Devoured: A Novel(16)

As she rolls her coat into a tight cylinder shape and places it between us, she asks, “You’re not dissecting my outfit, are you?”

I feel my ears turn red. “Of course not. Why would I do something like that?”

She makes a weird face, curling her lip up so it touches the tip of her nose, and rubs her chin with her index finger and thumb. “Hmmm, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s your job. Hell, I find myself doing my job even when I’m off the clock and critiquing every little piece of music I hear. For example, the music here”—she moves closer, as if she’s about to share an intimate secret, so I do the same—“Is really, really shitty. But just so you know, I don’t mind if you’re taking creepy, wardrobe person notes about my clothes. I happen to like the way I dress.”

I almost want to tell her I’m taking notes on how off-the-wall she is in general, but instead, I take a giant sip of my water to clear my throat before getting directly to the point. “You said you know a way to save my grandmother’s home, Kylie. That’s the only reason I agreed to come out tonight. So . . . what is it?” I drop my voice to a hush, adding, “What do you know about Lucas?”

“You know what I’ve been wondering? Just how in the hell did you manage to keep a body like that growing up in a place with such amazing food?” she says, evading my question. “They deep fry everything. I’ve been here literally a month and had to have Lucas advance me my clothing allowance for next season to buy looser fitting jeans.”

“Where are you from?” I ask.

She grimaces, clenches her hands, before cheerfully saying, “Oh, just Atlanta.”

Atlanta, Georgia. Where butter and bacon and pecans or more of a household necessity than they are here in Tennessee. Now, I’m not exactly buying her comment about the amazing food, even if she has been living in L.A. for a while.

Changing the subject, Kylie asks me about my childhood, about the school I went to, and what I did for fun, and I answer each question politely, taking the utmost care not to mention my mother. I feel myself growing more and more frazzled as each second seems to crawl by at a snail’s pace.

Finally when our first course arrives, I’ve had just about had all I can take of Kylie’s game of elusion. I place my palms flat on the table and clear my throat. She looks up at me, her dark eyes as enormous as the owls on her shirt. “Kylie,” I say as patiently as possible, “Why did you want to bring me here?”

Dipping a broccoli spear into the pot of scalding cheese that sits in the center of table, she frowns. I watch as she swirls the broccoli around until it disintegrates, each second making my heart thud louder, making me feel like she’s hiding something.

“Lucas wants you,” she says and then shrugs before blowing on the broccoli.

I already know this, but then a reason I didn’t think of this afternoon for her wanting to see me hits me hard. I come to terms with a frightening possibility and drop the piece of bread I’m chewing onto my plate. “Oh god, you’re not going to try to scald my face off with fondue or pour it in my lap because you’re in love with your boss, are you?” I ask in a shrill voice.

Her head pops up from the cheese and she stares at me blankly. I’m already making quick, jerky movements struggling to get myself out of the booth and away from this situation. To just leave her sitting here alone before drama ensues.

Then she starts to laugh hysterically.

That’s it. First thing in the morning, I would find a way to contact Lucas to tell him to keep Kylie the hell away from me.

Blinking back tears, she grabs my hand and pulls me back down. My knees lock up and I have no other choice but sit. I’m wheezing like I’ve just run a half marathon when she finally manages to squeeze words past her amusement. “No, don’t go, it’s just that what you said— Dude, so gross. I mean, I love Lucas, but that’s because I’m forced to. Our parents would have my ass if I didn’t.”

“Wait—what?”

She smiles. “Yep, guilty. I’m Lucas’s kid sister but only by a couple years.”

My hands automatically fly to my face, covering my embarrassment. “I thought you were . . . your last name is Martin,” I mumble slowly because there’s a thickness in my throat.

She holds up her left hand, placing it close to my face so that I’m able to see the tattoo circling her ring finger. She twists her hand, back and forth, so I can read the Old English text that clearly says MARTIN. “Eight years ago, the day I turned 18. His name was Bradley Martin and my marriage lasted about as long as the sex we had on my wedding night and was just as goddamn awful. Sorry, babe, you’re going to have to reevaluate your opinion of me because I’m not one of those assistants.”