Cilla. Why do I feel a pang of jealousy every time I hear or see her name? It’s ridiculous because I’ve never met her—all I know is that she and Lucas are friends. What exactly the word “friend” entails I’m not sure nor do I think I ever want to find out.
“So you’re here to discover Jessica’s boyfriend?” I question.
He shrugs, and corrects me, “I’m here to say I appreciate them.” Then his eyebrows knot together. “But I’ve got to admit, they’re really f**king awesome and I don’t mind dropping their names to a few of my contacts.”
Lucas’s drink slides across the table and he looks up, meeting Jessica’s curious stare. “I knew it was you,” she whispers excitedly. She plops down in the chair beside me, directly across from him. I watch fascinated because she’s on the verge of salivating and her eyes are practically glittering under the dim lights.
“Before or after you eavesdropped on the last minute of what we were saying?” he demands, taking a giant swig of his beer.
Jessica’s naturally tan skinned flushes but then she quickly regains composure. “Sorry about that, but. . . . Dude, you’re Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe. You’re in my parents bar and sitting at table with me and I’m about to freak out.” The way she says his name, whispering it reverently brings out the panty-slaying smile. Turning to me, Jessica says in an accusing voice, “You didn’t tell me you know him.”
“He’s my boss,” I murmur.
“Your work involves going out to bars with him at 10 at night. Ugh . . . I need to become a wardrobe person. I’m in the wrong field, I—” Then she bites her bottom lip. “You’re going to play, right?”
“Wait, he’s—” I start but Lucas shoots me a warning stare.
“Fuck yeah.”
I’ve got no other choice but follow them as they weave their way through the crowd toward the front of the bar where the band is rocking out to “Lucky You’re Wasted.” Jessica bounces on the balls of her feet as she waits impatiently for them to finish up. When they’re through, she waves the bassist over to her. He bends his head, attempting to brush his lips across her lips but she shakes her head, too excited to deal with her boyfriend. I watch as her lips move rapidly and she gestures over to me and Lucas.
His eyes widen—and I swear to this—at least three sides. After he gets over the momentary disbelief, he nods and crosses the stage to have a powwow with the rest of the band. At some point, I can clearly hear one of them say “Holy f**king yes.”
The crowd’s going crazy at this point, wondering what’s up, if the band is calling it quits early but then the lead singer saunters back up to the microphone. He’s grinning and his voice is shaking as he gives Lucas the only introduction someone like him needs: “It’s the real Lucas-fucking-Wolfe, people!”
For a moment, everyone in the audience is utterly unclear of what’s going on and they’re hushed, murmuring among themselves. But as Lucas strides across stage, taking the lead’s guitar and bowing his head graciously, the silence turns from confused to stunned. Lucas calls out “All Over You” and then the hell-raising guitar intro begins.
Nicky, the giant grumpy doorman, and another bouncer who Jessica says keeps watch over the bar make their way to the stage, but none of Lucas’s fans tries to bum rush him or anything. Everyone’s too entranced by the music, myself included.
I’m so spellbound that it takes me a moment to realize that at certain lines of the song, Lucas’s eyes drag to the far left of the stage, seeking me out. Making me feel like I’m the only person in this crowded bar. When I grind my teeth together in frustration, Lucas’s eyes narrow a fraction and he shakes his head slowly to each side.
Drawing in a deep breath, I do the only other thing I can do. I sing along with the rest of the crowd. I ignore the wetness that has built up in the lacy black panties I’m wearing.
Panties that Lucas himself had touched and laid out for me to put on.
CHAPTER TWELVE
There are at least twenty YouTube videos of Lucas’s performance circulating the Internet by time I wake up at 7am on the dot the next morning. There are already—and I shit you not—death threats about the “red-headed cunt” Lucas was serenading on one of the Your Toxic Sequel fan sites.
And I find out about all of this because Tori sends me links, messages, and enough texts to make me want to turn off my phone.
Finally, I just suck it up and answer. It’s 5:30am in California. “There are pictures of you with Lucas Wolfe online,” she says in a monotone voice. “Why are there pictures of you with Lucas Wolfe on the Internet?”
“I-I . . .” I’m stuttering ridiculously, staring down in horror at my computer screen at the video of Lucas performing, and wondering who else has seen these videos. You know, besides every rabid Lucas Wolfe fan. For once I feel fortunate that Tomas, my boss, is such a media snob and refuses to read gossip magazines. I don’t need this getting back to him—not when I’m supposed to be here in Nashville to take care of my Gram. Not when—
I feel a sinking feeling in my chest, and I ball my hand into a fist, massaging it over my heart. What if my grandmother sees this? It would literally break her heart.
“Sienna, talk to me,” Tori says pleadingly.
“I . . . I work for him,” I admit.
And just as I expect, she starts freaking out. She starts doing the exact thing that made me avoid telling her about my deal with Lucas in the first place. “Since when? Why? Sienna . . . he’s trying to take your grandmother’s goddamn house away. How could you work for him? Why would you work for hi—”