Absorbed (5 page)

As soon as Kylie comes in with lunch from her favorite fast food place, In-N-Out, I follow her into my kitchen and task her with making some calls to my label about the future of the song I’ve written for Sienna. She acknowledges that she’ll make a few calls as soon as she’s done with lunch, and I add, “It’s got to be the first song, first music video, first
everything
on that album. You understand?”

She glances up from the pack of fries she just placed on the center island.  “This is a first, you know?” She opens her mouth to say something else but immediately shuts it, clacking her teeth together hard in the process. I lean my shoulder up against the fridge behind me and motion my hand for her to continue. She groans, but after downing a couple of ketchup-drenched fries, she lifts her shoulders dramatically and places her elbows on the black countertop. I roll my eyes, waiting for Kylie to start the theatrics. She’s good about that. “You usually like dealing with them yourself. Guess I’m used to just being your laundry bitch.”

“You underestimate yourself,” I say. “You do travel and other shit, too. And you hack my bank accounts—that’s got to count for something.” She’d gotten into my bank accounts shortly after the incident in Atlanta, discovering that I’d sent Sam a large sum of cash. It had been a low point me.

Kylie narrows her dark brown eyes at me and hurls a few French fries across the kitchen, none of which actually make contact, except for the one I reach out and grab. I fling it back in her direction where it catches in her short black and blue hair.

“Your aim is shit,” I say with a grin.

“You played baseball in school, I never claimed that I was an athlete.” She takes her elbows off the island and sits back on the bar stool behind her. “I won’t be here tomorrow afternoon, by the way.” When I lift an eyebrow, she runs her hand through her hair. “I’m bored with my hair color. Thinking about pink or green or
something
new.”

I’m not sure what I think about
something
new, but I nod anyway as I turn to leave the room. Pointing at the fries she threw at me a few minutes ago, I glance back over my shoulder. “Make sure you clean that shit up.” I nearly make it out of the kitchen and into the dining room, but of course my sister has something else to say. When the fuck doesn’t she?

“Are you leaving?”

I face her, all the while continuing to walk backwards in the direction of the front foyer. “I’ve got an appointment.”

“Let me guess, a financial appointment?” Kylie demands, and there’s no way in hell I can miss the sarcasm dripping from her voice. She would automatically assume this is Sam related, and just like always, she’s fucking right. My ex-wife had called me this morning wanting to talk again, and because it’s been weeks since the bullshit she pulled in Santa Monica—because I still want her to get the hell off of my back so I can move on—I agreed to what she asked of me.

“Well, is it Samantha?” Kylie asks.

The slight quirk of my lips is just as sardonic as my sisters forced grin. “Do your job. Stay the fuck out of my private business.” I turn back around just as she takes a giant, angry bite of her burger. Being Kylie, she’s got to have the last word, and I’m just about to close the house door behind me when I hear her voice.

“I won’t have a job if you keep doing this crap in private,” she yells. I choose not to respond—what the fuck do I even say to that other than something that will hurt her feelings—and slam the door.

The trip to my bank takes surprisingly less time than usual, and as soon as I’ve sent the wire over to Sam, I call her.

Because it’s dealing with money, she picks up on the second ring. She breathes into the phone for a few seconds like a goddamn creeper, and then she says in a deflated voice, “It’s already showing up in my account.”

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and sneer. “Nice to know you’re on top of shit.” I can almost picture it: Sam in her luxury apartment in Atlanta, sitting on that expensive ass white leather couch with a cigarette dangling out of her mouth—or in her case, foil and a lighter waiting nearby—as she continuously refreshes her bank account. The thought makes me a little sick to my stomach, but I ignore it. The amount I sent today seemed like pennies in comparison to what my ex usually demands.

When she’d told me the amount she expected this morning, I’d been shocked, but she quickly assured me how serious she was. “Two payments,” she said. “One now, one later this year. Then I’m done.”

“Done with what?” I had asked cautiously.

“Done with this. With you. We’ll finish it up, and I’ll just pretend like you don’t exist. Like nothing you’ve done exists.”

My stomach and chest was on fire from the guilt and humiliation and anger, but I still managed to respond. “But then who’ll pay for your rent and your bullshit?” My voice was far crueler than I intended, but I couldn’t help it. Hearing her say that she’d just pretend like the last several years didn’t exist after putting me through so much shit and blackmailing me drove me over the edge.

“I’ll pay it myself,” she’d finally said, and I resisted the urge to snort. We both knew that she’d blow that money an hour after it hit her account.

“Lucas,” her voice says hoarsely, dragging me back to the present and into my car. “I’ll call you when I’m ready for the rest.”

I swing my Audi into traffic and take a deep breath. “No doubt you will.” I'm not sure if she heard half of that, because when I call her name a moment later, she's already hung up. 

As disgusted as I am with Sam, and with myself for feeding her chaos over the last four and a half years, I’m a little grateful for her as I sit in traffic. The conversation I had with her this morning—the one that pushed me over the edge—it was exactly what I had needed to finish “Ten Days.”

Lucas Wolfe

For the next two and a half weeks I bust my ass getting “Ten Days” ready to go on my solo album. It’s time-consuming, but worth it, giving me that creative high that I haven’t felt in nearly two months. Right after I record the song—and it takes me several takes to get the version that I’m most satisfied with, which is simple, acoustic—Kylie calls while I’m at a bar to let me know that Sinjin is finally being released from rehab. At first, I’m hesitant to agree to see him right away. I’m not as pissed about what happened back in Nashville between him and Sienna; I’ve had two months to cool off from all the fucked up things he said to her when he was messed up. What I’m worried about is Sin’s reaction to seeing me.

I’ve known him since I was a kid. I know how his mind works. And I know he’s tortured over what happened. Seeing me will just add to that torment.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucas,” Kylie says impatiently when I tell her what’s on my mind. “Of course he wants to see you. Don’t be a douche friend.” Even though she’s not in front of me right now, I’m able to picture her brown eyes squinted into a frown as she runs her hands through her newly colored hair—the worst goddamn combination of red and white-blonde—in frustration.

“Stop playing band mediator.” Which is what Kylie’s been doing for a long time now. She’s been convinced since the very beginning that YTS is going to break up at any moment. Kylie makes a low noise on the other line, and I groan. “But relax, I’m going to go.” Still, I clench my fingers around the lukewarm glass as I down the rest of my beer. I signal for Luisa who quirks her lips sympathetically as she nods.

My sister sighs. “Good. So, I’ll see you tomorrow? I told Sin I’d pick him up in the afternoon so I can be at your place to get you around—”

“I’ll come get you,” I interrupt. Kylie’s little car fucks me and my forehead over every time I get in it, she can’t drive my Jeep because it’s a stick, and I don’t trust her enough to give her the keys to my Audi yet. “See you at eleven.” Luisa slides my drink across the bar counter toward me, and I mouth a thank you. She winks at me then turns away to wipe down the counter.

“You better not be late.”

“Whatever, see you tomorrow.” She doesn’t have a chance to respond before I hang up, and I mute my phone before shoving it into the pocket of my jeans.

“Trouble with the redhead?” Luisa asks, pretending to be interested in a spot of abso-fucking-lutely nothing on the counter.

I cock an eyebrow at her. “Hmm?”

“The redhead who was in here the night I drove you home,” she says. When my gaze remains hard, she glares down at the counter and scrubs more furiously. “I assumed you’d gotten back together, and maybe that was her.”

The only thing I’d told Luisa the last time I was here was that Sienna had worked on the “All Over You” music video. And the closest I’d come to mentioning being in a relationship is when, instead of going back to her place, we hit a 24-hour restaurant. She told me about her most recent ex—some motherfucker whose wife had slashed her tires and busted out her windshield two months ago. I’d told her I screwed up, that I was fixing things, and what a shithead her ex was. She hadn’t asked me to go home with her again after that. 

“You’re being summoned.” I point behind Luisa to the loud ass group waving her down on the other side of the bar. She drops the cloth to the counter, and as she starts to leave, I say quietly, “It wasn’t her.”

She nods slowly. “For what it’s worth, I hope things work out for you.” She bites her bottom lip. “Even if you did turn me down.”

“I’m not what you want,” I say, my voice colder than I intend. Luisa shakes her head.

“What-the-fuck-ever, Wolfe.” She stops biting her lip and spins around, glancing over her shoulder once just to see if I’m checking out her ass. When she realizes that I’m not, she gives me a disappointed smile. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She doesn’t make her way back over to me before I leave ten minutes later, and though I’m sure it’s intentional, I wave before I step out the front door.

***

For the first time in what seems like years, I dream instead of destroy myself in my sleep. There are no regrets or fuck-ups, no random bullshit, but my dream is about her. Sienna. About the day she spent with me in Atlanta right before I screwed things up with her. She’s in that Four Seasons hotel bed with me, with her hair spread around her, her pink lips curved into a soft smile.

“What’s your favorite guitar,” she asks, turning her face to me.

“Depends on the day,” I say.

She traces the tip of her tongue over her lips, wetting them. It’s an innocent enough move on her part, but it’s enough to make my dick rock hard. That’s always been the thing about Sienna that I’ve loved and fucking loathed. “Okay, what about today?”

“The Les Paul.”

“Why?”

I brush my fingers over one of her perfect tits, running them over the slightly bruised flesh my guitar pick had skimmed the night before. “Because it’s the only one I use with the pick that touched right here.”

Propping herself up on one of her elbows, she lowers her blue eyes to the small space of white sheet between our bodies. “You make me want to—” she begins. When she whispers, “Forget it,” I slide my hand up her chest, past the base of her delicate throat—which causes her to shiver—and then to under her chin. I force her gaze back up to meet mine.

“Tell me what I make you want to do,” I growl. Because chances are, I probably want it more than she does.

She clenches her teeth, but I glide the tip of my thumb between her lips, feeling a thrill of pleasure when she bites down on it hard. “You make me want to lose myself.”

“You should.” I move closer to her. “I want every part of you for myself, Sienna.”

She tosses her head back and laughs. “Let me guess? So you can use your entire guitar pick collection on me?”

“Only when you grit your fucking teeth,” I warn, and she pulls in a shaky breath.

I move my hand from her chin and wrap my arm around her shoulders until I’m carefully gripping the nape of her neck. Taking her fingers in my other hand, I press her palm up against my cock. Her eyes widen.

“God, Lucas,” she says in a harsh voice.

I give her fingers a rough squeeze. She releases a frustrated moan from the back of her throat and tightens her grip on me.

“Come here,” I order, sliding my hand between her thighs, pushing them apart so that I can guide her on top of me. Flushing, she sits upright and clenches the sides of my body between her long legs. She pushes her red hair out of her face with the hand that’s not driving me fucking insane. “I need to be inside of you.”

“Yes,” she agrees. I reach up to cup her face as she lifts her hips a little and slowly, carefully, slides my cock inside of her. Fuck. Fuck. Rocking back and forth, she moans. “Lucas?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Mmm hmm?”

“I love you,” she says breathlessly.

My eyes open, and I realize that I’m no longer in a hotel room with Sienna but back in my bed in Los Angeles. Alone.

“I love you, too,” I say aloud.

Kylie Wolfe

I wake up on Sunday morning half-expecting Lucas to back out of going with me to pick up Sin. The rift between the two of them—between the entire band, for that matter—started long before Sin had all but mauled Sienna in front of the recording studio two months ago. But just as I’m about to give up on Lucas and leave to get Sin myself, there’s a knock at the door of my apartment. I don’t bother to hold back my sigh of relief when I throw open my door to reveal Lucas’s apologetic face.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” I say. 

He shakes his head. “You’ve been staying with McCrae so much I thought you were there.” He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Obviously you weren’t.”

I cringe. Ever since Wyatt and I made amends with each other—which were the hair-pulling, lust-fueled type of amends that have yet to die down—I’ve been spending more and more of my free time at his house on the other side of town than at my own apartment. “Sorry about that, I should have mentioned that he’s out of town with Brenna and I’ve been staying here.”

Lucas smirks. “Which would explain why you went to the next person on the list: Me,” he says, sounding every bit like an asshole.