During my layover in Phoenix, I text Seth asking him to check on my car (since he has the spare key) and to send my shoes as soon I get a good address to receive overnight mail.
While I wait for him to respond, I get a Facebook alert. It’s a new message from Tori, one of my closest friends, and my old roommate from my time spent in Los Angeles.
Victoria Abrams: Wait, did I just wake up to read that your ass will be here tonight and tomorrow night? I’m squealing in anticipation, but I’ve got to admit, I’m kind of worried. What’s going on? You’re not taking your job back on Echo Falls, are you?
During my sleeplessness last night, I contacted Tori to let her know I’d be in town for the next 48 hours since Your Toxic Sequel’s tour will kick off in Pomona tomorrow night. I didn’t mention Lucas or my agreement to go with the band, but it would be an ass move to go to L.A. without seeing her.
I take a sip of my lukewarm caramel macchiato and message her back.
Sienna Jensen: Everything is good, I promise. I’m coming to town to see Lucas.
Just like Kylie always does when we’re messaging back and forth, Tori takes forever to respond. When the IM comes through, it’s just one sentence that I know she wrote and rewrote several times.
Victoria Abrams: Is this about that “Ten Days” song that’s all over the radio?
I twist my lips to the side. Of course, Tori would have already heard the song—her daily commute is a bastard, so she blasts music to keep her road rage down. Before I can respond to her question, my phone rings.
“Morning, Victoria,” I answer.
She sounds out of breath when she comes on the line. “So, the song was about you?”
“Yeah, it was.”
The woman sitting next to me grunts and shuffles around in her seat noisily before covering her face with a purple and gold LSU throw blanket. I give her a hard look, even though she probably can’t see it.
“Hold on for a second, Tori.” Grabbing my purse, carryon bag, and my cold coffee, I shuffle to a gate with fewer people. Once I find a secluded spot, I drop my stuff by my chair and put the phone to my ear. “You still there?”
“There’s no way you’re getting rid of me right now.” She’s still breathless, and when I glance at the top of my screen at the time, I see why. It’s 8:05 in Los Angeles, meaning that she’s getting ready for work. She’s got less than an hour to be inside of her cubicle. “Okay . . . are you with Lucas Wolfe?”
It’s blunt and completely to the point, and I can almost hear the words left unsaid: Are you back with Lucas after the way he treated you five months ago?
Bending at the waist, I place my forearms on my knees and glare down at the rounded toes of my yellow ballet flats. “We’re going to give it a try,” I say at last. Tori’s quiet and I can picture what she’s doing right now: she’s half-dressed and sitting on the edge of the microsuede loveseat in the apartment we once shared, nodding her head (which is probably still wet from her shower) slowly.
“You’re going to be late if you don’t get up right now,” I warn.
“I’m not mad if that’s what you’re thinking. And as much as I don’t understand it, I can’t blame you for wanting him. I’d fall all over myself if Micah wrote me a song like that. But I swear to God if you get hurt, I’m going to torch his house.”
I work my lips together. Tori’s taking this pretty well, considering the deep-rooted disdain she’s showed for Lucas for the last several months. Hell, she freaked out at her boyfriend, Micah, for playing Your Toxic Sequel’s music at a party we hosted.
“I love you, you know that right?” I ask.
She laughs and then mutters something about mascara and raccoon eyes. “I support everything you do, woman. I’d be a petty bitch if I got angry about you dating someone.”
“Then thanks for not being a petty bitch,” I say, causing Tori to snort.
The mood of the conversation suddenly more relaxed, the rest of our call goes smoothly. For the next forty-five minutes, I talk to Tori as she drives to work about everything but Lucas Wolfe. After we hang up, I take my belongings back to gate 19, and an hour later, I board my flight to Los Angeles.
Back to Lucas, the expected, and the completely unexpected.
Chapter 7
When I arrive at LAX and turn on my phone, a message from my brother pops up on my screen. Seth promises to stop by the Nashville airport to check on my car and to send my shoes.
There’s also one text from Lucas.
11:48AM: Your driver will be there when you get off at one. Then you’re mine.
I can almost hear Lucas growling the last part of his message right into my ear, and the tiny hairs on my arms and the nape of my neck stand on end. Ignoring the flutters in my stomach that skim the line of pain and pleasure, I answer him, focusing on what’s important at the moment as I make my way toward the baggage claim.
12:15PM: I think you gave the driver the wrong time. I’m here already.
His response is immediate.
12:16PM: Shit, are you serious, Red? Sit tight.
“Nice move, Wolfe,” I mutter under my breath. Tapping my foot rapidly against the floor, I wait for my suitcase to come around on the carousel. Once I locate it, I lug everything to a row of chairs nearby. It’s too hot for me to wait outside for some driver to arrive.
No sooner than my butt makes contact with the hard seat do I hear snippets of a conversation between two women who are walking in the direction of the taxi exit.
“ . . . I have all of their CDs. I could spot him from a mile away. It was definitely him, and you—you are stifling me!”