“So . . . is she nice?” I ask as he starts the engine. She must be if he took the initiative to clean his truck.
“Nice enough. Maybe I’ll, you know, bring her to meet you and Gram if things work out.” He merges onto I-40. “I think you’ll like her.”
I turn on the radio, which is tuned to a station I know he hates. The sound of The Pussycat Dolls blasts through the truck for about ten seconds before I jab another button, switching to a rock station that’s in the middle of airing an add for a local car dealership’s Christmas in July sale. “This is serious. You’ve given her control of your radio.”
“Don’t be such a nosy ass.” After he switches lanes, he looks over at me, his brown eyes searching. “So . . . you went on a work trip to Knoxville? Why didn’t you just drive?”
“Now who’s being nosy?” I counter. Seth isn’t exactly Lucas’s biggest supporter, mainly because of the dilemma with Gram’s house earlier this year. I take a deep breath before saying in a sugary voice, “But yes, something like that. The front-man of Your Toxic Sequel has asked me to be his personal wardrobe consultant during their national tour.” My words sound so professional and rehearsed I’m sure my expression is just as surprised as Seth’s.
“Damn, that’s awesome, their new music—” he begins, but then he pauses and frowns. “Wait, that’s Wolfe’s band, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is. And?”
Seth’s top lip curls. “And that son of a bitch is the front-man. You told him to f**k off, right?”
“No.” My voice exudes confidence that’s impossible for me to feel at the moment. “I didn’t. I haven’t given him an answer, actually.”
“Jesus, Sienna, don’t you—” he starts, but I hold up a hand to cut him off.
“If you start with your preaching, I will kick your ass. Let me take care of myself, okay?” When he starts to protest me again, I continue, “And besides, working for this band would be killer for my resume.”
I don’t add that it’s already on my resume from when I worked with them two and a half years ago.
“So you definitely haven’t said yes yet or signed any contract?”
I shiver, thinking of the last contract I signed for Lucas, and then I shake my head.
His brown eyes dart up in relief. “Good. I don’t want him screwing you over.”
Neither do I. Even after the amazing days I spent with Lucas, I won’t ever be able to forget all the crap that’s happened between us. Not completely, at least. To my brother, though, I smile brightly and say, “If I say I’ll go, I’ll be fine. I swear.”
“Will you tell Gram?”
I bite the inside of my lip. “Do I have a choice? If I leave home for two months I’m probably going to have to say something.” Besides, I’ve made it a point not to lie to her. My mother has done enough of that to last Gram a lifetime.
Seth’s lips twitch. “What about Tori?”
I flinch. Tori’s my former roommate and one of my closest friends. If Seth’s the vice-president of the “Castrate Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe” Fan Club, then Tori’s the president, thanks to how many times shit has hit the fan.
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s business, right? She’ll be alright.”
But that night, as I lay on the porch swing outside of my grandmother’s Nashville cabin—the same house that had brought Lucas back into my life when he bought it in a foreclosure sale—I glance at my phone. Tori’s number is pulled up and ready to dial, but I haven’t been able to hit send. When I’d told Gram about the tour this afternoon, she’d been cautiously optimistic. As much as I love Tori, I’m still too high from the last couple days spent with Lucas to deal with listening to any “what-ifs.”
I have enough of those running through my own brain without any of my friends’ help.
Before I know it, I find myself calling Kylie, Lucas’s sister.
She picks up almost immediately, and I swear I can hear the smile on her face. “So?”
“I’m guessing you knew about what he was going to do for awhile, huh?”
“Not that much longer than you,” she assures me. “And it was very unlike Lucas, which is why I agreed to ask you to watch it.”
“Thank you. Thank you for asking me to watch.” My voice is shaky, and there’s a moment of silence between us. I grip the swing’s chain, to steady myself, even though there’s no threat of falling. “Looks like we might be seeing each other soon.”
When she responds, she sounds surprised. “What?”
“The YTS tour . . .”
“Ah,” she murmurs, the single word drawn out.
“Lucas didn’t tell you he invited me?”
She lets out a low whistle. “No, it’s not that. I knew he was planning to try and convince you to go. The thing is . . . I’m not going to be going on tour with the guys this time.”
I sit up on the swing so fast it makes me dizzy. “Seriously?” Kylie has been Lucas’s personal assistant for years, so I expected her to be with the band every step of the way during their tour.
“I can’t be around Wyatt—not in that type of environment at least. Not if we’re going to keep making things work.”
Wyatt McCrae, Your Toxic Sequel’s bass guitarist.
Making things work.
This is definitely new.
“Did you dump the new guy?” For the past couple of months, every time I asked her about her love life, she’s vaguely mentioned some guy she met at a music awards show.