Devoured: A Novel(5)

“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Gram says. “And Sienna?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so happy you’ve come home.”

Tears burn the corners of my eyes. I squeeze them shut, whispering, “Me too, Gram.” There’s so much else I want to say and do but there are people all around us heading into the courthouse and to various attorneys’ offices. I give her a cheerful wave instead. It’s only after she disappears into Nielson’s building, I let my shoulders slump and drag ass across the street to the café.

I haven’t been to this restaurant since my mom’s legal woes a few years ago, so I’m stoked to find it’s now decorated in an Alice in Wonderland theme. My roommate and I are complete opposites but one of the places where we find common ground is fantastical movies and books and . . . you know, Johnny Depp.

The woman behind the counter wearing an elaborate velvet Hatter hat smiles up at me and yells, “Go ahead and seat yourself, hon. Someone’ll be right over.” I nod my head appreciatively and then find a booth in the far left of the café that gives me the best view of Nielson’s office and easy access to the wall vent. After I order a double slice of the special—Cheshire pie—and a cup of coffee, I send a series of texts to Tori that sound more than a little neurotic.

Lucas Wolfe is the person who’s bought the house. That shitface bought my gram’s house.

The universe has to be plotting against me.

WTF is he doing here?

Tori???

There’s slush melting inside of my pumps and I realize I was so distracted by merely seeing Lucas that I forgot to get my bags out of the back of Seth’s truck. Yet now the only thing I can think about is Lucas. Not only about how he’s trying to throw Gram out of her house, but how he threw me out of his.

I’m still deep in thought and waiting for Tori to text me back when I hear shuffling beside me. I slide my cell phone from the edge of the table, over toward the salt and pepper shakers to give the waitress room. A large and very unfeminine hand covers mine, calloused fingers from playing the guitar gliding across my knuckles. It’s a familiar touch that sends an unwanted—and very delicious— jolt through my body. I snatch my fingers, angry at my body’s obvious betrayal, and knock over a porcelain bowl full of sugar packets. The sugar scatters across the linoleum. Lucas chuckles.

And I feel the sudden urge to vomit.

Gesturing to the empty seat across from me, Lucas asks, “Room for one more?”

“Not much for spending my free time with strangers,” I say through clenched teeth as I shake my head. “So, sorry, there’s not.”

He slides into the booth anyway, stretching out his ridiculously long legs so that his calves straddle mine. I open my mouth to protest, but he holds up his hand. “Before you try to bullshit me, you should probably know I never forget a face.” Then, he lifts his eyebrows wickedly and says, “Or a body.”

Who does he think he is? Feeling a sudden need to come right out and ask him, I demand, “I guess you’re not used to hearing no, huh?” My voice packs a hell of a punch, surprising me. If he were anybody else I would have already separated myself from the situation. Lucas has an unnerving way of tearing away the layers of my nervousness, my need to shy away, until I’m raw and wanting to lash out at him.

He grins, cocks his head to one side as if he’s carefully studying me. “You really have to ask me that?”

My lips part as my senses and every inch of my skin flood with heat. I ball up a sugar packet, squishing my thumb and forefinger into the grittiness and glance away from Lucas out the window toward Nielson’s office.

“You’re sexy when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not,” I say.

“Sexy?”

My head jerks back, away from the window, and I give him a wide-eyed stare. “No . . . nervous.” But I’m sure he can hear the tremor in my voice, feel how my legs are shaking beneath the table right now.

The corners of his lips pull into a sardonic smile that’s infuriating and ridiculously sexy. Once again, I feel electricity flow through my body. I hate myself for having any response toward this man other than dislike. “Tell me why you’re here, Sienna,” he demands softly.

“Why do you care?”

Placing his forearms on the table, he leans forward. His sleeves ride up just enough for me to see the tattoos on his wrists. I squeeze my eyes shut, vividly picturing the rest of the tattoo sleeve on his right arm. Anyone who follows his music would know about it. I mean, he and the drop dead gorgeous female lead singer of Wicked Lambs were on the front cover of some rock magazine a few months back—he was shirtless and so was she, with him standing behind her, cupping her breasts.