Consumed (Devoured, #2)(47)

“It was . . . boring. Well, the job was. I’m not sure about what the show will be like.” I don’t say anything about my other client’s cancellation. I’ve been working with this woman, a politician’s wife, since I started doing wardrobe consulting here. Her email had been two lines, mostly stating that with my “other work in the public eye,” she saw it fit to discontinue her association with me.

It stung enough for me to sit staring at my computer screen for several minutes afterward.

I had started to message her back to ask if it was because of the hundreds of pictures of Lucas and me circulating the Internet, or if she took a peek into the various YTS fan sites that have smeared my name with every lie imaginable.

Like an idiot, I had taken a look at one of the websites after dinner tonight to discover that I was pregnant. I’m positive that by tomorrow morning, that will have changed, and I’ll have betrayed Lucas with a secret abortion. Or maybe the baby will turn out to be Cal’s or Sin’s.

If it wasn’t so sad, and undeniably scary, I would probably laugh.

“God, girl, you’ve been spacing out since you walked in here tonight,” Ashley complains. “I just said that boring is good, but I’m sure there’s none of that being on the road.” She fidgets anxiously with the rim of her beer bottle, and it’s obvious that she has a question about YTS and the tour.

Since I feel like crap for being such awful company tonight, I wait until a couple passes by to say to her, “Okay, shoot.”

Plunking her hands down flat on the table, she leans in close. “Cilla Craig?”

I consider my words carefully, but then I shake my head. Screw being nice. “The devil in fishnets.”

“I knew it.” Ashley sits up straight and takes a sip of her beer, wrinkling her pierced nose at the taste. “Ugh, we’re never ordering this crap again.” She slides the nearly full bottle to the edge of the table. “This will be the first time I’ve actually seen the Lambs live because I’ve been scared she’d throw a mic off stage or some crazy shit.”

When my eyebrows furrow and I motion for her to keep talking, she says, “There’s a video of her on YouTube at a show in Louisville when she toured with YTS a few years back. She went off on that audience.”

I’ve got a vivid image of Cilla calling Sinjin out in front of Zoe two nights ago, and the back of my throat burns. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Anyway, I—” Ashley’s cut off when Nick, one of the doormen, drops by our table and whispers something into her ear. “Shit, one of the bartenders kid is sick, so she’s got to leave early. Give me twenty, okay?”

But I shake my head and scoot off the barstool. “I need to get home. I fly out tomorrow morning, and I’ve got an early breakfast with Seth and Gram.”

Ashley hops off of her own seat. “Have fun,” she says loud enough to drown out the sound of the tipsy guy slaughtering a Ke$ha song on stage. She makes it two steps before she whips back around, tapping her finger against her lips. “Before I forget, when will you be back again?”

“Five days from now. I’ll be sticking around here until they come to town because I’ve been contracted for more work with the crew from today.” And I have a private client, too, but who knows if that will pan out.

Ashley gives me a very 80s-inspired fist pump. “Alright, I’ll see you then, and if the only thing left on that list isn’t involving Cal’s belly button . . . So help me, Sienna.”

Forcing a laugh, I promise I’ll do my best.

Fifteen minutes later, after I step into Gram’s house and lock up the door behind me, something hits me about what Ashley said tonight. I creep quietly up the stairs. As soon as I duck into my bedroom, I head straight to my computer and Google Cilla’s Louisville rant.

It’s the second item that pops up on the search engine—right under an article about a man who was mugged in the parking lot during the Wicked Lambs show in Louisville. I click on the video.

For a total of five minutes and 39 seconds, I watch in horror as Cilla sobs her way through a song before telling the audience to go f*ck themselves.

It leaves a sick taste in my mouth.

The sound of an incoming message startles me, and I glance up at an open tab at the top of my screen. I’ve got a new Facebook message from Kylie, who’s finally changed the last name on her profile from Wolfe to McCrae.

Kylie McCrae: Guess who will be seeing you soon?

Poking my tongue against the inside of my cheek, I type out a response.

Let me guess, she’s short, amazing, and she has incredible blue hair?

Kylie McCrae: Yes, yes, but NO. I dyed it again. I think I love it.

I wince. Kylie had tried platinum and cherry red several months back, and it looked like a candy striper threw up in her hair. Before I ask what color she went with this time, she uploads a photo of herself. It loads slowly, thank to our slower Internet, so I’m able to see a little at a time until I’m finally staring at the full image: a surprised looking Kylie who’s pointing at the top of her head. Which is now an utterly plain shade of dark brown.

Kylie McCrae: Since you’re speechless (wordless?), I can tell you love it. And to answer your next question, me and my normal hair will be on the bus from Atlanta to New Orleans.

That means she’ll be around for just about the rest of the tour, except for Phoenix and Los Angeles. When I ask her why she doesn’t want to go to the last two shows, she immediately responds that it’s up in the air.