Devoured: A Novel(12)

“Why’s that?”

“Come on, Si. You’re scared of your own shadow. Gram didn’t want to tell you about the goddamn foreclosure because she thought it would just upset you. Do you remember how you were in court during Mom’s trial? All nervous and nodding and staring down at your lap and—”

“Thanks but I don’t need a character evaluation. And I’m stronger than you think.” But when I touch my hands to my cheeks, they feel flushed. This is the second time today someone’s blatantly pointed out negative traits about me.

The corner of Seth’s mouth quirks up, he starts to say something, but then thinks better of it. Shrugging his broad shoulders nonchalantly, he rises to his feet. He can try and pretend like he’s not upset all he wants, but I know different. His hands are clenched. As soon as he leaves here, he’ll head straight to the gym to blow off some steam.

It’s better than blowing up and punching in someone’s face like he was notorious for after Mom was sentenced. It’s a wonder he isn’t locked up in a juvenile detention center somewhere.

“I left your bags in the living room,” he tells me, sliding the dining chairs back where they belong. He doesn’t look up at me, when he says, “Hey, do me a favor—when Grandma gets in, can you tell her to call me.”

Realizing that our heart to heart has come to a definite close, I nod my head. “I will. You drive safe, okay.”

He rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath where I only make out the words f*cking and mom, then says, “I’m going to start looking around for places for . . .” his voice dies away, and once again, I bob my head up and down.

Like a broken little bobble-head doll.

Seth leaves without a proper goodbye. When I hear him start the engine to his truck, I go back upstairs. I clean up the mess in the bathroom, throwing the used scrubbing pads in the wastebasket and running the shower to wash away the neon blue soap that’s dried to the porcelain.

Resting against the mass of pillows leaned against the headboard, I open my laptop, determined to see what the damage will be if I go ahead and reserve a compact rental car for the next 13 days. There’s no way I’ll be able to get anything done without a car, even if I have to spend a couple hundred dollars for the sake of convenience.

“It’s just money,” I tell myself. “I’ll make it back quickly and all will be well in the world again.” Silently, I add, if Tomas doesn’t do a 180 and fire me.

I’m typing the rental car agency’s web address in when I notice the tiny red notification in the left corner of the Facebook page I left up earlier after I was through chatting with Tori and a girl I’d gone to high school with. It’s a friend request.

From Kylie Martin, Lucas’s blue-haired assistant.

“Dear social media: piss off,” I mutter, moving my mouse to decline the request. The message just below the request stops me, and I lean in closer to the screen to read it.

Hey Sienna,

I know you really want to just tell me to go get hit by a bus (or you know, decline being my friend) but please accept. I have a way you might be able to save your grandmother’s house. All we need is a few minutes of your time.

-Kylie

And just like that, I’m friends with the enemy’s little worker bee.





CHAPTER FOUR





Less than an hour after I accept Kylie’s friend request, my curiosity gets the best of me. What does she mean she knows a way to save this house? I message a single word reply that simply says: How?

A shrill ding indicates that I’ve received a brand new message seven minutes after I click send. Tossing the fitness magazine that I’m attempting to read (and failing miserably because I’m so worked up by Kylie’s cryptic message) on top of my nightstand, I watch the screen and shift my teeth together as Kylie sends me a series of instant messages.

Kylie Martin: Hmm . . . to be honest, what I’ve got to tell you is probably something that should best be said in person and not online. Are you free this evening?

I wait to answer because the instant messenger says she’s still typing.

Kylie Martin: I can pick you up at, say, 7pm and we can go into all the nitty-gritty details over dinner. My treat. Order the most expensive prime rib on the damn menu, if you want. It’s on Lucas’s dime.

This time, I don’t immediately answer because there’s something that chafes me raw about going out to dinner and using Lucas’s money to do so. It makes me feel . . . well, sort of cheap, even though I know that’s ridiculous. I’m sure his assistant takes other people out on all sorts of dinner and lunch dates, swiping Lucas’s credit card at as many restaurants as she can reasonably get away with. If I go, tonight won’t be any different.