mr. Rockstar. You’re about to break that thing into two.” She dips her head down to the phone I’m clutching in the palm of my hand. I glance at it too and loosen my grip, earning a “that’s better” from the blonde. “Haven’t seen you around in a long time. Been busy?”
I try like hell to come up with her name. I drag my eyes over her, searching for a nametag. When I don’t see one, I lift the corners of my mouth and shrug. “New music and shit.”
“Well then I’m glad you’ve been away.” Slinging her long straight hair over one of her bare shoulders, she straightens her back but not before purposely squeezing her tits together so that they come close to spilling over the top of her black halter. “I fucking adore your music.” She winks one of her heavily lined dark eyes at me—a clear invitation. I give her a dick response by asking for my usual, seasonal Sam Adams, and her smile grows even wider. “Anything for you.”
I follow her movements as she grabs my drink, which are all a little more dramatic and sensual than they normally would be, and finally spot her nametag pinned to the bottom of her shirt. She pretends to be oblivious to the appreciative grins of the rest of the mother fuckers sitting at the bar when she returns to me with one bottle more than I asked for, which I gratefully accept. “Want me to start a tab for you?”
I take a gulp of the beer, downing more in twenty seconds than I’ve drank all night, before nodding. “I’ll be here awhile.”
“Should I hold on to your keys?” She’s already holding her hand out, revealing a cluster of star tattoos across her wrist. “Come on, hand them over, Rockstar.”
It’s yet another invitation—one that any other man at this bar would grab and fuck in a second—but I’m not them. I shake my head. “I’ve got good self-control.”
She takes a step backward, wiping her hands on the front of her tight jeans. “Oh, I’ve heard. Let me know if you need anything, ‘kay?”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
She focuses her efforts on another customer, leaving me to my beer and my misery. I sit, hunched over my drink, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. Two months ago and I would have taken the bartender back to a hotel and taken everything she was willing to give and coaxed her into offering me even more.
Now—now I’m
this
.
So fucked up that I can even hear Sienna’s soft, Southern accent over the sound of Slipknot’s “Snuff” playing on the jukebox.
I tip my beer bottle up and down the rest of my drink. I drink the second one a little quicker, trying my goddamn best to pretend like I don’t still hear her voice. When I finish the beer in record time, I signal the blonde bartender. Widening her eyes in surprise, she holds up a finger, indicating that it’ll be just a moment. When she turns back to her current customer, I let my gaze follow, and I realize that I know the woman ordering drinks.
Did I fuck her?
I shake that thought out of my head because I remember every one-night stand and every second of on-the-road sex I’ve ever gotten.
Is she one of Kylie’s friends?
But I wipe that idea away almost as quickly as the last. My sister doesn’t do female friends—she doesn’t trust anyone but her friend Heidi.
So why the fuck do I recognize the brunette?
A backstage pass, maybe? A journalist? Or a—
And then it comes to me like a kick square in my balls—an old memory of standing outside of an apartment a couple years ago, ready to apologize for my most recent mess-up, and this woman answering the door.
Telling me that her roommate, Sienna, was gone.
Lucas Wolfe
I start to tear my gaze away from the woman and put her out of my mind because I’ve told myself I wouldn’t think about Sienna tonight, but the flash of a long, vivid red ponytail stops me. Hell, it nearly makes me lose my breath. And as Sienna slides into the seat next to the woman and straightens the strapless top that came down with the motion, it’s impossible for me to look away from her. She’s that fucking beautiful. Cupping her hand over her mouth, she bends until her lips are level with the other woman’s ear and whispers something that causes them both to laugh.
My plan to forget her flies out this dingy ass bar because I want to hear her laugh. I want to feel her hands touching me. And I want to touch her.
This is my opportunity to tell her how I feel without songs or elaborate gimmicks, and I know I need to take it. I drop my gaze down to my empty bottles before looking back up to Sienna. She’s sipping on something that’s pink and fruity-looking, and though my eyes are burning into her, she doesn’t glance across the bar at me. Instead, she lowers her glass to the bar counter and rubs the palms of her hands across her cheeks, wiping away tears of laughter. It’s a bitter, gut-twisting reminder that the last time I saw her, the last time I held her—she had been crying for an entirely different reason. Because of me.
“Sorry it took so long.” The bartender is out of breath as she walks back over to me. She slides another Sam Adams into my palm, taking the extra time to close my fingers around the cold glass. “You know how this place goes. Some nights we’re dead and then others we’re like—”
“What’s she having?”
The blonde’s pretty features draw together into a deep frown as she turns slowly and follows the direction of my gaze. “Which one?” The disappointment in her tone is unmistakable.
“The redhead,” I start, but then I hear the way of my voice sounds—like a fucking virgin finding his first Belladonna movie online—and I scale it back. “Just wanted to send her a drink. She did some work on one of our videos a few years ago. Wanted to tell her thanks for . . . putting up with my bullshit.”
Relaxing her frown into an easy smile, the blonde bobs her head. “Ah, okay. God, you know everyone don’t you?” She glances back over her shoulder at me, and I look her in the eye, trying to keep my gaze off of Sienna so that I can keep the dumbass look of excitement off my face. I’ve never put much stock in fate, but if this isn’t it, what the hell is?
The bartender clears her throat and turns her gaze back to Sienna and the brunette. “Should I tell her it’s from you and what it’s for? Last thing I want to do is piss off the guy she’s with, you know?”
“What?” That single word comes out too sharp, too loud, and too emotional. The bartender must catch it too because she turns all the way around to face me quickly, her mouth parted in surprise. For the first time since I got here tonight, I actually pay attention to the tiny nametag pinned to the hem of her skimpy halter. “Shit, sorry. I . . . I just didn’t catch what you said, Luisa?”
“You sure I don’t need to take your keys?” she demands teasingly as she bends her face close to me, no doubt to make sure I don’t reek of hard liquor she probably thinks I downed before coming here. Once she’s satisfied, she moves back a little and jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “The redhead came in with some blonde guy who—” Her eyes focus on something a few feet away from me, and she stands upright. “She came in with that guy.”
I force my gaze to where she’s pointing her long, black-painted fingernail—a blonde guy, just like she said. I know I shouldn’t look, because I know it’s what’ll hurt the most, but I watch as he joins Sienna and her roommate. I watch as he touches his chin to the top of Red’s hair, before bending to whisper something into her ear. She grins before spinning around on the bar stool and throwing her arms around his shoulders. And I watch as he returns the gesture, splaying the large palm of his hand out on her slim back and rubbing his fingers in a circular motion in the spot where her bra clasps together beneath the thin fabric of her strapless top.
I watch all of it, and I realize that I haven’t felt so fucking sick, so ripped apart in four years.
“Look, I can send her the drink,” the bartender starts hesitantly. “I just didn’t want any misunderstandings. My boss would freak.” She gives me a sympathetic smile because all of the bitter emotions that are causing the inside of my chest to feel it is seconds from exploding must be playing out on my face.