Consumed(25)

His rough voice breaks through the toxicity of my thoughts. “I want you to look.” Taking my hand, and the notebook, he guides me over to the couch. For a few minutes, I remain hesitant to look at the lyrics. Clutching the notebook tightly, I listen to him play a song I’ve not heard before—probably something from Your Toxic Sequel or his new solo album—but halfway through he pauses. “Open the damn book, Red,” he says.

Glaring at him from beneath my lashes, I finally flip the cover over to reveal a full page of his handwriting. “Satisfied?” I ask, and he nods.

Many of Lucas’s songs follow Your Toxic Sequel’s usual style—raunchy, sexy, clever lyrics that make me blush. But there are also lyrics with so much emotion that I feel rusted barbs shoving through my chest. These words are not about sex but about pain and loss, about heartbreak and betrayal.

And then, several pages through the book, I find the original drafts of “Ten Days.”

These lyrics range from moody and dark to downright depressing, but I read them all and I realize that he was feeling just as screwed up, just as alone, as I was during our time apart. When I get to the version that I’ve heard, I smile softly.

“I’m glad this was the one.” I rub my thumb over the sloppy words on the page. Crazy, heartbreaking, beautiful words written for me.

“Me too. It sure as f*ck took a long time to do it.” He starts playing another song on his guitar—“Ten Days.” “As you can see, it was hard for me.”

“Lucas Wolfe admitting that something was difficult for him?” I feign surprise as I flip backward to one of the initial drafts. “Glad you kept going. The other ones are just as beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but a little . . .”

“Dark? Emo? That’s what Kylie called me the entire time you were gone.” I scrunch my nose and shake my head, but he laughs. He inclines his chin down to the page that I’m on right now—one that’s talking about a bleeding heart. “I, ah, wrote that particular one after seeing you out one night.”

Something painful squeezes around my heart. “What?”

“At Sunny’s. Little bar downtown. Cheap beer and shit for lighting.”

I know the place, but I can’t remember the last time I went there. Self-consciously, I close Lucas’s notebook and sit it down on the couch between us. “When?”

“About a month after Atlanta. Wanted to get you out of my mind, and sure as f*ck you were right there at that damn bar.”

And instead of coming to talk to me, instead of ending both of our misery a few months in advance, he’d come back here and wrote about . . . angst?

He plucks a flat note and gives me a grim look. “You were with another man—some blonde mother f*cker—and a few of your friends. And as much as I wanted to beat the shit out of him simply for being with you, going after him would have made me a douche.” He thumbs a few additional notes and then lifts his eyebrows in a look that screams guilt. “Well, a bigger douche than I already was.”

Some blonde guy? Facing the piano, I squeeze my eyes together. Who the hell is he talking about? The only men I’ve had continuous contact with who could be a match for Lucas’s vague description would be my brother and my former roommate’s boyfriend. Micah.

Of course.

Laughter bubbles from my chest. Before I have a chance to explain, Lucas leans forward.

“And now you’re laughing at me, Red?” he asks. “I should turn you over my knee right now.”

I force the breathlessness down as I turn my head to the side, skimming my lips against his. “The blonde you saw me with is Micah. Tori’s boyfriend.” And I remember the night now. They’d coaxed me out of the apartment because I spent the better part of a month moping around over Lucas. To him, I say, “We went out as a group. And I sure as hell didn’t go home with Micah, nor have I ever slept with him.”

Lucas’s mouth parts into a silent “ah,” as he leans back on the couch and begins to pick at his guitar again. I can’t deny the look of relief and satisfaction on his handsome face.

While the rest of our night goes smoothly, with Lucas playing me song after song on his Gibson, the next morning is a little chaotic. He wakes me up after sunrise, dressed in nothing but a pair of navy blue gym shorts that hang low on his hips. He’s sweaty from working out and looking down at me wearing his typical cocky grin.

“Get up, Sienna. It’s day one.”