Consumed (Devoured, #2)(36)

Once again the audience erupts. A bulky guy standing nearby pitches into me, knocking me forward into two skinny blondes who cast me withering glares before refocusing on what Cilla has to say.

“Me and Brady sat down to write this back in—”She spins around for just a moment to face Brady, her lead guitarist, who mouths “March.” “Back in March. I’d just broke up with my cheating motherf*cker of a boyfriend.”

Somehow hearing those words come from a woman who’s been slinking around with her lip poked out because of a man who’s involved with another woman is ironic.

“So, let’s go out with a bang.” Cilla widens her stance. “This one’s called “Second Best.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I listen as Brady plays the opening. The melody falls in line with most of Wicked Lambs’ ballads, but the lyrics are just as punchy and cutting as the last song.

Other woman who needs to f*ck off, check.

A man that the heroine scorns and absolutely adores, check.

An entire verse dedicated to how, eventually, he’s going to crawl back to her?

Yeah, that crap’s there, too.

I know the song is about Lucas—I would be a fool not to figure that out—but it’s not until she croons the final line that my slight irritation takes a giant leap over the line into pissed off. Her shimmery-lined eyes locate my blue eyes in the crowd again, and she leans into the microphone almost seductively. “I f*cked him first,” Cilla sings.

She holds my gaze for so long that the big guy next to me stares over at me and draws back, as if seeing me in a new light—a light that also turns Cilla into a victim. My skin feels like it’s crawling as I watch her take a dramatic bow.

Then, she puckers her red-painted lips at her fans. “Thank you, Dallas.”





I feel like I’m on fire during the brief transition from Wicked Lambs to Your Toxic Sequel, and I barely hear a word the MC says.

Rather than leave and go backstage to wear I’ll most definitely see Cilla, I stick around in the pit for Lucas’s show, but I don’t feel an ounce of that under-the-stars magic I was so excited about earlier this evening. Instead, I notice the bad, the ugly. Like when a drunk, red and black bikini-clad girl gets knocked into the stage. I flinch when she finally manages to pick herself up, and the entire lower portion of her face is covered in blood. Or when two men get into a shoving match over god knows what or who and security has to intervene and drag them away as they scream at each other.

The band doesn’t seem fazed by the pandemonium or the naked breasts, thong straps, and ass cheeks being flashed at them at every turn.

After the second to last song on the set is performed—which is one of their newer tracks called “Tumbles Down”—I start to leave the pit to avoid the flood of departing fans that will happen in about fifteen minutes.

It takes me twice as long as it did before to get backstage, and I find myself flashing my wrist more than normal until I’m finally secured in the VIP area, which is where both Wicked Lambs and Your Toxic Sequel will be doing interviews with the press and then an acoustic show for a select handful of their fans.

As I push through the crowd to get to the hospitality room, I make up my mind not to say anything to Cilla. First, I’ve had an hour and a half to get some of my anger at her “I f*cked him first” line out of my system. And second? It’s not like it isn’t true. Admitting this makes my stomach feel like it’s swallowing my chest.

But my resolve to stay quiet changes a few seconds after I enter the packed room.

Cilla’s perched on the side of the plush armchair that Brady’s sitting in, a red Solo cup tipped up to her mouth, and her face turned toward the entrance to the room. When her gaze lands on her prey, me, a satisfied gleam crawls into her eyes. She mouths something, but it’s impossible for me to decipher it through the haze.

It’s probably best I can’t.

I have never wanted to hit someone so badly.

No, correction: I’ve never wanted to throat punch someone this much.

Her red lips widen as I stalk across the room to her. “Did you like the song?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” My voice is higher-pitched than normal, and I pray she doesn’t notice. “Do you like seeming like a desperate bitch?”

Cilla’s lips flatten into a sneer. “You’re really coming in here with that bullshit?” She glances back, probably to get some type of confirmation from Brady, but he’s staring down at a non-existent message on his phone. Grunting in disgust, she scoots her butt off the chair. “I’m getting a drink.”

If she thinks I’m anywhere near finished speaking with her, then she’s sadly mistaken.

I’m right behind her as she makes a beeline to the adjoining room. There’s a couple of crewmembers in here grabbing food, but Cilla pays them no mind as she slinks over to the refreshment table holding the liquor. She snatches a plastic cup from the stack on the corner and places the rim of it against her lips in amusement.

“Are you following me, Pepper? I guess this tour isn’t complete without me getting a brand new stalker.”

Cilla would say something so cocky.

“Trust me, you are the last person I’d ever want to stalk,” I say through clenched teeth, earning a dramatic pout from her. “And if you think being a bitch, or letting me know that you’ve f*cked my boyfriend in the past is going to make me turn around and go home, then you have another thing coming.” With each word, I move closer to her until I’m standing less than six inches from her face. Up close, I can see that her lips are trembling.