Absorbed(4)

Fair enough I guess.

I don’t know if it’s Kylie’s words or need that drives me out of the house, but I find myself in my car less than ten minutes later. I locate Sienna’s new apartment quickly, but I don’t stop the Audi. I’m not ready for that yet, and to be honest, I don’t think she is either.

I drive right past, even though seeing where she lives just makes me realize how right my sister was. I’ve got to get her back. Realizing what I’ll need to do to even begin to accomplish that hits me square in my jaw. I grab my phone and dial the one number that shows up in my call history more than any other. The call immediately goes to voicemail. Which is typical when dealing with my ex-wife.

“We need to talk,” I growl. “None of your bullshit or crazy games, I just need to talk to you, Sam.” I know that she won’t call me back until tomorrow or maybe even next week, but I’ll be ready for her.

An hour later I step into my empty house, and I force all thoughts of Sam—and the twisted past we share—out of my mind. I go into my music room, and the only thing I can think of is Sienna. Her scent, her taste, the way she f*cking felt when I buried myself inside of her.

I pull out my notebook and guitar and begin to tell her everything.





Chapter Two


Lucas Wolfe





Over the next week, between the studio and a bar that I should start calling home, I rewrite the song for Sienna twice. Well, seven f*cking times to be exact, and its not anywhere close to being done. How can I sum up all of these crazy ass emotions—make up for all my f*ck-ups—in four minutes? At this point, I need to write Red a damn book to get out everything I want to say.

I decide to put the music aside for a couple days and focus on something else, mainly getting in touch with Sam. I need her out of my life to attempt to move forward with any type of normal relationship with anyone. This is the longest my ex has gone without calling me, without wanting something. Almost like a calm before the storm.

And then, she finally contacts me.

Her text comes just as I’m leaving the bank late in the afternoon—which is ironically fitting considering the way my relationship with her has turned into a financial nightmare for me over the last few years. I pull off into a shopping center and park at the end of the lot to read her message and respond.

4:43PM: You need me, baby?

Baby. I snort. Questions like this from Samantha are always loaded—always a test. I need for her to leave me alone. I need for her to stop holding shit I’ll never be able to change or fix over my head. But no, I don’t need her. Maybe I’m wrong for feeling that way now, but after everything that’s happened, I can’t force myself to feel any of the love I once felt towards her.

I feel disappointment, pity and loathing. And yeah, I feel f*cking fear. Not love.

I touch the mute button on my navigation screen to silence the Five Finger Death Punch song that’s playing on the radio. I think of what I should say to her, but then I say f*ck it and get right to the point.

4:48PM: Can you talk? We need to talk about this shit between us.

I can nearly hear the laughter in her soft voice when she immediately counters a minute later.

4:49PM: This shit between us?

Is she f*cking with me?

4:49PM: Don’t play games, Sam. You know exactly what I mean.

She doesn’t answer right away. Probably coming up with ways to take advantage of the situation, ways to squeeze more cash out of me before she commits to having an adult conversation. But when she does eventually respond, she manages to surprise me.

She’s already in California. In Santa Monica, to be exact. She wants to meet me in an hour, but I’m having a hard time trying to figure out why the hell she’s here of all places.

I’m almost expecting her to send one more message. A request for me to bring my checkbook or something equally as f*cked up, but she doesn’t. That just makes me wonder what the hell she’s got planned.

I make it to the Pier with a half an hour to spare and go ahead in to the amusement park we’ve agreed to meet at. Sam’s rarely ever on time, but she’s already waiting for me near the entrance, pacing in front of the food court and taking long drags on a cigarette.

She notices me almost immediately, despite my black beanie and sunglasses. Her slate gray eyes drag over me, a mixture of appreciation, lust, and disgust filling them.

“You still look like you,” she comments, the moment I’m within hearing distance. She dips her head to the tattoos on my wrist, which are somewhat visible even though I’m wearing long sleeves. “You’re not fooling anyone, Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe. You never have.” Then she shrugs her thin shoulders. “Well, your disguises haven’t fooled anyone. You’ve managed to convince everyone that you’re such a—”