Consumed(28)

“That was a good enough apology,” I say softly but he’s already gone into the grand hall.

A few minutes later when I hear Cal, the lead guitarist, rip into the beginning of “Handcuffs,” I walk through the double doors, too.





“This is amazing,” Tori shouts out over the buzz of the backstage crowd. She tilts her head to one side, sending her dark waves cascading over the wide strap that holds her little black dress up. “No, this is beyond amazing. It’s insane.”

Earlier this evening when I’d offered to bring her with me to the concert over drinks, she accepted my invitation without hesitation, cancelling her late nightclub plans with a group of her co-workers on the way to Pomona.

“Just a little.” I move out of the way of a sound guy who’s too busy talking on a headset to notice me. “I’m still trying to catch my breath.” I have been ever since late this afternoon when I was reintroduced to each member of the band and to various roadies, including the wardrobe crew, which consisted of one woman. Maggie had come right out and told me that dressing YTS was the easiest and most laid back gig she’s ever had.

Shooting a nervous look in my direction, Tori nibbles her bottom lip between her teeth, smudging her ruby red lipstick slightly. “You sure he doesn’t care if I’m back here?”

“I swear it’s fine. Now stop, you’re getting lipstick all over your teeth.” I press my back flat against the wall to avoid a couple of giggling women dancing past us. Liquid sloshes out of the bottles held closely to their chests and falls on the concrete floor, leaving behind the scent of whipped cream vodka. Once they disappear around a corner, I motion for Tori to follow me.

“I’ve got to admit, even my desire to kick Lucas in the balls 95 percent of the time wouldn’t have stopped me from seeing that show.” She catches up to me on her mile high pumps. “And I don’t even like rock,” she adds in a low whisper.

For someone who doesn’t like rock, she sure as hell knew enough YTS lyrics to scream them out along with everyone else during the concert.

“Finally.” I point to the only door back here with swarms of barely clothed women, and a few men, hanging around it. “This has to be it.”

There’s a bodyguard—an enormous mixed guy who makes Lucas, in all of his six-foot-four, muscular glory, seem absolutely normal—guarding the entrance. He’s in the middle of an argument with a woman claiming to be there for Wyatt. She’s red-faced, seething, but the bodyguard doesn’t seem fazed.

“What f*cking list are you talking about?” she demands. “This isn’t a nightclub. Just let me in—Violet Dawson.” She says her name slowly, emphasizing it into five syllables.

I wait for the bodyguard to tell her off, but he seems completely relaxed when he responds. “Only the band and guests are in there right now. Press and Henley in the Morning contest winners get inside in half an hour. You’re not on either list.”

Violet heaves a frustrated sigh. “Look, I hung out with him and Cal after their show here a year and a half ago. He’ll want to see me.”

“The band that plays together—” Another woman standing close by begins, but Violet shoots her a withering look. The bodyguard leans over to tell Violet something discreetly, and Tori motions for me to bend down a little, too.

Once her mouth is close to my ear, she whispers, “Just think, when Mr. Bodyguard over there actually lets you in, all these bitches are going to want to beat the crap out of you.”

“Thanks for”—I pull Tori out of the way before Violet can doze her over as she flounces off in a blur of highlighted hair and floral perfume—“making me feel better about being alone for the rest of this tour.”

“Just stating the obvious.” She steps in front of another woman and her boyfriend so that we’re first in line to talk to the doorman and jabs her manicured index finger in my direction. “She’s on the list.”

The bodyguard gives me a long once-over, from my black fringe sandals, to my ripped skinny jeans and loose black high-low tank, and finally up to my blue eyes. “Name and ID?” he asks. He lifts an eyebrow at Tori. “If she’s not been cleared with the band, she’s not getting in.”

Lowering my head, I look through my bag for my license and say as quietly as possible, “Sienna Jensen, and check for Victoria Abrams, too. She should be on the list.” Even then it feels like all conversation around me has come to a standstill. As the bodyguard looks at his iPhone for confirmation, the door behind him opens several inches. Sinjin pops his head out, and the squeals around us are deafening.