“Get up, Sienna. It’s day one.”
“The show isn’t until late tonight,” I point out, but Lucas yanks the sheets that I’m desperately trying to hold on to off of the bed.
“We’ve got a lot of shit to do today.”
His words remind of my short-lived days (eight in total) working as Lucas’s personal assistant. He had—and I’m not even kidding—mandated that I be up at seven a.m. unless otherwise notified.
Sure enough, when I turn over to glance at the black Bose alarm clock on his nightstand, it’s 7:03. “You’ve got to be screwing with me.”
“Get used to it.” He goes to the window and opens the darkening blinds, allowing the light in. “Our road manager gets our asses up much earlier than this.”
Groaning, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and place my feet on the floor. As I stretch my arms over my head and shake out some of the stiffness in my muscles, I ask him sarcastically, “Should I call you Mr. Wolfe and sir?”
He doesn’t give me an answer until I walk across the room to the adjoining bathroom. “Only in private, Red.”
I shower quickly, wondering if he was serious about calling him Mr. Wolfe, which had been another stipulation of the old contract. Once I towel off, I return to the bedroom. He’s nowhere to be found, but I can hear a shower running in the bathroom down the hall.
Humming softly—an incredibly offbeat version of “Rill Rill” by Sleigh Bells—I rummage through my suitcase. Since I’m limited by my lack of shoes, I dress in a fun multi-colored Betsey Johnson sundress, which is the only item of clothing I have that matches my yellow flats. By the time Lucas returns, I’m leaned against his dresser, my face close to the mirror as I wrap my hair in a messy bun.
“Leave it down.” I look past my reflection, dragging in the sight of him with beads of moisture trickling down his muscular chest. He grins. “You know what it does to me.”
I do. And despite the fact it’ll just get in the way, I release my grip on my hair, letting the up-do down in one swift motion. I start to rake my hand through the tangled mess, but Lucas shakes his head.
“Just like that, so I can think about f**king you while I go through bullshit all day.”
The first order of “bullshit” turns out to be a meeting here with Your Toxic Sequel’s tour manager—a short, strawberry blonde guy with one of those tans that makes me envious. Dressed in a citrus-colored polo, Tyler looks like he’s about to head into an office instead of on a rock tour. At first, he stares me down with undisguised curiosity, taking every opportunity to study me as we go through the house and out to the backyard. Once we’re on the patio overlooking the pool, though, Lucas introduces me as his girlfriend.
Admittedly, hearing him do so makes me flush like a seventh grader, but I hold out my hand to Tyler and tell him it’s nice to meet him.
Flashing a wide grin, Tyler gives my hand three hard pumps. “Just wanted to make sure you were the right one.” He sits down in one of the outdoor chairs that are situated around a circular fire pit.
If there were an award given for the most awkward, dumbass introduction, Tyler would easily take it. I force a smile and dig my fingernails into my palms. “Thanks for being considerate,” I say through clenched teeth.
Lucas slams down in the seat across from Tyler, leaning forward with his tattooed forearms on his thighs. “You know exactly who the f**k she is.” He glances over at his manager, and I feel the punch behind every word. “And you also know how I already feel about this tour.”
Tyler squeezes the bridge of his freckled nose. “Ah hell, I didn’t mean to imply that . . . ” Cocking his head, he gives me a quick, apologetic grimace. “Sorry, Sienna.”
Lucas’s hazel eyes silently challenge his manager for a moment longer and then he turns his gaze on me, his expression relaxing. “I’ve got to go over tickets sales and business stuff, do you mind—”
“I need to go call my brother and Tori.” At this point, I’d be willing to deal with a prison call from my mother to get away from this tension. “See you in a little while?” He nods and kisses my wrist before I leave.
As I walk away, I hear his manager say in a low voice, “She’s sure as f**k prettier than what Cilla said.”
Lucas’s icy retort is the last thing I hear before I step inside of the sliding doors. “That’s because Cilla’s a bitch.”
He doesn’t come back into the house for nearly an hour, and in that time I manage to confirm with Seth that my shoes will be arriving today, speak to Tori who promises me that we’ll still get to see each other tonight, and make myself breakfast—a whole grain bagel, a few pieces of fruit, and a large glass of orange juice.
When he comes into the kitchen and finds me eating, Lucas immediately apologizes for Tyler, but I wave it off and force out a laugh. “I mean, I didn’t think you were celibate or anything while we were apart.”
He slides onto the bar stool beside of me at the center island, the fabric of his jeans brushing up against my bare knee in the process. “He was a dick. It won’t happen on the tour, and if it does, you come to me. I’m not going to let him play games with your head to cause problems. I won’t do that kind of shit just for the sake of record sales and media plugs.”
“Will that actually sell records?” I ask as he takes a drink of my orange juice. “You and I getting into it?”
He coughs on the juice, sits the glass down on the counter, and then takes my chin in his hand. “People always give a bigger f**k about you when your life is in ruins; I thought you knew that all ready, Red.”