“What about the music? What would you say had the biggest impact on your sound growing up?” the documentary guy presses.
Lucas looks deep in thought, though I have a feeling he’s just pretending. These questions have more than likely been asked by hundreds of reporters in more scenarios than he can count. “My dad. He was a huge Metallica fan. I—uh—may have been in a Metallica cover band with Sinjin and Wyatt once upon a time ago.”
Metallica. I c**k my eyebrow at him and he gives me a shrug and a grin.
The limousine slows down to the crawl necessary for residential communities. When we stop, pulling to the curb of a brown and white bungalow, a woman who looks like a pint sized version of Kylie comes out onto the porch, smiling brightly.
By the way she hugs Lucas, pulling him fiercely to her and burying her face into his chest she’s either been prepped by the documentary creator as well or Lucas goes home just about as much as I do. I’m leaning towards the second and wondering what kind of past he has here. By the obvious affection he has for his mom and the adoration he showed when talking about his dad in the limo, I don’t think he feels anything other than love towards his parents.
“Where’s Kylie?” she asks as I take off my beanie and sunglasses and take a seat in their cramped sitting room on the piano bench. “Is she at the hotel?”
“She had an emergency trip to take care of in California,” Lucas explains easily. He winks at me. “Don’t worry, Ma, she’ll be here for Easter.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. His Georgian accent seems to magically appear when he’s with his mom. Plus, I think it’s sexy as hell that he’s almost 29 but respects his mother enough not to tell her his sister is partying in New Orleans.
Mrs. Wolfe is just as kind and charming as Kylie, speaking to the camera with a natural ease as she boasts about her kids. Lucas’s dad shows up halfway into the filming. He’s got on a sweaty golf shirt, but he hugs me when I introduce myself as Kylie’s temporary replacement.
“She didn’t send any of that champagne, did she?” he teases, and I force a grin.
The mood in the Wolfe’s home is happy, easygoing, but I find myself withdrawing. I have to remind myself that I have Gram, that my grandparents were just as wonderful as anyone else’s parents, as I witness Lucas interacting with his folks.
Somehow, I manage to keep the feeling of jealousy at bay.
When we leave, both Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe give me a hug goodbye and embrace Lucas. “Before I forget,” his mom says, stopping him before he gets into the limousine. “Sam’s been trying to get in touch with you. Said it was—”
“Already taken care of,” Lucas tells her, his voice tight, rude. His face is drawn into a harsh frown as he hugs his mom one last time. Whoever Sam is, I bet money he’s one of those things keeping Lucas from coming to Atlanta regularly.
Sam is Lucas’s version of my Rebecca.
†
When we ditch the camera crew and I have Lucas all to myself in the limo, he tells me to come into his lap. I climb across the seats a little too eagerly, sliding my bottom down on top of him. He splays his hands out on either side of it and bounces me up and down, grinning at how I squirm in agony.
“I want you doing that over my face later,” he whispers as he squeezes my bottom.
“How much later?”
“Lunch with Cilla won’t take long and then we’ll—”
I freeze as soon as he says we’re having lunch with Cilla, the rest of his words drowning and suddenly becoming a warbled mess. Pulling away from him, I hug my arms around my stomach. “I didn’t know Cilla Craig was in Atlanta.” Despite all my best efforts to control myself, there’s a hint of wariness in my voice.
He opens my arms, spinning me around so that my back is to him. Positioning my arms behind his neck, he caresses my br**sts, flutters his fingers softly against my ni**les and then twists them just enough to send vibrations through me. “That’s what we’re here for,” he says between strokes, between kisses on my neck. “Besides the documentary, the only other reason I came to Atlanta is for Cilla’s birthday party tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I say.
He doesn’t seem to notice how angry I am by the time we arrive at the restaurant, or how my hand goes slack in his as he guides me inside. I almost want to retract my invitation to let him touch me even though I know doing so would be silly and a waste of time—he would simply refuse to stop.
Though I’m hoping that Cilla’s beauty is a product of Photoshop and M.A.C, she turns out to be just as stunning as she is on all the magazine covers and music videos. Lucas introduces me as Kylie’s temp, and she nods at me, giving me a hint of a smile. Cilla’s got this husky, sexy voice that turns heads when she laughs and she orders Bud Light and a messy cheeseburger.
Cilla doesn’t say much to me—she’s mostly focused on Lucas—but at one point, she tosses her mane of black hair over one shoulder and stares me down. “So, Pepper, how’d you get caught up with Luke?” she asks. “Because I didn’t even know Kylie knew what a vacation was. That kid works way too much.”
Lucas answers for me. “Sienna worked on the set of one of my music videos a few years ago. She does wardrobe in L.A.”
“Fun,” Cilla says, though she doesn’t look like she means it and I’m glad I never had to work on a Wicked Lambs music video.
The rest of lunch seems to drag by uncomfortably. Each second I spend watching Cilla and Lucas catch up is difficult. Finally, I excuse myself. I linger in the restroom longer than appropriate before going out to face them again. When I reach the table, Lucas is paying the check.