The last time I saw her was in the spring, and she was skinny as hell. Now, with a pair of cutoffs hanging from her hips; her tits nearly non-existent beneath a baggy tank top; and her short hair hanging in limp, greasy strands around her face, she looks like she’s aged five goddamn years instead of five months.
Sagging her tiny body back against the foyer wall, she takes in the sight of me, starting at my black Converse and ending at the top of my head.
“You hiding from someone?” she demands. It’s my usual look when I travel, but Sam already knows that. Besides, it didn’t do me much good this time. It was too fucking hot to cover my arms, and the stars on my wrists, which were the result of a bet I lost to Sinjin seven years ago, are now my trademark. “Well, are you?”
“No, not hiding. Not anymore.”
“I told you I’d come to you next week, so why the fuck are you here?” she yells.
“Not happy to see me?” I shove open the front door and let myself into the apartment, which smells like gin and vomit covered up with expensive perfume. Sam doesn’t bother to stop me, but I don’t expect her to. She needs the money too much to try anything stupid.
“As a matter of fact, I’m not. I’m—” And this is where I tune her out and focus instead on all the U-Haul boxes scattered around her living room. Most are open, and their contents are spilling out, giving the impression she’s in a hurry to go somewhere.
“Moving?” I turn to face her, and her gray eyes go wide in surprise. They’re the biggest damn things on her entire body.
“Why do you care?” She stares at a cigarette burn on the oak floor, but I know she’s seething. She’s probably already run through the money I gave her this spring, so I’m not the least bit surprised by what she tells me next. “Yes, I am moving. Downgrading to a smaller place—not that it’s any of your business. I told you I’d come to you—”
“Save me the ‘you’re inconveniencing me’ bullshit. I wanted to get this over with.” Leaning over her coffee table, which is covered with full ashtrays and stacks of mail, I drop the envelope holding the last check she’ll receive from me. It lands on top of a letter from her electric company marked Urgent. She’s not just downgrading to a smaller apartment, she’s evicted from this one. “Saved you a trip.”
Sam shuffles around the coffee table, not once looking at the envelope I brought, until she’s on the opposite side of me. Calmly, she sits down on the edge of the couch and places her forearms on her bony thighs. “Then we’re done,” she says. “I told you this would be it for me and you, and I meant it.”
I take a couple steps back but remain expressionless. I expect her to scream. Or tell me that she’s changed her mind about leaving me alone and that she’ll be around to fuck me over until the day I die. She doesn’t. She just sits there, her gray eyes empty, running her hands over her bruised kneecaps.
“I’m leaving now.”
“Tell Shannon and Dan I said hi,” she hisses. “I’m sure you’re going to see them next and I know how much your parents adore me.”
“Get some help, Samantha, but don’t bother me again.” I make it halfway to the door before she calls out to me, and when I look back at her, I’m already prepared for the deluge—for her to physically come at me.
But she hasn’t moved from her spot on the white leather sofa. “And I’m the bad one.” Her pale lips curve into a grim smile. “I’m the fucked up, heartless bitch.”
“You haven’t made it any easier,” I growl.
“I didn’t hurt anyone, Lucas,” she says. “I only reminded you of what a goddamn coward you are.” Her words pierce right through me like a knife to the gut, but I keep my shit together. I’ve got no other choice if I’m going to get out of this apartment.
When I don’t speak, she continues, “Nobody will ever love you for who you really are . . . because of what you’ve done.”
I force the corner of my lip up. “Fair enough.”
She slides back until her shoulder blades hit the cushions. She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t have a reason to. Sam knows exactly what she needs to say—what she needs to do—to cut me to pieces and remind me of what I am. “Good luck on your fucking tour, Lucas.”
“Bye, Sam.”
She doesn’t say goodbye, but I don’t expect that either.
Sienna
For the next few days, I completely throw myself into my job. Since I moved from Los Angeles back to Nashville at the end of April, I’ve been able to start a name for myself. Keeping that reputation is important to me. I don’t want to go back to being a wardrobe assistant—my time working for Tomas, my former boss, on the set of Echo Falls had been invaluable and a living hell all at once.
By Tuesday night, not only have Lucas and I verbally agreed on two dates when I’ll return home from the tour based on my work assignments, I’ve personally spoken with all my clients to let them know my plans.
I spend the majority of Wednesday with my friend Ashley, who helps me get ready for my flight to Los Angeles the next morning. Ash is a diehard Your Toxic Sequel fan—her off-and-on boyfriend (they’re currently on) plays in a YTS cover group, and she’s seen the actual band in concert a few times. The entire time we pack my bags, she gushes over their live shows and even takes a fifteen-minute break to make a playlist for me on Spotify.
“Their best songs. Ever,” she tells me, her eyebrows nearly touching as she kneels in front of my tidy corner desk, concentrating on her list.
I fold a black tank and place it on a pair of gray jeans that’s already inside of the new Samsonite bag that I bought especially for the tour. I figured I needed something a little more heavy-duty than my old luggage that’s, literally, coming apart at the seams. “Why do I feel like this thing will have all their songs?”
“Not quite all of them.”
When it’s time for her to leave, I shouldn’t be surprised when she reaches into her purse and hands me a typed list titled Ashley’s YTS Bucket List, but I am. Her name has been marked through with a series of X’s and above it, she’s written my name—correction, Sienna-Fucking-Jensen—in her loopy handwriting in a metallic pink Sharpie.
As I scan over the list, I slide down on the porch swing. “Body-shots with Cal backstage. Get Sinjin’s sticks signed. Stroke Wyatt’s Kramer.” Cocking an eyebrow, I glance up at her.
She’s already walked down the porch steps, and she’s standing in the yard with her back turned to me, digging around in her purple Coach bag for her car keys. Since we reconnected several months ago, I’ve learned enough about Ashley to know she’s waiting for more of a reaction from me before she responds.
“I’m assuming that’s a guitar and not a nickname for his cock,” I say dryly.
Sure enough, she spins to look at me with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Right.” She puts her hands on her hips, covering Jared Leto’s face on her Thirty Seconds to Mars T-shirt. “But, I wouldn’t mind stroking his—”
“So, I’m guessing you didn’t give this to me for shits and giggles?”
She shakes her head, her turquoise and pink-colored hair swinging around her face. “Um, no.” She jogs up the steps, crosses the porch, and sits down on the swing beside of me. “I want you to do these for me. Take pics and everything so I can live vicariously through you.”
“Why don’t you be vicarious and come to the show here in September?”
Giving me a long stare, Ashley releases an exasperated noise. “Trust me, I’ll be there, I’ve had my tickets for months. But, think of how much fun you’ll have getting to know the band by doing this.” She gestures dramatically to the paper I’m clutching, reminding me of a cheesy talk show host. “This is a hell of an icebreaker.”