Consumed (20 page)

If it wasn’t so sad, and undeniably scary, I would probably laugh.

“God, girl, you’ve been spacing out since you walked in here tonight,” Ashley complains. “I just said that boring is good, but I’m sure there’s none of that being on the road.” She fidgets anxiously with the rim of her beer bottle, and it’s obvious that she has a question about YTS and the tour. 

Since I feel like crap for being such awful company tonight, I wait until a couple passes by to say to her, “Okay, shoot.”

Plunking her hands down flat on the table, she leans in close. “Cilla Craig?”

I consider my words carefully, but then I shake my head. Screw being nice. “The devil in fishnets.”

“I knew it.” Ashley sits up straight and takes a sip of her beer, wrinkling her pierced nose at the taste. “Ugh, we’re never ordering this crap again.” She slides the nearly full bottle to the edge of the table. “This will be the first time I’ve actually seen the Lambs live because I’ve been scared she’d throw a mic off stage or some crazy shit.”

When my eyebrows furrow and I motion for her to keep talking, she says, “There’s a video of her on YouTube at a show in Louisville when she toured with YTS a few years back. She went
off
on that audience.”

I’ve got a vivid image of Cilla calling Sinjin out in front of Zoe two nights ago, and the back of my throat burns. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Anyway, I—” Ashley’s cut off when Nick, one of the doormen, drops by our table and whispers something into her ear. “Shit, one of the bartenders kid is sick, so she’s got to leave early. Give me twenty, okay?”

But I shake my head and scoot off the barstool. “I need to get home. I fly out tomorrow morning, and I’ve got an early breakfast with Seth and Gram.”

Ashley hops off of her own seat. “Have fun,” she says loud enough to drown out the sound of the tipsy guy slaughtering a Ke$ha song on stage. She makes it two steps before she whips back around, tapping her finger against her lips. “Before I forget, when will you be back again?”

“Five days from now. I’ll be sticking around here until they come to town because I’ve been contracted for more work with the crew from today.” And I have a private client, too, but who knows if that will pan out.

Ashley gives me a very 80s-inspired fist pump. “Alright, I’ll see you then, and if the only thing left on that list isn’t involving Cal’s belly button . . . So help me, Sienna.”

Forcing a laugh, I promise I’ll do my best.

Fifteen minutes later, after I step into Gram’s house and lock up the door behind me, something hits me about what Ashley said tonight. I creep quietly up the stairs. As soon as I duck into my bedroom, I head straight to my computer and Google Cilla’s Louisville rant. 

It’s the second item that pops up on the search engine—right under an article about a man who was mugged in the parking lot during the Wicked Lambs show in Louisville. I click on the video.

For a total of five minutes and 39 seconds, I watch in horror as Cilla sobs her way through a song before telling the audience to go fuck themselves.

It leaves a sick taste in my mouth. 

The sound of an incoming message startles me, and I glance up at an open tab at the top of my screen. I’ve got a new Facebook message from Kylie, who’s finally changed the last name on her profile from Wolfe to McCrae.

Kylie McCrae
: Guess who will be seeing you soon?

Poking my tongue against the inside of my cheek, I type out a response. 

Let me guess, she’s short, amazing, and she has incredible blue hair?

Kylie McCrae:
Yes, yes, but NO. I dyed it again. I think I love it. 

I wince. Kylie had tried platinum and cherry red several months back, and it looked like a candy striper threw up in her hair. Before I ask what color she went with this time, she uploads a photo of herself. It loads slowly, thank to our slower Internet, so I’m able to see a little at a time until I’m finally staring at the full image: a surprised looking Kylie who’s pointing at the top of her head. Which is now an utterly plain shade of dark brown.

Kylie McCrae:
Since you’re speechless (wordless?), I can tell you love it. And to answer your next question, me and my normal hair will be on the bus from Atlanta to New Orleans. 

That means she’ll be around for just about the rest of the tour, except for Phoenix and Los Angeles. When I ask her why she doesn’t want to go to the last two shows, she immediately responds that it’s up in the air. 

Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Grinning at my screen, I start to let her know that I can’t wait to see her, but then I erase the message. The video of Cilla is still bothering me, and what better person to ask than Kylie, who was probably around at the time.

Hey, weird question, but what was Cilla’s deal at that Louisville show?

For the first time since we’ve started chatting on Facebook months ago, she answers me almost immediately.

Kylie McCrae
: She thought she was being stalked. Someone was sending her letters and gifts. She got one right before the show and LOST it. Okay, I hate to do this, babe, but I’ve got to run—I’m exhausted!

Letters and gifts. This sounds so much like the crap Sam has been pulling with me that I want to hurl. It also forces a few things into a clear focus.  Like Cilla calling me her newest stalker. Or why Lucas wants to avoid Louisville—Cilla’s rant had to have come with some backlash for Your Toxic Sequel. 

Still, I genuinely feel sorry for Cilla.

Putting my fingers back to the keyboard, this time, I actually do tell Kylie that I’m excited to see her before closing my computer screen. Frustrated, I climb onto my bed. When I spot the letter Sam had sent me on my nightstand, I flick it into the wastebasket on the other side of my bed.

Letters and gifts. 

No, I absolutely wouldn’t be surprised if Cilla’s “stalker” was Lucas’s ex-wife just trying to screw with her, but it still doesn’t make it any less disturbing.

Instead of me leaving my car at the airport again, and having to face the ridiculous long term parking fees upon my return in a week, Gram offers to drop me off the next morning for my flight to South Carolina. During the drive, I finally bring up the attorney appointment she’d mentioned to me a couple weeks ago.

I had avoided bringing up all things related to my mother during the last two days, but now that I’m leaving, I feel like I don’t exactly have a choice.

After I ask her, Gram squints at the road. “Rebecca’s trying to get an early release,” she explains. 

For good behavior, no doubt. I won’t say anything about all of the fights my mom has been involved in during just this past year alone. “And this attorney’s not going to do it for free, is he?” My grandmother is not a wealthy woman, and the last thing I want is for her to get herself in a bad situation again just because she wants to help my mom. 

Gram is silent for a couple of minutes, and the only sound in the car is the soft whoosh of the air conditioner. At last, she says, “Not even close to it, sweetheart.” The corner of her lip trembles, leaving me to believe that there’s something she’s not telling me. 

I can easily guess what that is.

“She wanted you to talk to me about paying for it?”

“She knows you can’t do it. She wanted you to talk to Lucas,” Gram corrects me, and I narrow my eyes.

“How does she even know about him?” 

My grandmother shakes her head, the air conditioner blowing thin strands of her gray hair around. “I’m not sure. I imagined that it was in one of those entertainment magazines they pass around.” She pulls around to the airport’s drop off section and puts her old Mercedes sedan in park. “I told her I wouldn’t ask you.”

And chances are, my mother had gone ballistic on her, calling her every name conceivable. My body tenses up, but I give Gram a smile that I hope tells her just how much I adore her. “I love you.” I lean over and kiss her cheek. “I love you so much.”

“You too, Sienna.”

As I grab my belongings from the backseat, I add, “And if Mom calls you again, tell her that even though the answer is no, she could at least have the balls to ask me herself. In fact, she can call me anytime and take it up with me.”

My grandmother’s blue eyes twinkle in amusement. “I will. You take care of yourself. I’ll see you in a week, sweetheart.”

Unlike the last time I flew out of Nashville, my flight to Greenville is short—a total of three hours and that’s includes a brief layover in Charlotte where I grab a sandwich from a bagel shop. I’m almost too excited to eat. Despite the client cancellation and the Sam letter, I’m more anxious than before to get to the band—no, to Lucas. Part of it’s that almost painful need to be near him and the other part is pride. If I stay with him, maybe it’ll prove a point. 

Instead of sending someone to pick me up, he’s waiting for me in the terminal when my flight touches down in Greenville. Before I can get out a single word, his mouth covers mine and he kisses me like we’ve been apart for years and not just two days. I’m left dizzy, with my heartbeat racing, when he sets me away from him.

“I can’t tell you how much I’ve thought of this since you left,” he says. 

“I’ve been gone for two days,” I point out, although I feel the same. This thing between us—it’s crazy, consuming. Even here it makes us nearly oblivious to the world around us. I don’t notice the three women a few feet away from us until after he leaves me to get my luggage. They have out their camera phones, snapping pictures of Lucas and I can almost guarantee that I was also the focus of their snaps only moments before.

One of them gives me a look that throws daggers into my chest. She leans towards one of her friends and says something behind her hand. But as Lucas calls my name—and I see him coming toward me holding my duffel bag with a look in his eyes that screams desire and love and want—I could care less. 

Let them talk. 

After the Greenville concert, next comes Charlotte on Tuesday night, followed by Charlottesville on Wednesday night. Even though I’m exhausted from walking around downtown Charlottesville the night before after the show, I drag myself out of our compartment Thursday morning when the bus parks behind the venue in Virginia Beach. 

As I walk to the galley to grab a glass of orange juice, I’m surprised to find that Sinjin is already up. He’s in the lounge area, playing a video game and cursing at the screen.

As I pour my drink, he glances over at me, running his gaze from my bare feet to my shorts and ratty tee shirt and finally to my messy hair. “You look like shit,” he says.

Sliding down on the couch next to him, I polish off the rest of my orange juice. “Your honesty makes my life complete.”

“I told you, I will always tell you the truth.” He tosses the controller between us and rakes his hands over his face. “God, I’m half-tempted to go with you tomorrow and skip this shit for awhile.”

Rolling my eyes, I pick up the remote and restart his game. Once I manage to get myself killed, and then eaten, by a zombie within the first 30 seconds, he jerks the controller out of my hands. “If you come with me, who’ll play your drum solos?” I ask sweetly. 

“Your fucking boyfriend.” He survives slightly longer that I did—about three minutes—before Game Over flashes across the small flat screen. 

“What the hell do you have that thing set on?” I ask as he passes me the game remote again.

“Carnage.”

We do this for a good thirty minutes, making small talk about video games and passing the controller back and forth as soon as we’re killed off. Finally, I ask him about Zoe. 

His face clouds over, but he quickly swaps it with a look of indifference. “Cilla pissed her off, but she said she expects shit like that from me, so I don’t know.” I don’t miss the way his voice quivers or how tightly he’s gripping the remote. “The fucked up thing is that I didn’t fuck either of those girls.”

“Did you tell
her
that?” I ask quietly.

He lifts his thin shoulders into a shrug. “It was doomed from the start.”

Drawing my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs. “Then maybe that means it’s supposed to work? Like all those epic romances.”