Devoured: A Novel(35)

He stalks past me and into the diner. Instead of following him with my gaze, I close my eyes.

Fantasize about what would’ve happened if our lips had touched.

Feel parts of me that I shut down two years ago wake up once again.

?



As I shop at the trendy boutiques and vintage stores downtown Nashville is popular for, my mind pings back and forth between Lucas, my duty to finish up my seven days and get the house back.

And my life in California.

And I can’t resist wondering if I had given in to Lucas when we almost spent the night together, would things be different now? Would I be different? My attraction to him was immediate, one of those things that took my breath away, numbing my senses and making me ache all at once. I was drawn to his music, the way his voice had a way of tearing away my layers and digging to my very core, even when he was singing about strippers and partying.

Apparently, Lucas was drawn to me because . . . I had a hard time saying “no” on set.

Except to him, and he was too infatuated to realize that until it was too late.

The back of my neck tingles, and I tilt my head to each side to stretch it. I’ve got to quit letting the past mess with my head. I just need to forget Lucas Wolfe and all of this and move on. I just need—

“Sienna?” a female voice calls my name.

I glance up from the black skinny jeans that I’m clutching to face a girl with short, spiky turquoise and pink hair and snake bite piercings. I squint for a second, trying to place her. As she comes closer, her face unblurs, and I mentally take away the facial piercings and picture her with blonde Jennifer Aniston-esque layers and a pink Polo shirt. I feel my lips automatically curl into a grin. Jessica rushes forward to hug me.

Drawing back, she squeals. “Dude, I haven’t seen you in—what?—four or five years? What are you now, a teac—?”

“Wardrobe assistant for Echo Falls,” I say before she has the chance to call me a teacher. Self-consciously, I tug at the hem of my flutter sleeve top. Guess it does its job of making me look professional. To the point that my boss wants to spank me with a ruler and an old friend assumes I spend my days drilling addition into first graders’ brains.

Nice.

“No shit,” she says. She drapes the armful of clothes she’s carrying across a mannequin’s arm, despite the nasty look the sales girl working the floor gives her. Jessica rolls her eyes. “I f*cking hate that show.”

“Me too,” I say, and she grins.

“How long you here for?”

Glancing down at a rack, I shrug. “Just another couple weeks. I’m doing a favor for a . . . um . . . friend and helping my grandma with a few things.”

“How’s she doing?” When I tell her that Gram is well, she tilts her head to the side, nodding. “And your mama?”

That familiar buzz of humiliation makes me bow my head a little, but I fight back the urge to flinch. When my mom and her husband had gone down for selling and trafficking prescription drugs, they’d taken Jessica’s uncle with them. Jessica never seemed too hurt about it—and she’s not mentioning it right now—but I hate that she’s asked about my mother.

Trust me, if your mom went to prison for one of the biggest drug busts in state history and snitches on every dealer within 20 miles . . . you’d be afraid and embarrassed when someone asks about her too. “She’s fine,” I say stiffly.

Jessica murmurs something inaudible in a sympathetic voice.

“Your parents still run that bar?” I ask and she rolls her eyes dramatically.

“I thought it would be awesome getting all the free booze, but yeah. My dad’s a f*cking slave driver.” As if on cue, her phone beeps and she drags it out of the pocket of her fuchsia jeans. “And as usual, work calls. I’ve gotta pay for these and run, but if you’re not busy tonight . . .”

She digs in her messenger bag and hands me a red and black flyer. It’s an advertisement for a Your Toxic Sequel cover band performing at her parents’ Broadway bar. I nearly choke on my own saliva.

She squeals, clapping her tattooed hands together. “Ahh, a YTS fan, I see? I adore them. My boyfriend’s in the band and they’re amazeballs—almost better than the real thing. Come out if you can. See you around,” she says, plucking her clothes off the mannequin. “And find me on Facebook if I don’t see you tonight!” she yells as she walks away.

I pay for my own selections soon after. I ball the pink flyer up and throw it in the bottom of the shopping bag.