Consumed(36)

I slam the door behind me so hard that David, who’s waiting for me in the hallway jumps. “Let’s get the f*ck out of this place,” I growl.

When we come off the elevator, the crowd in the lobby has multiplied and I can see why. Cilla’s joined Brady, and she’s posing for pictures with their fans. It doesn’t take her long to spot me. Despite her display—she throws her long black hair over her shoulder before leaning in to open mouth kiss one of her fans for a photo—her heavily lined eyes are pleading when she pulls away from the other woman.

“Boss,” David says, jerking his head toward the exit sign ten feet from the elevator. “You don’t want to walk through that.”

No, I don’t.

My mood is dark as we walk back to our hotel, and the only thing that helps is the way Sienna molds against me seconds after I open the door to our room.

Because of our history. Her past with Sinjin. And the fact that the last time we toured together, several years back, my life had gone to shit.





Sienna





When Lucas returns, giving me the news that his road manager is planning a surprise party for Sinjin’s twenty-ninth birthday next week, I look past his flared nostrils and hard eyes. I pretend that he’s not distant for the rest of the day, after his show that night, and even through the next day. But by the time the loud beeping noise of the bus pulling into its parking spot for the day wakes me up early Friday morning, I’m frustrated and tired. Since neither has anything to do with being up late for last night’s show, I begrudgingly convince myself to ask some questions.

Instead of approaching Lucas directly, or calling Kylie to pick her brain, I decide to ask Sinjin. He’s a man of few words—which are almost always sarcastic and usually offensive—but he notices everything.

I finally get my chance shortly before noon, when Lucas leaves our parked bus to go speak with Tyler. Once I hear the front door clang shut, I wait a couple of minutes and then follow the scent of what Sinjin swears are homemade cigarettes (because he must confuse my being slightly na?ve for incredibly stupid). It leads me down the carpeted aisle and into the galley where Sin is sitting at the table, smoking and looking at something on his computer. He’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing only jeans, and his black hair is still damp from a shower.

Tentatively, I slide into the seat across from him. “How’s it going?”

One of his jet-black eyebrows jerks up. He makes a few more pecks on his netbook and then acknowledges me. “Either you have a question about your loud boyfriend—yeah, I f*cking heard everything this morning, and I honestly feel well acquainted with your *—or you’ve decided that you can’t resist my charm.”

Did he really just say that? In an effort to hide the flames crawling up my face, I focus my eyes down at the cuffed hem of my black shorts and fidget with the scooped neck of my gray burnout tee shirt. My silence is met with his chuckling. “And I made you blush,” he teases. “Alright, Sienna, get whatever the hell it is out there. I’m all yours.”

Forcing the thought of him listening in on what had gone on in the back compartment, I clear my throat, square my shoulders, and peer across the table at him. “Do you know what’s going on with him? Why he’s been so—”

“Lucas?” When I roll my eyes, Sin smirks. “Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside that you’re coming to me for answers that just about everyone on this tour already knows.”

“You’re being a dick.”

“Then use your brain, gorgeous. He’s got you here with him. He’s got Cilla trying to jump on his dick at every turn.” He takes a drag from his joint and exhales. The smoke whispers into my face, and I draw back, waving it away. “Look, the only break that motherf*cker is getting is that Sam hasn’t popped up with the bullshit she usually brings to every tour.”

Sam. Hearing her name makes me curl my fingernails painfully into my palm. Sinjin must notice this because he tilts his body forward and stares down at my clenched hands, his eyes suddenly thoughtful. I spring to my feet and grab a Coke from the fridge adjacent to us. When I return to my spot, the cynical, *-ish expression has returned to his face.

“Way to make me feel better about Cilla,” I say, opening my drink. “What’s your deal with her?”

Besides the fact that her mood is all over the place. So far she’s alternated between being reasonably cordial to me; ignoring my existence; and two nights ago, drunkenly arguing with David backstage that I was definitely not on the after show list.