Devoured (Devoured, #1)(35)

“That’s no excuse for him treating you like shit.”

“We’re all over the Internet,” I say. “You and I are everywhere because of last night.”

Even though he shrugs, I can tell it gets to him, too. That he regrets having ever looking at me while he sang. “It’s not a big deal. And stop changing the subject. We’re talking about your brother speaking to you like you’re nothing.”

“He’ll—” I want to say that Seth will get over it, but I don’t even know how to defend him to someone like Lucas. My brother hadn’t even said very much to me but somehow managed to take a pair of scissors to my self-esteem.

Lucas kneels down in front of me, on his knees, and places his forearms on either side of my body so that they’re almost brushing my hips. He bends his head toward my lap and a primal ache stretches across my belly. “Call him back and stand up for yourself.”

I shake my head, my long hair sweeping back and forth over his face when he looks up at me. “No,” I whisper.

His eyes narrow. “You’re going to have to one of these days. Stand up to your brother and your mom. You don’t have to take shit from people. You don’t have to try and explain yourself.”

He climbs to his feet, looking down at me with almost sad hazel eyes. “Today’s the first day of filming for the documentary and I’ve got some studio work that needs to be done. Take the day off.”

“Bu—”

“Take the day off,” he orders. “I can’t—you can’t expect me to be able to be around you like this when I want you so bad. When you’re not willing to let me have you.”

And now—now I think I fully understand why he’s encouraging this. Because Lucas Wolfe thinks that if I take on the things and people that I always back down to, I’ll allow him to conquer me.

?



The sound of a piano awakens me a little after 1am. I had stayed up until a few minutes short of midnight waiting up for Lucas and texting Tori as she hopped from night club to night club.



After I slide a short cotton robe over my t-shirt, I follow the noise down to the lowest level of the house. Once I hit the bottom step, I let the scent of what Lucas is smoking guide me. I’ve always hated the scent of pot because it reminds me of Preston, of the people who used to hang around my mom’s house, and I automatically wrinkle my nose. Lucas doesn’t look up when I open the door to the piano room, but I know he knows I’m in here because his back straightens and his shoulders tense up. I sag against the doorframe, listening to him, drinking this moment in. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans that ride low on hips. Lucas Wolfe is all muscles and tattoos and sexiness, but it’s his music that has a way of getting to me. It strips me down.

Then devours me.

And I let it. The only difference is that now, it’s in person and once it’s over I’ll have to face the real Lucas Wolfe and not the poor excuse I keep in my nightstand drawer.

Lucas’s shoulders relax a little as he pushes out the last few chords. He scribbles something into a tattered blue notebook, reading over his notes a few times before he lifts sleepy, hazel eyes to mine. Locks of his messy, dark hair spill into one of them. “I didn’t call for you,” he says huskily. “What do you want?”

“I-I didn’t realize you played,” I whisper. God, where’s my voice? My nerve? Why the f*ck do I come apart when I’m around him?

“Google is your friend.”

I feel my body ignite, but when I turn to leave, he says softly, “Stay. I don’t want to . . .” And though there’s a part of me that wants to take advantage of the vulnerability in his voice, there’s another part that’s reminding me of my deal with this man. I’m at his beck and call for the next five days.

And now, he wants me with him.

Tentatively, I walk forward. The tile is cold under my bare feet, and I wish I’d never gotten out of bed. I stand next to the piano and cross my arms over my chest. “How long do you need me for?” I demand, glaring down at him.

He’s writing in his notebook again—shorthand lyrics from the look of things—but his lips move into a slow grin that makes those uncomfortable flutters start in the pit of my stomach again. Does he realize how much these little gestures screw with my resolve?

Of course he does.

“Long as it takes,” he says.

“For what?”

Lifting an eyebrow, he tilts his head to one side and studies me for a good minute before starting to play again. It’s the same song from before, but now he’s changed the key, slowed it down. Now it’s haunting and unnerving. He sings along in some spots. The lyrics aren’t whole enough to fully make sense, but paired with his voice, they’re the sexiest I’ve ever heard. He sings about keeping the lights on and f*cking right now, and I feel like it’s an invitation meant only for me. All of the sudden, my throat is dry.

He glances up at me when he’s done. “Well?”

I flick the tip of my tongue over my lips. His body stiffens. “The end is wrong,” I murmur. “Too happy. It should be”—I move forward, lean down, and play several chords—“this.”

“You play?”

“Google is your friend, Wolfe.”