Ugh, why does he seem so absolutely gleeful when he tells me that? As if he can read my mind, he winks a green eye at me. “You’ll be alright. Even if she weren’t a drunken bitch, Lucas still wouldn’t want her. Not his type. Not you.” He’s quiet, and just when I begin to think we’re done talking, he slams his netbook shut. “I want you to watch out for her. And stop staring at me like I’m an idiot—I’m looking out for you.”
I let out a coarse laugh that burns the back of my throat. “Is there any woman from Lucas’s past that I shouldn’t watch out for?”
“Kylie. She’s the only one who’s not going to try to drive a f**king dagger into your back.”
“Good to know.”
Fortunately, his phone begins to buzz on the table between us. I manage to make out the name “Zoe” before he gives me a withering glare and swipes the iPhone up into his hand. He stalks off toward his section of the bus—four bunks in the middle, right before the compartment I’ve been sharing with Lucas—leaving behind the scent of smoke mixed with Ivory soap.
Running my fingertip around the cold rim of my drink can, I close my eyes and scan my brain for ways to solve the Cilla problem. To be honest, I can’t come up with a single solution that doesn’t involve us getting into a verbal—or hell, even a physical—altercation.
She sees me as a threat. I just want her to leave Lucas alone.
I don’t realize that I’m no longer by myself until I hear a male clearing his throat slowly. I open my eyes, expecting to find Sinjin or even Lucas, but Wyatt’s tanned face is grinning down at me.
Seeing that he has my attention, he leans his tall, lean body back against the counter in the tiny kitchen behind him. “You all right?”
I rake my hand through my hair and lift my shoulders. “Decent. You over here to see Sinjin?”
“What can I say? I was good with one bus, but Lucas likes his space. Sin around?”
I jab my index finger to the other end of the bus. “He’s on a call right now.”
“Ah, I see.” Instead of taking Sin’s unavailability as his cue to leave, Wyatt pulls a packet of cigarettes from his back pocket. He shakes one free but then pauses and gives me a questioning look. “You—”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t mind.” His shoulders sag in relief, and as he cups his hand over the cigarette and his New Orleans Saints lighter, my thoughts go to Kylie. “I’m guessing you can’t wait until the New Orleans show.”
He shakes his head briskly and mumbles an “Mmm hmm.”
“Do you think she’ll come around and change her mind?” After tonight’s show, there will be a little less than 40 days left in the tour, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how ecstatic I would be if Kylie was around.
Wyatt blows out a long breath and rolls his midnight blue eyes up toward the recessed lighting in the roof of the bus. “I sure as f**k hope so. It’s . . . hard.” He offers me a strained smile that I try to return. All I can think of is the little bit of Kylie and Wyatt’s history that I know about.
“Right.”
Bending forward, he crushes the remains of his cigarette in Sinjin’s ashtray and shoots me a sheepish look. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“And I swear it’s not about the assistant at that recording studio back in February,” I say sweetly. He grabs his chest as if he’s wounded, and I narrow my eyes.
“I didn’t f**k her.” Releasing his chest, he rubs the palm of his hand over the top of his forehead, messing his short dirty blonde hair with his tattooed fingers. “What I let her do wasn’t right, especially since it was fueled by me being pissed at Ky for not coming to Nashville, but I didn’t f**k her.”
“You don’t have to explain to me.”
“’Course I do.”
A few feet away from us, Sinjin groans loudly about how sentimental stuff turns his stomach, and Wyatt and I both turn toward him. He’s shed a layer of clothes—now he’s only wearing plaid boxers—and I twist my lips to the side to hold back any type of reaction. Though he’s looking at Wyatt, his words are aimed at me. “Fuck you, Sienna, it’s not even what you think it is.”
I slide my butt across the leather dinette seat and stand. “I wasn’t going to say a damn word.”
Sinjin laughs—one of those rare, genuine ones that seem strange coming from him—as I maneuver past Wyatt and stumble off the bus. Early August sunlight beams against my face, hot and blinding. I consider going back in to find my sunglasses, but then I decide against it. For starters, I don’t want to interrupt their conversation. And secondly, I don’t necessarily want to hear whatever that conversation may be.
Easing down on the bottom bus step, I pull my phone out of my pocket and call Gram. I haven’t spoken to her since Wednesday, and even though I’ll be seeing her at the end of next week when I fly back home for a job I have lined up, I’ve missed her.
When I don’t reach her at home, I try her cell number. She picks up after a few rings, and I can hear the pleasure in her voice. It’s impossible for me not to smile, too. “We were just talking about you this morning! Are you having a good time?”
Since I assume “we” refers to her and my brother, I say, “It’s really different.”
“Not the bad type of different?”
“No, no, it’s good,” I reassure her. “Of course, by the time I get used to it all, the tour will be over.”