Devoured: A Novel(34)

Leaving the piano room behind, I find the office Kylie’s been using. She’s left me a long list of things I should be aware of such as the email address and password for answering Lucas’s fan mail along with a credit card paper-clipped to a note that reads: Spend to your heart’s content!

But after I’ve collected Kylie’s folder, I find myself standing in the doorway to the piano room, staring inside. That Steinway piano that had belonged to my mom—it was one of the many things Gram sold to help pay for her legal fees.





CHAPTER TEN





Usually, driving is a therapeutic experience for me. I’ve never taken the Metro in Los Angeles because despite how long my daily commute is, it gives me time to gather my thoughts, flush out any anger from the day. Sometimes, it’s the one chance I have where I feel like I’m in complete control of my life.



Driving Lucas from point A to point B, though, is almost painful.

“Stop grinding your teeth, Sienna,” he says, his voice weaving from the third row—where he insisted on riding so that he could write music in “peace”—up to the driver’s seat to irritate me.

“It’s stop and go traffic. It’s nerve-wracking,” I hiss. Then, reluctantly, I add, “Mr. Wolfe.” I won’t mention that Kylie’s notes explicitly said that a car would be sent to take him to the photo shoot this afternoon. That I heard him cancelling said vehicle this morning while I was making myself a cup of coffee. Or that the only reason I personally think he’s having me escort him around is so that he can screw with my head.

Make me fail.

Tempt me.

I glance into the rearview mirror. My gaze locks with frustrated hazel eyes. “Just stop with the teeth,” he growls.

Before what? You discipline me? I take a breath, ready to verbalize the taunts, but then I decide better on it. Lucas is holding something important over my head. Plus, despite his promise not to touch me unless I ask, I know he doesn’t have to lay a hand on my body to punish me. He’s proven that to me more times than I’d like to remember. Wetting my lips, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel to stop my hands from shaking.

For the rest of the ride, I slide my tongue back and forth between my teeth to keep from grinding them together.

When we reach the location for the shoot—a historic diner in the heart of downtown Nashville that’s been rented out for the entire day—Lucas stops me before I open my door. “Look, I don’t . . . do very well with this kind of thing with other people around.”

Shyness is not something I expect from Lucas, and I’m taken aback. “Meaning you want me to stay outside,” I say.

“Don’t sound so dejected. You’ve got the business credit card Kylie left, right?”

“Yes,” I say.

“There’s seven more days after this. You have a tendency to dress like a first grade teacher and since you’re a direct reflection of me—well, do something about it.”

“I’m a wardrobe girl.”

“Who dresses like a 23 year old teacher.”

“I am 23.”

“And you’re my assistant who’s agreed to do as I say. Right now I’m telling you to buy clothes that fit the role. Don’t tell me you can’t because I know you’re f*cking incredible at what you do,” he says. Then, lifting his eyebrows suggestively, he leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. “Because as it stands, the only thing I want to do when I look at you is take a ruler, bend you across a desk and—”

“I’ll do it!” I cry out, squeezing my eyes shut to flush out the imagery that’s just thrust itself into my brain. Every time I think I’m making a little progress of not thinking about sex and Lucas, he stomps all over it.

If he notices that I’ve not referred to him as Mr. Wolfe or Sir once during this exchange, he doesn’t say anything. He sits in the same position, staring at me expectantly until I realize at last that he’s waiting for me to let him out.

Seven days.

He winks at me as he steps out of the Cadillac. As he slides past me, his body brushes mine. It’s just the tiniest of touches, the back of his wrist against my belly button, his shoulder skimming the top of my head so that strands of my red hair cling to his V-neck tee, but it’s enough to make us both pause.

Tentatively, I shift forward. The muscles jump under his cheeks, and he reaches up, past me, to close the car door. He keeps his eyes off of my face as he says, “When you’re shopping . . . remember you’re dressing a rocker’s personal assistant, remember we’ve got a semi-formal birthday party to go to while in Atlanta. And if I so much as see one lame ass cardigan, I swear I’ll burn it.”