15
Violet
B roadway’s been sitting outside Carter’s house every single night for seventeen days.
The first time I heard his car pull up in the small hours I was on the verge of a panic attack. I’m not even sure where I found the courage to look out the window, but the fear dissipated as soon as I spotted Broadway’s G Wagon.
He usually comes after midnight and stays in his car until the early-morning hours. I don’t know why and I don’t ask because, that way, I can pretend he’s here for me.
Having him close is comforting to say the least. I noticed lately that my days consist of waiting .
Waiting for him to stop by during the day.
Waiting for him to show up at night.
Waiting for those dark penetrating eyes to find mine, and waiting for the sedative effect his proximity has on me.
Waiting for another disaster.
I tap my forehead against the wardrobe, harder than intended, to quiet that negative voice.
When Broadway’s here at night, he never exits the car, just sits behind the wheel. It’s too dark to see whether he’s sleeping or watching the perimeter, but even the outline of his Merc gives me reassurance.
A small smile tugs my lips when the faint sound of his car breaches the house. I grab a random book from the shelf, making myself comfortable on the windowsill. I don’t really read, merely stare at the pages, willing my eyes to concentrate on the words rather than the G Wagon.
The car comes to a halt, the engine dies, and the only thing illuminating the inside is the large touchscreen.
I can’t see Broadway’s face, but I make out his bulky silhouette adjusting the seat, and the back of his head hitting the headrest. I flip a page, skimming the words and not comprehending a single one.
Everything inside me tingles whenever I steal a glance at the car and imagine what music Broadway’s listening to. The house is so quiet I can hear my heartrate speeding up. I’ve been gearing up the courage to head outside and join him since day one, but fear holds me back.
I know Broadway’s not like Carter.
Despite the similar auras of importance and ruthlessness droning around them, Broadway doesn’t make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Well... that’s not true. He does, but it’s pleasant. Whenever he comes over, my anxiety dissipates. I’m weightless when our eyes lock. Warm inside when the scent of his cologne breaches the living room. Calm when he gets close.
He hasn’t invaded my personal space since he noticed me jerking back a few times. Still, he gets much closer than Koby or Ryder. Much closer than Carter who, by far, makes me the most uncomfortable.
I know he won’t hurt me, but he’s far from amenable, always firmly in control, always sharp, and menacing. He makes me feel like an unruly child with one look.
I don’t like being around him without his men. Koby and Ryder diffuse tension perfectly, and while they’re in the background, Carter’s less... scary.
And Broadway... he makes me feel at ease. Whenever he’s around, that invisible hand squeezing my throat loosens its hold. It’s bizarre because he’s hot on Carter’s heels in terms of that foreboding aura, but there’s something softer about him that draws me in.
Run. This is fucking careless! Men can’t be trusted.
I glance out onto the driveway again, shaking off that blast of pessimism, and a sudden pang of bravery propels me forward.
Slapping the book closed, I drop it on the bed on my way out of the bedroom. I don’t hesitate long enough to invent a counterargument.
Instead, I almost fly down the stairs, reaching the main door before my brain can turn me back around. The lock clicks under my fingers, the handle gives way, and the cool breeze engulfs me as I step outside the silent house.
“What are you doing?” the guard—Carson, I think—asks, making me jump. “Get back inside.”
He blocks my way, looking me over in slow motion. The hand around my neck tightens when I realize all I’m wearing is a two-piece silk pajama set.
The shorts barely cover my ass.
Words die on my tongue, anxiety resurfacing.
“Get inside,” Carson repeats, taking a step closer, too close. There’s less than a foot between us. His breath fans the top of my head, his aftershave irritates my nose, and his tall frame makes me feel like prey.
“Three steps back, Carson.” A clunk from a car door soundtracks Broadway’s voice cutting through the cold night.
I can’t see him. The guard’s blocking my line of sight, but I hear Broadway’s heavy, rhythmical steps; they’re enough to dial down my rising panic.
Rationally, I know Carson won’t hurt me. He’s here to protect me, after all, but I’m ten times more confident now Broadway’s approaching.
“Boss, she shouldn’t—”
“Move the fuck away from her before I move you,” Broadway snaps, his tone like a venomous promise of pain.
Carson must realize he’s seconds away from losing a few teeth because he stumbles back. Broadway takes his place. Not as close, but close enough I can smell him.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
I lift my chin higher, injecting confidence into my stance and words. “No, nothing wrong. It’s just that... you don’t seem to sleep and neither do I, so I thought we could maybe be tired together...?”
He allows himself a cursory glance down my body, frowning as he takes me in. “Wait here.”
Why dies on my tongue when he saunters back behind the wheel of his car. He starts the engine and whips the Merc around, stopping less than three feet away from me. He leans over the middle console, pushing the passenger door open right next to me.
“Get in,” he says.
A genuine smile blooms across my lips as I take a seat. “I could’ve walked.”
“You’re barefoot, Violet.”
I tuck my hands under my knees, gripping the leather seat, and brace for another influx of unwanted flashbacks. Any time I’ve been in a car the past six months, it was delivering me to either an auction or a winner.
I was unconscious when Broadway and Koby brought me to Columbus. Now, I’m fully awake and alert, but my anxiety lurks just beneath the surface.
A small smile twists my lips.
Seems Broadway’s incapable of triggering my negative reactions. It’s bizarre how calm I am around him given I barely know the man.
Then again, I’ve been reliving that moment when he gathered me off the ground outside the auction house time and time again. I was barely aware of my surroundings; electric shocks were frying my brain, but I felt him .
I smelled him, heard his voice, the fear in his tone, the worry in his eyes... Whenever I think about that moment, pleasant heat pools behind my ribs.
Taking another peek at me, Broadway shimmies out of his gray pullover. The fabric drifts up, taking the t-shirt underneath with it. The six-pack rippling down his abdomen comes into view first, quickly followed by his hard, inked pecs. My mouth turns dry, heart picking up pace.
The pang of fear I expect doesn’t come. Instead, my cheeks catch fire. Blood grows warmer. Breath stutters in my lungs.
You’re fucking asking for it now. Stop. Run. Get out!
I swallow a lungful of air, mortified by the last ten seconds. While I don’t feel like running, that negative voice is right. I’m asking for trouble, hurt, and pain.
Unaware of the mayhem his show’s stirred inside my head, Broadway adjusts his t-shirt over the view.
“Put it on.” He drops the heavenly-smelling pullover in my lap. “And buckle up. We’re going for a ride.”
“A ride?” My head pokes through the neckline, the smell of Broadway encompassing me like the softest blanket. “Where?”
“You’ll see. Are you good with me?”
My eyebrows pinch in the middle. “Good with you?”
“Do you always answer a question with another question?” He puts the car in gear and we cruise down the driveway. “I’m asking if you’re comfortable with me. I’d like you to trust me, but—”
“Yes, I’m good. And I do trust you.”
Stupid. Reckless. Men can’t be trusted. They’re all the same!
If that were true, women would’ve found a way to synthesize sperm and reproduce without them by now. Arguing with myself all the time is tiring, but having to rationalize these negative hyperboles helps me work through my issues.
Surprise flickers in Broadway’s dark eyes before he nods once, visibly pleased. “Good. You should, Violet. You’re perfectly safe with me.”
I feel perfectly safe. I have no reason not to trust him. “You do know that’s not my name, right?”
Flicking the indicator, he turns left at the end of Carter’s driveway and accelerates down an empty street.
“Yeah, I know. Unless you don’t like Violet —”
“I do. I... um... I don’t like my real name anymore.”
“Why?”
I shouldn’t have admitted that.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip while I search for the right words to cushion the blow. I walked right into this one and there’s no easy way around the topic. “Every time I hear it, I hear them .”
Every time I look in the mirror and see the remnants of violet in my hair, I’m reminded of the girl they touched. I haven’t dyed it since I came to live with Carter and Hailey. The color’s almost gone, but its absence brings no relief.
I thought I wanted to leave it behind every bit as much as I do Viera , but when Broadway calls me Violet , I love it. It feels special, like he’s acknowledging part of my identity that should exist despite the nightmare. A part of my identity that brought me so much joy before it.
His hands tighten around the steering wheel, jaw clenching, a muscle ticking below his ear.
I shouldn’t, but I find comfort in how affected he is by everything I went through.
He flexes his fingers, pushing a long breath down his nose. “Give me your hand, Violet.”
His already waits, palm up, on the leather armrest between us. My mind’s immediately hijacked by the memory of his arms around me, the whisper of his breath against my cheek, the warmth radiating off his toned chest...
No. Bad idea. He’ll squeeze until it bruises. It’ll hurt.
I swallow hard, hesitating. Broadway’s given me no reason to think he’d hurt me, but I don’t remember any pleasant touches—
Don’t do it.
—except when he held me. His touch was pleasant. Grounding.
I hold my breath, taking a leap of faith as I reach out, placing my palm in his. His warm fingers cinch my wrist, sending a tingle down my spine when his thumb starts circling a soft spot. The pressure is divine, my mind going all fuzzy within seconds.
“For months I’ve thought about myself as two different people in one body.” I smile, looking out the window. The streets are growing busier the closer to the city center we get. “One of them is and will always be a mess, beyond repair. She’s always negative. A born pessimist. The other is determined. She believes things will get better. She dares to dream, dares to believe the worst is over.”
Broadway increases the pressure in that sweet spot, glancing at me every few seconds, letting me know he’s listening.
“When you first called me Violet , it was as if something clicked. I know it’s stupid. I know it’s just a coping mechanism—”
“If it’s working, it isn’t stupid,” he cuts in gently.
“I guess... Tom said lots of people cope and move on by creating an alternate version of themselves, pushing the trauma out of their mind by executing the person it happened to.”
“Have you executed her?” Broadway slows down, navigating a particularly crowded street.
“I’m working on it,” I admit. “What day is it?”
“Friday.” He glances at the dashboard where the time on the touchscreen shows half past midnight. “Well, technically, it’s already Saturday.”
That explains why the city’s still alive and buzzing. Neon billboards shine in different colors over entrances to bars, clubs, and restaurants, music spills onto pavements, people shout and laugh...
The engine purrs beneath me while Broadway’s pullover hugs my frame like the warmest blanket. If someone could bottle up the feel of his thumb drawing those lazy circles on my wrist, it’d make the world’s most potent sedative.
It’s all so comforting my eyes grow heavy.
Another flick of the indicator and Broadway turns into a drive-thru, his hand never leaving mine while he orders two coffees, then takes us back on the road.
Soon, the lights and noise are just a distant memory. The scenery outside grows darker and eventually the buildings peter out. It takes twenty minutes before Broadway slows, turning down a narrow, beaten path that can barely accommodate his G Wagon.
It’s pitch-black outside, not a soul in sight, not one building, just trees lining the road. The moon hanging above and the headlights are the only sources of light.
My lips part but the question at the tip of my tongue falls off, unvoiced, when I notice something shining from the darkness.
A huge lake stretches before us, reflecting the moonlight like a giant mirror. Broadway stops the car, kills the engine and—unfortunately—lets go of my hand to pass me a cup. The music keeps playing, some rock song I don’t recognize.
The driver’s side window glides down, letting the fresh, damp air inside as Broadway reaches into the glove box for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
“How do you do it?” I ask, pressing into my wrist where he was circling but not getting the same results. “I go limp when you press here, but it doesn’t work when I try.”
Catching the cigarette between his lips, he reaches out, but freezes before we connect. “May I?”
A ball of heat materializes in my lower belly, relief flooding me like cleansing water. If only he knew how much it means that he asked .
I nod, watching as he takes my hands, places my right thumb in the crease of my left wrist, and covers it with his.
“Feel that?” he asks, drawing small circles.
“What exactly?”
“The dimple, like a hollow point.” He circles the spot again and I follow. “Yeah, right there, but not so hard.”
His hands fall away, and he takes the cigarette between two fingers, exhaling the smoke.
I let out a frustrated groan, grabbing my coffee. “You do it better. Where did you learn that?”
“My mother was fixated on acupressure points and used me as her guinea pig.” He shrugs, throwing his cigarette butt out the window. “I picked up a few tricks over the years. Sit back and close your eyes.” He angles his body, leaning over the middle console.
I do as instructed, clutching the warm takeout cup with both hands. The first thing that hits me once my eyes close is his cologne. It’s somehow more powerful in the darkness behind my eyelids.
“I’ll show you another one,” he says in a low voice. “On your forehead.” He motions to my head. “Can I?”
I give another nod, this time accompanied by a smile. “Thank you for asking.”
“You don’t flinch away when I do.” The tone of his voice tells me he hates when I do that.
His warm hand cups my left cheek and his thumb presses between my eyebrows. “According to traditional Chinese medicine there are over two thousand acupressure points on the body. I know about a hundred, and at least twelve help you relax. Wrist, forehead, neck...” He inhales a shaky breath, and pulls his hand away again.
Neck... that’s what he touched right after he picked me up outside the auction house. I distinctly remember how soothing it was while the aftermath of the electricity coursed through my system, making my limbs involuntarily twitch and head loll side to side.
He had his fingers in my hair, applying gentle pressure at my nape while rubbing tight little circles. That touch focused my mind while I emerged from shock, pain, and haziness.
I was so out of it I couldn’t move away from him even if I wanted... I should’ve wanted to, but the truth is I didn’t.
“The one on the neck,” I say, watching as he lifts his coffee to those full lips. “You pressed it after the collar activated, didn’t you?” My fingers find the spot but my touch isn’t half as skilled as Broadway’s.
“It helps relax the muscles, and you were so stiff...” He clears his throat, shaking his head as if chasing the memory away, and reaches for another cigarette. “Since we both don’t really sleep, I’ll make you a deal.”
Reaching for the cigarettes again, he lights another, getting more comfortable in the seat that can barely accommodate him. There’s something sinfully pleasant in the way he smokes, his cheeks puffing right before he exhales, the cloud of gray filtering out the window.
“Instead of spending your nights reading,” he says, weighing every word. “We’ll go for a drive and I’ll teach you where those points are and how to push your own buttons.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
I’d come out with him even if he didn’t offer to show me the magical little switches. His presence alone is enough. For the first time in months, I don’t feel like I’m somehow drowning despite my head remaining firmly above the water.
This will end in disaster. He’s like every other man, just better at pretending. Don’t fall for it. Trust no one. Ever.
A cold lead weight settles in my gut. What if the pessimist is right?