“It was alright, I guess. I mean, it’s a fucking documentary about music. I don’t really know why they wanted to talk to Mom and Dad, but I guess they were happy to see me.”
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. Compared to Wyatt, who rarely mentions his childhood or his parents, Lucas and I are fortunate. I didn’t realize that for years because I had spent so long feeling like I was the kid my parents never wanted. I’d forced myself to believe that until I made myself physically sick.
But I’m lucky.
And I haven’t smothered myself with that type of poison for a long time.
I clear my throat a few times, hoping it will relieve the tightness in the back of my mouth. “I’m so glad it went okay.”
“Remind me why you wanted to let a film crew follow me around again,” Lucas complains.
I can easily imagine the look on his face right now, with his jaw clenched 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’s being featured in, 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 plucked 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 fuck 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 has 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 snorts. “Yes, I told them both exactly what you asked me to.”
“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. Either way, he changes the subject, transitioning easily to my vacation in New Orleans. “How was your flight back to L.A.?”
“God, do you ever 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 nonexistent.” 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, Kylie. What’s going on?”
I toss the makeup onto the dresser and begin to pin my chin-length hair back from my face. “Some asshole robbed our room last night and stole my license and credit cards.”
“Fuck,” he growls. Lucas surprises me then. Instead of immediately jumping down my throat and making 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’m fine,” I reassure him. “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 fuck are you doing to get home? Do I need to send someone out there to get you? Do you need money to—”
“Calm down, okay? I’ve got everything … under control,” I say. I’m grinning like an idiot as I dab concealer beneath my eyes. Lucas has his moments when I want to strangle him, but times like this remind me that he actually has a heart beneath his many layers of vice and all 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 when people are too quiet, and because I’m sure he’s imagining me hitchhiking from New Orleans to L.A., with bearded men who call me Little Girl, I give in and tell him who I’m with. “Cal and Wyatt are bringing me home.”
There’s more silence on Lucas’s end because, apparently, his band mates are no better than random men.
“You called them to come and get you?”
“No,” I reply calmly. “They were already planning to drive from New Orleans to L.A.”
“What the fuck for?”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip as my brow pulls together. Lucas doesn’t know about Wyatt’s deal to go on the road with Cal’s cousin. Suddenly, this entire arrangement just screams shadiness. Even though I was not 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, too?”
“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 robbed you and break his fucking legs. And two, I’m going to call Wyatt.”
I grip the handle of my mascara, and when I stare at my reflection in the dresser mirror, I realize that I’m holding it like a weapon. My brother nudging his way into my personal life tends to bring out that type of response from me. “I don’t need you to baby me, Lucas. I can take care of myself.”
“Oh, I know you can, but it still won’t stop me from calling him,” my brother 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 meanings 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, as if he’s contemplating exactly what to say next. Exasperated, 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 to do is poke myself in the eye.
“I think he’s going to be alright this time.”
“You said that the last time.” And we argued about it that time. In fact, Lucas was so moody about me confronting him and acting like he didn’t care enough that he handled all his business transactions himself for a week before finally caving and apologizing to me.
“Yeah, well, I think this is it. He scared himself.”
Lucas leaves it at that, but I understand what he’s saying.
Even before Wyatt confronted me about the cutting eight years ago, I was determined to stop. I was afraid of where my mission to cope with all my shortcomings—no, what I felt were my shortcomings—through little slices of pain would take me. I knew that I was messed up, and more than anything, I wanted to fix myself. But even determination has boundaries, and I’m still thankful that Wyatt McCrae caught me before I could break through those.
Heidi pokes her head out of the bathroom door. “Hey, ask him if he knows Sin’s address.” Once again, she disappears, and the soft roar of the hotel’s blow dryer kicks in.
Lucas doesn’t have the exact address, but he tells me the name of the rehab, Melody’s House, which I jot down using a blue eyeliner pencil and the back of a flyer advertising a local pizzeria. Then, he says he needs to go help Sienna arrange an appointment for tomorrow morning. Considering it’s close to ten in Atlanta, it’s, without a doubt, the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard.
“Have fun with that,” I state dryly. I start to ask him how things are going with her just to see if he’ll give me a straight answer, but then I decide against it. He’s anxious to get back to Sienna, and that tells me he’s getting his way.
I just hope he doesn’t treat her like crap, and drive her away again, like he had two years ago.
Lucas ends the call on a positive note. His “I love you” makes my head suddenly start spinning. I sink down on the edge of my bed, tapping my fingers together anxiously, until Heidi comes out of the bathroom and calls me out.
“Kylie?”
I lift my gaze to her. She’s managed to coax her curly hair straight, and she’s dressed simply, wearing dark jeans and a red silk bustier that my boobs could never pull off. She’s also frowning at me.
“Why are you staring at a blank TV screen?”
“My brother just said he loves me.”
She shrugs, undaunted. Heidi has four brothers and a very close-knit family, so I love you was a common phrase in her house when she was growing up. Don’t get me wrong. My mom and dad are quick to tell me that. But Lucas? Not so much.