Devoured (Devoured, #1)(23)

“You’re worried,” Kylie says.

Pushing myself away from the toxic thoughts that have started to rot my mood, I look across the porch at her. She’s staring at me attentively as she takes slow drags of her menthol cigarette. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re grinding your teeth.”

I hadn’t even realized I was doing it this time. Running my tongue along the smooth surface of my teeth, I manage a lame, “Oh.”

“You’re going to ruin them,” she says emphatically. “And Lucas will probably make you buy a mouth guard.” As soon as the sentence leaves her mouth, her cheeks turn the color of my hair and she polishes off the cigarette in two elongated puffs.

If she hadn’t blushed, I wouldn’t think anything of what she’s said, but now . . . “Why does he want to do it?” I ask, referring to his need to possess me.

Kylie leans against a wooden post, her face drawn together as if she’s deep in thought. After a while she says, “I don’t question anything he does with his girlfriends or—”

“I’m not his girlfriend; I’ll only be his personal assistant.” I say. I want to add just like you but even I know that my role is the complete opposite of what Kylie’s is.

He’s already sworn my role will eventually transcend that of his personal assistant, and that I’ll be the one begging for it to happen.

“Yeah, I know. Look, if you’re wondering about his vices, ask him about it. Nobody is going to tell you better than Luke himself. Personally, Lucas’s personal life is one of those squick things for me. I’m sure you understand.”

I think of digging through Seth’s center console and I find myself wrinkling my nose and bobbing my head back and forth. “So why’d you come here tonight?” I ask, suddenly desperate to change the subject.

“A few reasons, actually. First, I wanted to wish you good luck and tell you I’m so glad you’re doing this. Every time you think of quitting . . . just think of how happy you’ll make her.” She pauses for a moment, either for dramatic effect or to give me time to sort out what she’s said or perhaps both. I don’t want to process her words because then all I’ll be able to do is stress over why she’s warning me already not to give up on the job.

“Second, I wanted to tell you to watch out for the band. Because you will meet them. And they will act like man-sluts. I don’t give a shit what any of them tell you, if they make you feel weird or uncomfortable, send me a message.”

And now Kylie’s succeeded in making me feel like I’m going on my first date and my mom is telling me not to let the horny boy touch my boobs. Wonderful. I give her a smile that I just know looks lopsided and awkward.

“But most of all I came to give you this” She slides a stiff white card with an address written on it in loopy handwriting into my hand. I wasn’t even aware anyone still used cursive. “So you can know where to go tomorrow. And so I could apologize in person for last night.” She motions her chin toward the house. “And I brought you a peace offering, though I’m sure your grandma is in there getting sloshed right now. That champagne is that good. Hell, I buy it for my parents and they’re youth ministers.”

Lucas and Kylie’s folks. Ministers. Wow.

“Courtesy of your expense account?” I tease, trying to hide my disbelief at what she’s just told me. She nods, grinning. “And let me guess, the trip to New Orleans is a company-paid vacation.”

“Oh hell yes.”

I find myself laughing right along with Kylie, the ministers’ daughter, and Lucas’s younger sister—the same blue-haired woman who deceived me last night all for the sake of helping him obtain what he wants. I can’t hold a grudge against her.

Lucas is just . . . a force that not many people can reckon with, least of all either of us.

“Well, thanks. For, you know, making me feel like an eighth grader. And for the offering, of course.” This time, I mean it. I fully intend on getting a little sloshed myself on the champagne she brought me.

Because starting to tomorrow, while Mr. Wolfe is taking pleasure in training me as his assistant, I will begin counting down the days until the deed is in my hands.





CHAPTER EIGHT





I don’t sleep well. I’m fitful and nervous about the coming days so it takes no physical effort at all to leave the comfort of my bed behind at 5am. The force holding me back is mental, emotional, and I take my time carefully making the bed, running my fingertips over the worn pink and orange comforter as I smooth it out over the sheets.

“Jesus Christ, Jensen, pull your shit together,” I mutter to myself, clenching a large chunk of fabric in either hand and then re-tucking it. By the way I’m acting, you’d think it were the last time I’ll ever see Gram’s house and not like I’m going only six miles up the road.

To a house where I’m expected to do as I’m told, but still.

After I open up an Internet radio station, I flip my suitcase open and set about the tedious task of pulling my clothes down from the hangers and neatly storing them into the bag. As I work, I sit as many of my black items of clothing aside.

Black drop waist dress that I’ve only worn once.

Ankle pants and a tight black cardigan, a lace edged camisole.