Absorbed (Devoured, #1.5)(6)

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 f*cker 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 f*ck.

"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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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.





Chapter Four


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 f*cker. 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.