CHAPTER THREE
My hope of avoiding Lucas Wolfe is nothing more than wishful thinking.
Not only is he dominating the majority of my thoughts, but he’s suddenly everywhere I turn—like my iPod, on a random playlist that plays by some freak accident; on Fuse TV where they’ve dedicated a whole day to Your Toxic Sequel’s best videos; on my favorite local radio station giving an interview, his voice low and intimate, like sex over the airwaves.
And the next day—a little less than one day after our run-in at Alice’s Café—Lucas is at Gram’s house, too. I don’t realize he’s come by until I hear the sound of him talking with other people outside. There’s a luxury SUV—Cadillac—parked in the driveway, and a white truck behind it with some type of logo written on the side.
At first I have no intention of letting him know I’m here—my grandmother is out running errands, and he, along with whoever is with him, haven’t tried to gain access to the inside of the house. I follow the muffled sounds of their voices until I’m able to hear bits and pieces of what they’re saying. And this is when I totally freak out.
“Demolish this section of . . .”
“. . . completely do away with for the recording studio.”
“. . . better off just knocking down the whole damn house and starting over with what you want.”
For the better part of a minute, I’m breathing heavily at the thought of my childhood home being ripped apart for the sake of a recording studio. Even though I’m dressed in a too-small set of PJs I found stuffed in a bottom drawer in my room—Seth still hasn’t brought my luggage or called me back for that matter—and despite the fact I have pea green spot corrector dotted on various areas of my face, I shove my bare feet into a pair of my brother’s oversized boots that I find in the foyer. Outside, I let the voices guide me. Lucas is at the back of the house along with his entourage—no other rock stars or a bodyguard like he’d have in L.A., but two men in contractor shirts and a tall woman with dark eyes and black and blue hair. She’s rapidly taking notes of everything being said on a tablet.
It’s his assistant, Kylie.
I remember her well, and she must know who I am because when our eyes meet, she mouths a silent “Oh” just before breaking into a huge grin. I dart my eyes away from her before she succeeds in making me feel even more awkward. It won’t take much for me to lose my nerve right now, and if it happens, I’d prefer to dig my foot halfway into Lucas’s ass first.
“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Wolfe?” I demand before he can completely spin around to face me. For a moment, he looks as shocked as Kylie to see me. His momentary silence gives me a chance to appreciate how good he looks in light blue wash jeans and a dark blue burnout t-shirt, how his eyes seem more green than brown today, how his muscles are so completely obvious even under the loose shirt.
I stop ogling a couple seconds after he regains his composure, granting me that smile that’s likely dropped panties across the country. “You’re still here,” he says. His voice is a mixture of two things—surprise and relief—and I’m not sure I like either one.
“Why would I leave?”
“Hmm, let’s see. Maybe because the judge said this place is—”
“It’s not yet. So, like I said, what do you think you’re doing out here?” I ask, squinting up at him. I squeeze the bridge of my nose as hard as possible without doing myself harm.
Lucas opens his mouth as if he wants to say something but one of the contractors interrupts him.
“Mr. Wolfe, we have a limited amount of time because of other appointments this afternoon. . .” the contractor begins, but Lucas shoots him a dark look. Holy hell, even grown, 250 pound men lose their confidence around this guy.
Lucas nods to Kylie. “Finish up with these guys. I have . . . shit to take care of.”
Kylie types a few additional notes into her tablet and then ushers the two men off, talking up plans of renovations and additions and completely gutting Gram’s house. She gives me an apologetic smile as she passes me, probably because she knows her boss and I are about to get into it, and the odds are out of my favor. How the hell can someone so pleasant work for someone so . . . Lucas?
What a stupid question to ask yourself, Jensen, I think. He’s gorgeous and talented, and you came all over his bed without even getting down to the actual deed.
Those type of thoughts—yeah, they’re the ones that get me flustered and in trouble. “So I’m shit?” I blurt out.
“You know exactly what I meant.”
“You know you have some jumbo balls coming out here today. God, don’t you have a soul? I don’t care if you’re the legal owner now or not—if my grandmother had heard you talking about tearing down walls and demolishing she would have been devastated.” When he crosses his arms over his chest, I repeat the gesture, trying to ignore the dizzying feeling that he’s slowly undressing me with his hazel eyes.
It’s the same way he looked when we first met a couple years ago, on the set of one of his band’s music videos. To this day, “All Over You” is my favorite Your Toxic Sequel song. Every time I listen to it, hear Lucas rasping taboo promises, I think of how his eyes drunk me in on that video shoot.
“You’re cherry red. And your ni**les are hard,” he says. My already crossed arms automatically hug myself tighter. He chuckles then whispers, “Hearing about the stripper pole in the living room turned you on, huh?”