Consumed(39)

“Sounds about right.” Cal offers me a flash of his straight white teeth. “I think this means she’s inviting herself over to our bus.”

“Over my dead f*cking body.” Lucas grins down at me, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in a few days. “Sinjin is tame compared to Cal.”

“Wyatt balances me,” Cal argues. “He’s been as virginal as—” He runs his gaze over the length of me before cocking his head to one side. “Well, shit, he’s just been virginal.”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. There’s a sound against a window inside of the bus, and I tilt my head back to see a pink-manicured finger tapping a rhythmic beat on the glass. “I think you’re being summoned.”

Looking behind him, Cal waves at the woman inside of the bus before turning back to Lucas and me. “Looks like I am. God, I love Houston.” He shoots us a wicked grin as he heads up the bus steps. After stepping inside, he grabs something from behind the door. I’m surprised when he holds a guitar out to me, wiggling it around until I accept.

“Enjoy,” Cal tells me. “Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe has good taste.”

I don’t get a chance to respond before the door slams in my face. I draw away from Lucas, running my fingertips along the body of the Gibson guitar. It’s beautiful—with a mahogany back and sides. “You plan on teaching me how to play this thing?” I ask gently, and he nods.

“I missed your birthday in June.” He takes the guitar out of my hands, holding it effortlessly as he leads me back to our bus. “Figured if you can play a piano like that, I can talk you into this, too.”

Twisting my face, I study his expression carefully, searching for any of the stress that’s been there the last few days. It’s not there, but then again, Lucas is good at hiding his emotions. I press my palm to his hard chest, letting the steady beat of his heart drum against my hand.

“It’s perfect,” I say. As he walks up the steps of the bus, I curl my fingers into his tee shirt, stopping him from going inside.

“What is it?”

I pinch my lips together and then relax my mouth. “Is everything okay?”

He gives me one of those soft looks that pull me apart, piece-by-piece. “Never been better, Red.”





One thing I quickly realized about being on the road is just how much I prefer the outdoor concert venues. Sure it’s the second week of August, which means it’s ridiculously hot and nearly all my clothes cling uncomfortably to my body—and the Dallas show on Sunday night is only the second one that I’ve attended outside—but there’s something magical about listening to Your Toxic Sequel’s delicious brand of angst and debauchery under the stars. A rush of adrenaline speeds through me as I leave our bus for the backstage area, a gray-painted building that’s located directly behind the venue.

A beefy guy wearing a baseball cap and a black Security tee shirt that hugs his broad muscles guards the entrance to the building. “You have a crew pass?” he asks, skimming his eyes over me when I walk up. I lift my wrist and hold it close to his face. Once he examines my black and red wristband that reads YTS VIP-AUG 12, he lets me in. “Have a good one, ma’am.”

“You, too.” Pulling in a deep breath, I step forward into the chaos that is backstage. As I force my way through the crewmembers moving around busily in the wide hallways, I hear a female voice shouting my name.

Spinning around, I use my height to scan my eyes over the crowd. At last I spot Maggie, the wardrobe director, cupping her hands over her pierced lips. Noticing that she’s caught my attention, her shoulders slump a little.

She crooks one of her fingers at me. “I need you,” she mouths before disappearing inside of the room she stood in front of. I follow close behind her, barely missing two stocky roadies who are lugging a wide black box of equipment. Inside of the dressing room, Maggie is accompanied by a few other people that I’ve yet to meet. Still, it’s nowhere near as chaotic in here, so I rush in.

As soon as I close the door, pressing my shoulders against it, I lift my gaze to Maggie. She’s leaned over a vanity table, making hasty scribbles on a bright pink clipboard.

“Please tell me you’re not busy,” she pleads in a strained voice.

I rock back on the heels of my nautical-inspired espadrille flats. “Only if you need me to be.”

Her head pops up, and under the harsh vanity lighting, I notice how freckled she is. “Ugh, where have you been all my life?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “The boys have agreed to let these wonderful folks film tonight’s show.” She gestures around the room, and for the first time, I notice that one of the guys has a giant camera hoisted on his shoulder. He wiggles his fingers at me, so I incline my head in acknowledgment.