16
Broadway
T he first thing I did the morning after my drive with Violet was tell everyone to stop calling her Viera .
I’m not a psychologist. I have no idea if her way of coping is correct. I also have no idea if she was being honest with me, if she really trusts me or she’s only saying things I want to hear, but I can’t control that. All I can do is support her any way I can.
Everyone deals with their issues differently. If leaving Viera behind is how Violet copes, then I’m on board.
Especially since, according to Tom, it’s helping.
He called me on Wednesday. Violet mentioned the name of one of the men who bought her so, as per our agreement, he passed it on to me. During their session she explained how relieved she was that everyone stopped calling her by her given name and how well she’s been doing since.
Looks like it was a constant reminder of what she’s been through, keeping her in the past and not allowing her any breathing room.
Every night since, we’ve spent a couple of hours by the lake. We talk. We sit in comfortable silence. She tells me about her day, the therapy, her—idiotic—idea to start working at Scarlett . I talk her out of it because she shouldn’t prioritize employment over her well-being.
I tell her about my days, leaving the gore out, and ask too many questions about what she likes. I’m learning more about her than I’ve learned about any other woman in my life. Including my long-term girlfriend of nine months when I was a snotty teen. We didn’t do much talking... both young, pumped up on hormones, and so horny we fucked multiple times a day.
Mine and Violet’s deal was quickly forgotten. She’s a lousy student and glossed over everything I told her about pressure points, constantly complaining she couldn’t do it.
And somehow, fuck knows how, we settled into a different routine than planned: we talk, and I play the role of acupressure master.
At first, I only touched her wrist, remembering how she tensed when my thumb circled her forehead.
It was barely perceptible, though enough to tell me she’s not yet comfortable with that particular touch. But a couple of days ago, she asked me to show her the pressure points on the base of her skull... and didn’t flinch.
Needless to say, we both forgot about her wrist and focused on her neck.
I almost had a fucking stroke last night when her skin broke out in goosebumps.
We were so close, so fucking close. All it would’ve taken was a small shift in position and I could’ve tasted her. I could’ve closed her sweet lips with mine to sate the hunger that’s been growing day by day.
I want her.
It’s that simple. I want all of her. Every inch and every touch she’s willing to give...
I twitched toward her last night, carried by instinct, then yanked myself back when our noses brushed. It isn’t my decision to make.
I’d give up everything for one kiss, but Violet needs to make that move. She needs to be ready for that step.
There were too many men in her life who took without asking, without allowing her a choice.
That will never be me.
She’ll take that step at some point. Those goosebumps in the crook of her neck prove she wants me... even if she doesn’t know it yet.
Even now, standing in the middle of Rhett Willard’s old empty warehouse, used for years as his torture chamber, a pleasant heat swells behind my ribs at the thought.
Given there’s a half-dead man strapped to what resembles a torture chair that Carter borrowed from Lakeside, my head shouldn’t be preoccupied with Violet’s goosebumped porcelain skin.
It should be in the here and now, focused, because panting and whimpering before me is one of the nine fuckers who bought and hurt Violet.
Henry Maddox, an enforcer working for some small, ridiculously named—Heaven’s Demons MC—motorcycle gang in Pennsylvania. There are no fucking demons in heaven, but what do I know about naming a gang?
It doesn’t matter what they’re called, or what Henry does. It only matters that he’s a clown fish in this world and that he laid his filthy hands on Violet.
Carter approved this little show last night. Ryder located him, and Koby—all too happily—helped me grab and drag him over here today, then left me alone with my plaything for a couple of hours while he carried out Carter’s daily orders.
The sound of Koby’s car pulling up outside reverberates through the building. With a cigarette between my lips, I wipe the blood off my hands, rinsing my scraped knuckles. My left pinky’s dislocated, but one sharp tug pops it back in place.
Henry whimpers, rousing from a non-consensual nap my fists provided ten minutes ago. Both his eyes are black and swollen: a prize for thinking that only buying Violet once counts as mitigating circumstances.
Both his cheekbones cracked after he whined that he didn’t bid on another auction because fucking her wasn’t anything special.
Call me crazy, but I don’t believe him.
Both his lips are split in several places and teeth litter the floor beneath his feet... there’s no meaningful reason for those injuries. I simply enjoyed it when he started crying. There’s something about his tears that lifts my mood.
I didn’t plan this session to run so long, but A: Koby threatened never to help me again if I killed Henry before he got back, and B: Watching Henry bleed, plead, and shit his pants is the most fun I’ve had in months.
Letting the bloodthirsty beast come out to play without a lick of restraint has helped me exorcise an ounce of the unrelenting unease whipping me into a frenzy.
Unease caused by knowing eight out of the nine men who raped Violet are breathing, walking, talking... still alive while they should be six feet under.
It’ll be seven soon. Then six, five, four... I won’t stop until they’re all dead.
“Oh fucking hell,” Koby snaps, wrinkling his nose as he enters through the personnel door. “It stinks of shit and piss in here. Open a window, why don’t you?”
“He’s a screamer.”
“Gag him.” He approaches the metal table by the wall, comically outraged. “Why’s everything clean? I bought you a gift and you didn’t use it?”
A chuckle falls from my lips. Koby took it upon himself to cover the table with what he considers the right tools for this job. Steak, cheese, and butcher knives aplenty.
I think he misses the daily cooking in the safe house days.
“As thoughtful as the gift was, I prefer these.” I wave both fists in the air.
Koby just rolls his eyes. I guess Hailey’s rubbing off on us all. Pushing his gifts aside, he makes room on the cold metal surface from where he’ll observe Henry’s last moments. His fingers drum against the edge, betraying how much he wants to help.
“Go on then,” he encourages. “Get to work. Show me how fucking besotted you are with this girl.”
“ Besotted ? You fucked that British girl again, didn’t you?” I take one last drag of my cigarette, tossing the butt into an ashtray—another one of Koby’s gifts. “Catching feelings?”
“She is, yeah. I’m just taking advantage. She’s flying home tomorrow and called earlier, begging for a goodbye-fuck.”
Henry starts sputtering, probably trying to contort his swollen tongue, lips, and face into another heartfelt apology. I shut him up with my right hook, my adrenaline levels spiking when his head jerks left.
“Who are you to say no , right?” I ask over my shoulder, catching Koby grinning from ear to ear.
“What can I say? She’s smoking hot.”
“And besotted . Paint the scene for me.” I wind my elbow back then send it sailing toward Henry’s face. A rhythm emerges quickly: left hook, right hook, blood-coughing break. Left hook, right hook—“There’s no way she said besotted , and you didn’t fucking laugh.”
“Oh I laughed. Kind of.” Left hook . “But I blew my load at the exact same time...” Right hook . “So it sounded like the howling bark of a wounded wolf.”
“Too much information.”
Left hook.
“You said paint the scene !”
“Not with your cum, Koby.”
Right hook.
Another tooth falls out and Henry yelps, blood and spit flying from his mouth. He struggles against the leather straps binding his wrists and ankles, wheezing something incomprehensible under his labored breath.
Ah, that’s right. I broke his ribs when I flung him out of the trunk. Forgot about that... my bad.
“How much longer, Broadway?” Koby drawls in a bored tone, toying with a ten-inch blade. “Can I at least stab him a few times? You’re sculpting in shit at this point.”
“I want a few more teeth,” I reply, targeting Henry’s jaw.
“Are yours not any good?”
I laugh, pausing the assault. “I’m short on dollar bills.”
“I hate to break it to you, man, but tooth fairies aren’t real. Seriously, what do you need his teeth for?”
I spin around, wiping the sweat beading at my hairline with the back of my bloodied hand. “I have a plan.”
“I figured that much,” he huffs. “He touched Violet, so you want him to suffer, I get it, but—”
“He raped my girl. I’d say I’ve been uncharacteristically kind to our guest thus far, don’t you?”
A shadow of a smirk crosses his lips, his eyebrows bouncing. “ Your girl?”
Fuck.
That was unintentional. Violet’s not mine. I have no claim over her, but I call her mine inside my head because... one day she will be. It doesn’t matter how long it takes.
I have all the time in the world.
My jaw hardens and fists clench as I spin back toward Henry, hammering his face with newfound anger.
“You didn’t mean to let that slip, did you?” Koby chuckles, jumping off the table. “Relax, Captain Obvious. I could tell you were into her when you dropped to your knees outside the auction house.” He comes closer, eyeing the masterpiece of carnage before him, ten-inch blade still in hand. “Just promise you won’t act as bat-shit crazy as Carter. We don’t need two unhinged bastards .”
“I’m about to feed this toothless asshole his own fucking dick, Koby.” I roll my sleeves past my elbows. “Unhinged doesn’t begin to cover it.”