Of course our parents were happy to see him. Neither of us returns home to Atlanta enough, so my mother and father roll out the red carpet each time we decide to make an appearance.
“Remind me why you wanted to let a film crew follow me around again,” Lucas complains, and I can easily imagine the look on his face right now—clenched jaw and lips pressed thin.
“Because it’ll be good for your career.” This isn’t the first time I’ve told him that Rock On the Road, the documentary he was approached to take part in months ago, would do nothing but help him, especially since Your Toxic Sequel is going on tour at the end of this coming summer.
“My career is fine.” I hear the squeak of his guitar followed by his sharp exhale. I tighten my grip on the pair of red skinny jeans that I pluck from my bag, bracing myself for whatever it is he’s about to say. “Mom wants to know what’s going on with you.”
“What? I’m fine.” I sit on the edge of my bed and slide my pants up my legs. They’re so tight that I have no other choice but to lie back to button them. “I’m really, really good, in fact.”
Lucas is always the first to pick up on my bullshit. It’s an unnerving ability that he shares with Wyatt—they’re both able to peel away my layers, go past the convincing smile and figure me out. “What the f**k ever. She says you’ve been rescheduling trips back home since before Christmas.”
Pushing myself up into a sitting position, I freeze, staring at the phone in horror at the thought of Lucas—who’s got a shitload of his own problems—and our mom having a lengthy conversation about me. “Did you tell her what I said? About coming to Atlanta for Easter?” He makes a disapproving noise and tells me that he has. “Well, then drop it. I keep my promises.”
Maybe Lucas can hear the irritation in my voice, or he’s just ready to get our conversation moving so he can end the call, but he changes the subject, transitioning easily to my vacation to New Orleans. “How was your flight back to Los Angeles?”
“God, do you check your text messages?” Doing a set of lunges toward my suitcase in hopes that my tight pants will loosen up, I say, “My flight was non-existent.” I bend over my bag and rummage around until I find my music-note print makeup case.
Lucas groans. “Don’t make me play guessing games, Ky. What’s going on?”
I toss the makeup onto the dresser and begin to pin my chin-length hair back from my face. “Some ass**le robbed our room last night and stole my ID and credit cards.”
“Fuck,” he growls. Lucas surprises me then. Instead of immediately jumping down my throat in an attempt to make sure that anything affiliated with him is safe, he goes into protective older brother mode. “You’re not hurt are you? He didn’t touch you?”
My gaze lowers to the phone on the dresser, and I stare at it, rubbing my lips together. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re worried about me.”
“Just answer the damn question.”
“I’m fine. I was doing laundry when he broke in.” And banging your best friend in said laundry room.
My brother releases a moan of relief. “So what the f**k are you doing to get home? Do I need to send someone out there to get you? Do you need money to—.”
“I’m fine.” But I still grin like an idiot as I dab concealer beneath my eyes. Lucas has his moments where I want to strangle him, but times like this remind me that there’s actually a heart beneath his many layers of vice and all of his growly, impossible orders. “I’ve already scored a ride.”
He doesn’t respond, and there’s nothing but silence between us. Since I hate silence, and because I’m sure he’s imagining me hitchhiking from New Orleans to Los Angeles with bearded men who call me “Little Girl”, I immediately tell him that I’m with Cal and Wyatt.
Apparently, that’s no better than random men. “You called them to get you?”
“No,” I say calmly. “They were already planning to drive from New Orleans to L.A.”
“What the f**k for?”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, and my brow pulls together. Lucas doesn’t know about Wyatt’s deal to perform with Cal’s cousin. Suddenly, this entire arrangement just screams shadiness. Even though I’ve not been told by either Wyatt or Cal to keep my mouth shut about the shows, I skirt around the subject with my brother. “They’re not entitled to a vacation?”
“To each his own.” There’s a sound on Lucas’s end of the line like he’s rubbing his hand over his face. “One, I’m going to find that little shit who hurt you and break his f**king legs. And two, I’m going to call Wyatt.”
I grip the handle of my mascara, and when I stare at myself in the dresser mirror, I realize that I’m holding it like a weapon. “I can take care of myself.”
“Oh, I know you can. Still won’t stop me from calling him,” Lucas says in a rough voice. I hear Sienna murmur something to him in the background, and he releases a low noise of frustration. “You be good, Ky. I’m going to get off here.”
I try not to think about the multiple meaning behind those particular words. “Hey,” I say quickly before he has a chance to hang up. Lucas pauses. “Sinjin? How’s everything going with him?”
He’s quiet for a long stretch, contemplating exactly what to say next. I drop the tube of mascara on top of my makeup bag. My hands are already shaky enough as it is. If my brother says something that’ll piss me off, the last thing I want is to poke myself in the eye. “I think he’s going to be alright this time.”