“You’re writing her a song.” I walk inside the room and sit down across from him. I lean closer to the ottoman that’s separating us in hopes that I’ll be able to get a good look at what he’s working on before he tells me to f**k off. He places the notebook in front of me and slides it in my direction until it bumps against my knees. My mouth literally drops open. “You want me to read it?”
One of Lucas’s dark eyebrows jerks up, and he shakes his head slowly. “No shit.”
Keeping my gaze on his, I grip either side of the notebook. “Are you finished with it?”
At first he nods, but then he pauses and shakes his head, causing his messy dark hair to fall into his hazel eyes. “Just about. Made a few calls this morning. Trying to get it on the solo project, so I’m going to bust my f**king balls finishing it up.”
The last time Lucas had me take a look at one of his songs before it was finished he scrapped the entire damn thing claiming he’d finish later. I absolutely refuse to let this song receive that same fate, especially if he plans to release it on his solo album. I push the notebook back toward my brother. “Then maybe you should wait and—”
Shaking his head, he grabs my hands. “Just read the f**king song, Kylie.”
I keep my eye on him as I sit back in my chair until the cushions mold against my back. When I don’t look away, he jabs his finger at the music I’m holding.
“Ten Days,” I read aloud. It’s a fitting title considering the terms of Lucas’s agreement with Sienna, but I don’t offer any useless commentary as I read the lyrics carefully. My brother’s written plenty of angsty songs that have completely pulled me in, but this is the first time that I feel physical pain in my chest. He’s apologizing, and it’s raw and real, but he’s also making demands.
He’s telling her that they’re not finished, no matter what has happened between them.
When I’m done, I lean forward and carefully place the lyrics down on the ottoman. I remain sitting like this, with my elbows on my thighs, staring down at the hastily written words on the page until they all blur together.
“Wow,” I finally murmur.
“You sound surprised.”
I drag my brown eyes up to his. The look on his face is familiar. It’s not the cockiness that usually makes me want to knee my older brother in the groin but confidence that I haven’t seen often since he returned from Atlanta without Sienna. No, I’m not surprised.
“I’m impressed,” I tell him.
He grins. “Fan-fucking-tastic.”
While Lucas gets back to work, he gives me the first bit of work I’ve done in days: verifying the flight and hotel arrangements for an awards show that Your Toxic Sequel is supposed to be presenting at next month. I don’t tell him that I checked up on the details of the event not even a week ago because I don’t want a repeat of any of the bad luck we’ve had this year with traveling.
I’m just about to leave the little office that I use when I come in to help Lucas out when I see the copy of the paperwork from the house Lucas had bought in Nashville. Sienna’s grandmother’s house. The papers are trapped beneath a paperweight shaped like a guitar, and at first, I consider leaving them down here and not even touching them.
But as I open up the office door to go back downstairs, I hear the sound of Lucas’s guitar as it strums through the chords of Sienna’s song once again. I hear hopefulness and need and love. And as my eyes land on the top sheet of the paperwork—the contact sheet—I realize what I need to do.
When I say that I’m leaving for the day and that I’ll come back tomorrow, Lucas is so consumed by his music that he barely acknowledges me. He doesn’t even glance up at me when I come right out and say that I’m going to get Sienna’s address.
So when I call her grandmother as I drive home, I convince myself that I’m making the right decision and that my brother doesn’t mind at all.
Chapter Eight
Lucas Wolfe
By early Thursday afternoon, nearly five weeks after I sent Sienna away, I’m satisfied enough with the song, and lyrics, that I know “Ten Days” will be the first single released on my solo project. It’ll replace “Your Best Disaster”—a song I wrote well over a year ago after getting called that (along with a few other names) by some groupie after a show in North Carolina. It hadn’t been my finest moment—I’d treated her like shit—but then, outside of music, I’ve had very few fine moments over the last several years.
As soon as Kylie comes in with lunch from her favorite fast food place, In-N-Out, I follow her into my kitchen and task her with making some calls to my label about the future of the song I’ve written for Sienna. She acknowledges that she’ll make a few calls as soon as she’s done with lunch, and I add, “It’s got to be the first song, first music video, first everything on that album. You understand?”
She glances up from the pack of fries she just placed on the center island. “This is a first, you know?” She opens her mouth to say something else but immediately shuts it, clacking her teeth together hard in the process. I lean my shoulder up against the fridge behind me and motion my hand for her to continue. She groans, but after downing a couple of ketchup-drenched fries, she lifts her shoulders dramatically and places her elbows on the black countertop. I roll my eyes, waiting for Kylie to start the theatrics. She’s good about that. “You usually like dealing with them yourself. Guess I’m used to just being your laundry bitch.”