“I think Cilla’s going to run her drunken mouth and call Sienna “Pepper” or tell her how many times you’ve f**ked her in the past and then she’ll get her ass kicked.”
“Just so we’re clear here—which one’s getting her ass kicked?”
“Cilla. That’s what I hope will happen.”
None of us wanted Wicked Lambs on the tour—with Sinjin being the most vocal—but the combined tour was what our label wanted. And all of those details were worked out long before Sienna came back into my life.
“They won’t fight,” I say.
But later, after Cilla has had even more drinks, she stumbles up to my table and offers to come home with me in front of everyone—Cal, Wyatt, our tour manager, and her own drummer. I take this as my cue to leave, but when she follows me, I pull her into an empty alcove close to the club’s entrance to let her down as easily as I can.
That shit doesn’t happen.
“I won’t tell Pepper,” she argues. Her red lips stretch up into a slow grin. “Not that I care what she thinks—”
“Cilla.” I grab her wrists when she tries to run her hands down my chest. “We’re not doing this—we won’t ever do it. Her name is Sienna, and believe me, I give a whole lot of f**ks about what she thinks, how she feels. If I’m with her, there’s no me with anyone else.”
She jerks out of my grasp and stumbles backwards, her black hair going everywhere. “God, who are you? Not my Lucas. Not anyone I know.”
“You’re right.” I sneer. “But I’ve never been your Lucas.” This time, Cilla doesn’t come after me when I leave the club.
My driver gets me home in record time, and after I get into my bed—the same one that I intend to share with Sienna once the tour is over with—I check my phone. I’m not surprised to find a message from her that was sent over an hour ago, at 3:22 her time. It’s the self-portrait she sent along with it that knocks the wind out of me.
The sight of the makeshift blindfold over Sienna’s blue eyes and her flushed face turned to the side is sexier than anything else she could have given me. The text below the photo is simple:
1:22 AM: I needed you more.
Because of Sam, I avoid going home as much as possible. But the next morning, after I’ve signed autographs at LAX and smirked for a few photos with a group of college girls from New Zealand claiming to be Your Toxic Sequels biggest fans, I board a flight that’s bound for Atlanta. Unlike the last time I came to town, there’s no limo to pick me up when I arrive. I rent a Suburban and head straight to my ex’s place.
She’s still living at the same overpriced apartment on Peachtree Street, still driving the same Mercedes that’s she’s had for a year and a half now. When I walk past it, I want to kick its grill in—I paid for the goddamn thing—but I keep my feet on the pavement and go inside of her building. It hasn’t changed either.
The only thing that’s different about this visit is that Sam’s not expecting me. And the way she looks when she opens the door for me.
The last time I saw her was in the spring, and she was skinny as hell. Now, with a pair of cutoffs hanging from her hips; her tits nearly non-existent beneath a baggy tank top; and her short hair hanging in limp, greasy strands around her face, she looks like she’s aged five goddamn years instead of five months.
Sagging her tiny body back against the foyer wall, she takes in the sight of me, starting at my black Converse and ending at the top of my head.
“You hiding from someone?” she demands. It’s my usual look when I travel, but Sam already knows that. Besides, it didn’t do me much good this time. It was too f**king hot to cover my arms, and the stars on my wrists, which were the result of a bet I lost to Sinjin seven years ago, are now my trademark. “Well, are you?”
“No, not hiding. Not anymore.”
“I told you I’d come to you next week, so why the f**k are you here?” she yells.
“Not happy to see me?” I shove open the front door and let myself into the apartment, which smells like gin and vomit covered up with expensive perfume. Sam doesn’t bother to stop me, but I don’t expect her to. She needs the money too much to try anything stupid.
“As a matter of fact, I’m not. I’m—” And this is where I tune her out and focus instead on all the U-Haul boxes scattered around her living room. Most are open, and their contents are spilling out, giving the impression she’s in a hurry to go somewhere.
“Moving?” I turn to face her, and her gray eyes go wide in surprise. They’re the biggest damn things on her entire body.
“Why do you care?” She stares at a cigarette burn on the oak floor, but I know she’s seething. She’s probably already run through the money I gave her this spring, so I’m not the least bit surprised by what she tells me next. “Yes, I am moving. Downgrading to a smaller place—not that it’s any of your business. I told you I’d come to you—”
“Save me the ‘you’re inconveniencing me’ bullshit. I wanted to get this over with.” Leaning over her coffee table, which is covered with full ashtrays and stacks of mail, I drop the envelope holding the last check she’ll receive from me. It lands on top of a letter from her electric company marked Urgent. She’s not just downgrading to a smaller apartment, she’s evicted from this one. “Saved you a trip.”
Sam shuffles around the coffee table, not once looking at the envelope I brought, until she’s on the opposite side of me. Calmly, she sits down on the edge of the couch and places her forearms on her bony thighs. “Then we’re done,” she says. “I told you this would be it for me and you, and I meant it.”