Devoured (Devoured, #1)(2)

She’s also 79 years old.

I try to say something, anything, but there’s a lump the size of a lint-flavored golf ball clogging the back of my throat. I’m choking and wheezing when Seth finally exhales an exasperated sigh and snaps, “She’s fine, Si. Well, physically fine.”

Then, he tells me what’s going on. He says words like foreclosure and eviction notice. New owner—some douchebag musician from California. Court on Monday. And then he tells me that I need to be there for her, for him.

“I have to work,” I whisper. I can’t imagine what Tomas will say if I ask for time off for anything besides a funeral or the certain impending demise of an immediate family member. He might fire me. Or worse, he might give me a horrible reference and I’ll never get another wardrobe job for the rest of my life.

“No, you’ve got to be here.”

“Seth, I can’t just . . .” But I’m already sitting in front of my laptop with my online bank statement pulled up on one tab and a discount ticket website on another. I’m already entering in my debit card information for an early Monday morning flight, biting down so hard on my lower lip I taste blood. I’m broke. Half of what’s in my account—half of my total savings—will have to go to Tori for my share of the bills.

And before I hang up with my little brother, I’m already shoving my belongings inside of the beaten Coach suitcase my grandparents gave me five years ago as an eighteenth birthday present.

?



It’s mind-numbingly cold in Nashville—33 degrees to be precise—and snowing lightly when I scoot into Seth’s messy Dodge pick-up truck on Monday afternoon. From the way I’m sweating, though, you would think it were the middle of August and that I’d arrived in Nashville dressed in head to toe wool. The flutter sleeve top I so carefully selected because it makes me look professional clings to my skin and the tops of my thigh high tights sag to just above my knees.

The sudden spike in perspiration is my own fault—I spent the entire four hour flight from California fretting over how I’d convince Gram to come back to L.A. with me. And the more I thought about it, the more doubtful I became. My granddad had built her that cabin and land as a gift after my mother was born in the early seventies. There’s no way in hell Gram’s giving it up without a fight, even though from what Seth has said, the house is already gone.

“What’d your boss say?” my brother asks as he turns onto the interstate. He slams on the brakes to avoid hitting another car. The Dodge skids on the slippery road, jostling us around, but Seth manages to get the truck under control halfway into my frantic gasp.

Seth doesn’t so much as flinch. He squints straight ahead, the same way our dad does when he drives in crappy weather, and rubs the tips of his thumbs on either side of the steering wheel—another Dad trait. With his dark blonde hair, brown eyes, and year-round tan that puts my easily-burnt skin to shame, Seth even looks like Dad now.

“You going to answer me or just sit there with your mouth wide open?”

Digging my hands into the hem of the dark tweed pencil skirt I’m wearing, I shrug. “I worked through Christmas and New Year, so he didn’t have much of a problem. Besides, I’m just an assistant.” I don’t add that I had to beg Tomas for the time off and that he’d pointedly said I better take care of my family drama and have my ass back in L.A. before the end of the month—two and a half weeks.

“Echo Falls is ranked first in females aged 18 to 34. There are people willing to trade their own offspring for a chance to work on this series. That being said, replacing you with a new wardrobe person who covets his career won’t be too hard a feat,” Tomas had said, punching something into the iPad he carried around everywhere. He never even spared me a glance so when he shoved a newly inventoried wardrobe rack against a brick slab wall, he didn’t see me startle. “Don’t force me to find that person, Jensen.”

“I’ll wrap it up in two weeks, Tomas,” I’d promised.

“You better.”

Telling Seth any of that is simply a waste of oxygen. He would either not get why I can’t neglect my job whenever I please or simply not care. Knowing my brother, it would be the second.

“Got anything I can wipe my face with?” I ask. Thinking about my job has me sweating even worse than before.

“Center console.”

I find a package of wet wipes in between a half-empty 30-count box of condoms and a completely empty bottle of Jose Cuervo. Before I can stop myself, I whirl on him and blurt, “I hope you’re not stupid enough to drink and drive. You’re only nineteen and you—”

“Don’t start, Si, okay? Today isn’t a good day for your bitching. ”

Sinking my teeth down on the inside of my jaw, I turn my attention to the bumper stickers on the tiny little Escort in front of us. Honk If You Hate People Too. How fitting.

It’s only an eight mile drive from the airport to the courthouse, but the trip ends up taking forty-five minutes thanks to the traffic and the snow. Seth and I spend nearly every minute of it in silence—just as we usually do when we’re around each other. As I dab at my face with wipes and smooth my long, red hair back into a low ponytail, I mentally kick myself for being dumbass enough to lend him money. He’s not mentioned it, and I doubt he will. Seth’s smart enough to realize that I’ll never bring up the money he owes me because I’d rather gouge myself in the eye than get into a confrontation with him.