Devoured

Lucas doesn't wait until the evening to get the list of training instructions to me. The email shows up in my inbox rapidly, less than a couple hours after I send Kylie a Facebook message with my email address. Lucas has personally sent it himself, along with a short note that makes my breasts tingles and my nipples harden with excitement.

Miss Jensen,

As promised, I've attached the training instructions. Look over them. Learn them. Don't forget the deal you're making.

Can't say I'm not looking forward to the next several days. I've already got this vivid idea of how you'll taste after you've said the words. How you'll feel when I'm inside of you. Have you imagined it yet?

-Lucas

Without thinking, I reply and ask him if workplace sexual harassment laws apply to being employed by a cocky rockstar.  He responds while I'm opening the training instruction attachment.

Why? Do you feel intimidated by me?

No, not in the way he's referring to. I feel drawn to Lucas. I know for a fact I shouldn't allow myself to give in to my attraction to him because it's one of those things where there's no possibility of a happy ending. Even if we wanted to be together for something more than sex, it's impossible thanks to his career and the steady influx of women he comes in contact with. That's what's so damn intimidating and frightening about him.

I'm shocked to discover that Lucas's "list" is in reality a multiple page Word document that's contains more black writing than empty white space. Sighing, I tote my laptop downstairs, grab a bottle of water and an apple from the kitchen, and set up shop in the family room. I place my computer on the coffee table and open the document. Reading every word carefully, I study the instructions laid out for me. As I read, my skin grows more and more flushed, until it's hot to the touch.

When Lucas said he wants me to submit to him, he wasn't shitting me.

"You will report to me at 8am sharp on Thursday morning. You will live with me in the residence of my choosing for approximately 10 days, which includes but is not limited to my current rental and hotels, etc. during out of town business," I read aloud in a soft whisper. "You will be provided your own room."

My chest clenches up because I realize that I'll have to say a temporary goodbye to Gram. Hello will be so incredible when I return, though, I remind myself, picturing her face when I slide the deed to the house into her hands and tell her she doesn't have to worry about having to move.

"You will consent to carry an electronic tablet for the purpose of note-taking and a cell phone provided to you by myself and reply to any calls or messages in a timely manner. You are not to give this number out to personal acquaintances." A special cell phone and iPad? Just . . . wow. I shake my head incredulously. "While you are in my service, you will awaken no later than 7am unless otherwise discussed."

Further down the page, there's information on my public uniform - all black, either pants or dress, it's my choice along with dark underwear, though I'm not sure why that matters - and private and public protocol. I'm to call him Mr. Wolfe or. . . .

I scroll to the next page and my heart beats a little faster as I whisper, "Sir."

On the final page, the fourth page, the training is broken down into categories and what's expected of me: Physical and Mental and Verbal.

Personal appearance and concentration and speech restriction. Under no circumstances am I to speak to the press or paparazzi, though I've never seen a paparazzo in Nashville and the last thing I want to do is seek them out.

The next category is Punishment and Discipline, but there's not a single instruction to be found beneath the heading save for three words that send a trill of excitement through me: "To be discussed."

"You are so not spanking me, Sir," I murmur.

The two final categories are Sexual Training and Emotional Training. There are strikethroughs through both, but I wish he'd simply removed them from the document all together because they give me thoughts that I'm not quite sure I dislike. Thoughts that make me wet and confused.

As I send Lucas an email, informing him that I've read over the instructions and will follow them to the best of my ability, I realize something that would almost make me giggle if the situation were any different.

On the last Your Toxic Sequel album, the final song on the CD was called "Your Master." I remember the first time I listened to it, on the way to work one morning on a radio station that censored a quarter of the lyrics, and how Lucas's every other word made me fidget in my seat. Now, I can vividly picture Mr. Wolfe going through this list of instructions and changing every reference to himself from "Your Master" to what's currently in front of me.

Because most of what's here in front of me was in that song, leaving me to wonder who the hell he wrote it about in the first place.

I lie to my grandmother about where I'm going.

It's the third time this trip that I've deliberately lied to her, the third time I've let something dealing with Lucas make me be dishonest with the one person I've always been upfront with, and I feel like shit when I do. I convince myself that I'm doing this for her own good, and it's better to let her believe something else entirely than to misinterpret the truth.

I'm taking the same approach with Tori. After I first agreed to go along with Lucas's deal a few hours ago, I immediately picked up the phone to call her. As soon as she picked up, though, I froze. She's been warning me since I arrived in Tennessee to avoid Lucas like the plague and sure enough, one of the first things she asked was if "Shithead" had been in touch again.

I told her he hasn't but made a promise to myself that I'll fill her in on everything that's happened during this trip the moment I step foot off my flight home to California. At least then I'll be able to explain the motives behind my decision face to face instead of over a bad connection.

"And you're sure your boss needs you back already?" Gram asks me, gazing across the narrow trail at me.

I take a few more steps forward so I don't have to meet her stare and let the cold wind slap me in the face before I continue with my story. "Just a little over a week. The other wardrobe girl has gotten ridiculously sick and it's important for me to go back so nobody ends up jobless."

It took me half an hour to come up with a story that made sense and couldn't be easily ripped to shreds if Seth decided to stop being lazy and do some research. Once I had my lie prepared, it had taken me an additional forty-five minutes of practicing in front of my mirror so that I could sound convincing. Once I was prepared, I convinced Gram to take an early evening walk with me.

"That's a shame they don't have someone who's willing to take both your places for a little while."

I rush to reassure her. "It's totally fine, Gram - it's just that wardrobe is such a picky business and my boss is. . .  . Well, he's Tomas. Don't worry about a thing, okay? I'll be back here to help you here before anything else is done to this place."

Mouthing a silent "Ah", she nods her head understandingly. "You do so much for everyone else, Sienna."

I wish she wouldn't say things like that when I'm lying to her face!

"And this is coming from the most selfless person I know," I point out, pulling my bobble cap down further onto my ears to cover how hot they feel.

Gram flushes, the sullen expression she's been wearing for the past couple days slowly giving way to a look that's both shy and pleased. "Do you need me to drive you to the airport in the mor - "

"No!" When her blue eyes expand, I squeeze my hands together and reply in a more collected voice. "It's an early flight so it's probably best I just call a taxi."

"But it's so expensive to call a cab, I really don't mind."

"Don't worry, my boss is totally covering the expenses back," I say. And another lie because I'm totally full of them today. Gram easily accepts each one and as she does, I feel more awful, more helpless, and more doomed.

I pray with all my might that in spite of the fact I'll be working for Lucas Wolfe, rockstar extraordinaire and Asshat, Gram will never find out any of the details surrounding this charade that's less than twenty-four hours from going down.

While my grandmother and I are eating a late dinner - I invited Seth but he called at the last minute to back out - Kylie stops by unannounced. To be honest, I'm grateful for the interruption. I prepared the meal of baked chicken breast and steamed vegetables and I'm the lousiest cook I've ever met.

Kylie comes bearing a gift for Gram, an oversized Valentine's Day edible arrangement, and a bottle of French champagne for me. "Told you my boss gives me free reign with his credit card," Kylie says, flashing a hopeful look that's brimming with apology. I respond with a brisk bob of my head. To Gram, she smiles sweetly and asks, "Do you mind if I speak to Sienna for a few minutes? I swear I won't keep her for too long."

Gram's more interested in the chocolate dipped strawberries, so she shoos us away. I usher Kylie out to the front porch, where she lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply as if it's her very last one and she's expecting the apocalypse at any moment. "I'm giving them up next week - hence, the vacation to New Orleans," she explains, firing up a second one. "You don't even want to know what my friend Heidi's sacrificing this year. Don't judge me."

"Wouldn't think of it."

Kylie slows her roll on the cigarette she's presently smoking, slides one of her palms in the back pocket of her paint-splashed jeans, and says self-consciously, hopefully, "I'm guessing I'm not on your shit list anymore. Or maybe I've been upgraded to your mini-shit list."

"Don't hold grudges for too long," I say. Of course, that's a lie, but I don't feel at all bad about hiding things from Kylie. The truth is, I still hold a grudge against my mom for the things she did to my grandparents and to Seth and me a few years ago, and it probably won't ever be void, even when Lucas hands me the deed to this house. And damn, I still have to have the talk with Gram about her seeing Mom.

When I'm done with Lucas, I promise myself. I'll talk to her when I'm done earning back the house, and if I have to, I'll drive myself to the prison and talk to Mom too.

Or let her talk down to me, which is probably what my mother is waiting for anyway.

I hug myself to keep from trembling at the thought itself. I haven't seen my mom in a long time because of the way she's able to dig her claws into my self-esteem with only a few words. I already know that opening up that corroded relationship again just to try and warn her away from my grandmother is a horrible idea. I mean, I only speak to my dad once or twice a month and he's my normal parent.

"You're worried," Kylie says.

Pushing myself away from the toxic thoughts that have started to rot my mood, I look across the porch at her. She's staring at me attentively as she takes slow drags of her menthol cigarette. "Why do you say that?"

"You're grinding your teeth."

I hadn't even realized I was doing it this time. Running my tongue along the smooth surface of my teeth, I manage a lame, "Oh."

"You're going to ruin them," she says emphatically. "And Lucas will probably make you buy a mouth guard." As soon as the sentence leaves her mouth, her cheeks turn the color of my hair and she polishes off the cigarette in two elongated puffs.

If she hadn't blushed, I wouldn't think anything of what she's said, but now . . . "Why does he want to do it?" I ask, referring to his need to possess me.

Kylie leans against a wooden post, her face drawn together as if she's deep in thought. After a while she says, "I don't question anything he does with his girlfriends or - "

"I'm not his girlfriend; I'll only be his personal assistant." I say. I want to add just like you but even I know that my role is the complete opposite of what Kylie's is.

He's already sworn my role will eventually transcend that of his personal assistant, and that I'll be the one begging for it to happen.

"Yeah, I know. Look, if you're wondering about his vices, ask him about it. Nobody is going to tell you better than Luke himself. Personally, Lucas's personal life is one of those squick things for me. I'm sure you understand."

I think of digging through Seth's center console and I find myself wrinkling my nose and bobbing my head back and forth. "So why'd you come here tonight?" I ask, suddenly desperate to change the subject.

"A few reasons, actually. First, I wanted to wish you good luck and tell you I'm so glad you're doing this. Every time you think of quitting . . . just think of how happy you'll make her." She pauses for a moment, either for dramatic effect or to give me time to sort out what she's said or perhaps both. I don't want to process her words because then all I'll be able to do is stress over why she's warning me already not to give up on the job.

"Second, I wanted to tell you to watch out for the band. Because you will meet them. And they will act like man-sluts. I don't give a shit what any of them tell you, if they make you feel weird or uncomfortable, send me a message."

And now Kylie's succeeded in making me feel like I'm going on my first date and my mom is telling me not to let the horny boy touch my boobs. Wonderful. I give her a smile that I just know looks lopsided and awkward.

"But most of all I came to give you this" She slides a stiff white card with an address written on it in loopy handwriting into my hand. I wasn't even aware anyone still used cursive. "So you can know where to go tomorrow. And so I could apologize in person for last night." She motions her chin toward the house. "And I brought you a peace offering, though I'm sure your grandma is in there getting sloshed right now. That champagne is that good. Hell, I buy it for my parents and they're youth ministers."

Lucas and Kylie's folks. Ministers. Wow.

"Courtesy of your expense account?" I tease, trying to hide my disbelief at what she's just told me. She nods, grinning. "And let me guess, the trip to New Orleans is a company-paid vacation."

"Oh hell yes."

I find myself laughing right along with Kylie, the ministers' daughter, and Lucas's younger sister - the same blue-haired woman who deceived me last night all for the sake of helping him obtain what he wants. I can't hold a grudge against her.

Lucas is just . . . a force that not many people can reckon with, least of all either of us.

"Well, thanks. For, you know, making me feel like an eighth grader. And for the offering, of course." This time, I mean it. I fully intend on getting a little sloshed myself on the champagne she brought me.

Because starting to tomorrow, while Mr. Wolfe is taking pleasure in training me as his assistant, I will begin counting down the days until the deed is in my hands.