Devoured: A Novel(30)

Generous.

Does the contract mention anything specific from the instruction list I received yesterday evening? My agreement to obey, to listen, to Mr. Wolfe in exchange for the house? Our mutual agreement about emotions and sex?

Unless I ask for it, I’m safe from his affections, and I’ve already decided that I’ll fight the temptation with all my might.

As Court and I navigate our way towards the very back of the house, I take in the place I’ll be living in over the next couple days at least. There are photos and awards lining the walls of several of the rooms, and when we pass through the living room, I notice a giant image of a short man in a suit along with the members of Your Toxic Sequel and the lead singer of Wicked Lambs, Cilla Craig. She and Lucas have their arms around each other, and my stomach hardens.

“Their record producer?” I ask Court, pausing in front of the photo. I choose to ignore the sliver of jealousy I felt a second ago.

Jutting his square chin out, Court corrects me. “The executive. It’s his house, and I’m his personal attorney, of course.” He sounds incredibly proud of himself for being able to handle everything from carrying out eviction proceedings to acting as an entertainment attorney.

I consider patting him on the back, but I stop myself, locking my fingers in an uncomfortable angle by my side. This attorney will be handling the transfer of property once I’ve fulfilled my agreement with Lucas. The last thing I want to do is piss him off thanks to some sudden burst of rebellion and cause a delay in the whole freaking process.

Smiling sweetly, I say, “It’s a beautiful house.”

“I live right up the block,” he tells me in an almost superior tone. “In the Tudor.”

Lucas is waiting for me in an office with bamboo flooring and a high ceiling. He looks every bit the kickass rockstar with his shaggy dark hair tousled about, distressed jeans, and a vintage Pink Floyd t-shirt, but he’s so much more that.

Seated behind the L-shaped desk with his hands clasped together, he’s all business. All in control.

Suddenly, I’m tingling all over.

“It’s 8:10,” Lucas points out, standing up. “You agreed to be here at 8am.”

I take a tentative step forward. Then another until I’m on the other side of the desk with my thighs pressed against the hardwood. I stare up into Lucas’s eyes and say, “Sorry, Lu—Mr. Wolfe—my taxi was late picking me up from my grandmother’s place.”

His hazel eyes seem to go from green to toxic brown in a matter of seconds. “Do you make excuses like this to Tomas Costa?” he asks me, his voice dark. Oh God, he knows my bosses full name? Has he contacted Tomas? What else has he discovered about me? “I play music but I’ve got the same expectations as any other employer you’ve had. Probably more. Do you understand?”

I nod. “Yes,” I whisper, and when his eyebrow shoots up, I quietly add, “Mr. Wolfe.”

He gives me a smile as if he wants to eat me, and then motions Court—who’s lagged cautiously behind and is staring between the two of us with the blankest face he can manage—forward. “We’re ready to sign the contracts,” he says.

Court produces three copies of the document from the expensive leather briefcase that’s sitting beside of the plush, black leather couch across from the desk. Hobbling over to us, he hands one copy to Lucas and another to me. Then, he goes over the terms of the agreement, explaining all the technical terms in detail. Lucas pays close attention to everything Court says, even though he’s probably already read over this a hundred times.

Thankfully, the contract is only a couple pages long, and there’s very little reference to the instructions I’ve received except for a one line blurb. I heave a sigh of relief, pleased that Court Holder has very little—if any knowledge—about just how significant the words like “rules” and “obey” are to this agreement.

I start to scribble my name across the section for my signature on my copy of the contract but I stop after I’ve written the “A” in my first name. I glance up at Court and Lucas. Lucas gazes down at me expectantly, but Court’s face creases into a frown.

“Is there something wrong with the language in the—”

Shaking my head fiercely to each side, I wave my hand in protest. “No, no, nothing like that, it’s just that . . .” I roll my tongue back and forth in my mouth to get rid of the sudden case of dry mouth and drop my eyes back down to the papers on the desk. “I want to make sure none of this will be mentioned to my grandmother.”