27
Violet
T here’s no rational explanation for my lapse of judgment as I brace my back against the closed bedroom door. I kick my shoes off, then slide down until my butt rests on the fluffy carpet. I toss the tote bag aside, brushing the tips of my fingers back and forth over my swollen lips.
God... what was I thinking ?
You weren’t. That’s the problem. You weren’t thinking about consequences.
Yes. I just felt. And it was glorious. My heart pounds like a drum, not far off bruising my ribcage, every breath I take ragged, shallow, and I’m trembling all over.
So many emotions whirr through me it’s hard to keep track, but one shines brighter than the rest.
Fear. It jams up my mind like a jackknifed truck on a four-lane highway. I’m fucking petrified because I’m so confused.
I lunged at Broadway without a second thought, propelled by an intense need to feel his lips on mine. The second baby rolled off his tongue so effortlessly, the moment he admitted he was jealous... a monumental shift happened inside me and I stopped fighting against the way he makes me feel: safe, cherished, calm.
I’m not sure who moved first. I was in a trance... until I felt his lips on mine and the blood in my veins caught a fever.
I expected it to freeze at his admission. I thought my head would intervene and send me lurching back the second our lips touched. I was certain my instincts, that pessimist side of me, would gain control and force me to retreat, slap him, pound my fists against his chest.
After all, that’s been my go-to reaction to any man in my personal space without warning for months. I’m always coiled tightly, ready to protect myself, even if history shows I wouldn’t stand a chance.
For a while, I threw everything I had in me at the men who raped me with delight in their eyes.
But I’m too small, too weak, too fragile. My fists couldn’t cause any damage. I doubt they even felt the onslaught before they bound my wrists.
Still, I fought.
Until the fight inside me died, along with some other crucial parts.
I was so certain that feeling Broadway’s lips against mine would snap this unexplainable pull I feel toward him that, when fear failed to arrive, I couldn’t understand what the hell was happening. My hands found his shirt and hair, greedy for contact. Desperate to bask in the safety that stole my breath.
God, it was perfect.
He was perfect, holding his hands back, instead of reaching to grab me and control the moment. I was so relieved he respected that boundary I wanted to weep...
Until he pinned me against the wall.
His hands braced the metal on both sides of my head. Not touching me. Our lips continued working together at the breathless tempo I’d initiated, but the power dynamic shifted.
Broadway’s huge. Tall, broad, menacing.
I tried to rationalize, convince myself he wouldn’t hold me against my will, but it was useless. The scared, scarred little girl reared her head and my mind started retreating, quickly gaining speed... the fear almost fucking choked me.
But now he’s not here, not crowding me, I can think rationally. He was close, but he didn’t restrain me. His hands were safely on the elevator wall and the moment I paused, he gave me space.
He didn’t step away, but he didn’t push for more, just waited for me to contain my emotions.
Unfortunately, I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
The fear, that dreadful helplessness, sucked me in faster than I could rationalize. I ran, the traumatized part of me half-expecting him to yank me back and take more than I’m willing to offer.
Don’t offer anything. Run while he’s still pretending to be a decent human being.
God, I wish she’d shut the fuck up already.
Broadway wouldn’t hurt me. He won’t hurt me. He reacts to the smallest clues. He doesn’t need me to spell things out, and sometimes, he’s adjusted himself before I’ve even realized he did something to make me uncomfortable. Sometimes, it feels like he’s in my head, like he can hear my smallest thoughts, those that are barely whispers on the wind, as clearly as those that scream at the forefront of my brain.
My head hits the door and I close my eyes, steadying my breathing. My feet ache after four hours of working the bar, and my lips pulse with the remnants of his sweet kisses.
It takes a while before his footsteps echo through the penthouse, pausing outside my door.
My heart picks up rhythm, every beat echoing in my ears. I hold my breath, waiting for his knock. A part of me wants him to storm in and kiss me again.
Another part hopes he’ll retreat and give me space to organize my thoughts alongside these new revelations.
I barely breathe, waiting for his move, my pulse pounding wildly. The door I rest against is the only thing between us. If he wanted to, he could kick through it and do whatever he pleased.
Finally, he takes a step. It’s hard to judge which direction. Until he takes another, then another, and it’s obvious that he’s walking away.
Instead of my shoulders sagging in relief, the breath I held while he made his decision whooshes past my lips. I’m not relieved. Far from it. My gut twists unpleasantly, and I realize I’m disappointed.
I groan, tired of the emotional turmoil. I can’t keep up with my own fucking head.
With a huff, I pull myself up, cross the room, and grab a change of clothes before tiptoeing toward the bathroom.
Maybe submerging myself in warm water will bring some clarity. Turning the faucet, I sit on the edge of the tub, pouring bubble bath in, when a soft rap resonates against the door.
“Violet... There’s something I need to take care of tonight. I’m going out, but I won’t be long.”
He retreats, not waiting for any reply. Maybe that’s better. I’m not sure what I should say because it almost sounds like he wants me to wait up for him.
Why else tell me he won’t be long?
I stay in the tub for well over an hour, maintaining the temperature with occasional hot water top-ups. When Broadway returns I’m in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, braiding my hair in front of the vanity mirror. The longer Broadway calls me Violet, the more I become her, and I think she might be the kind of girl who takes joy from dying her hair.
My fingers pause when I hear music coming from the living room. It’s not from the speakers... I think he’s playing the piano.
My heart stutters, the melody like a balm to my nerves, and I drift mindlessly toward the sound as if every note he plays is roping me closer.
My braid disentangles as I stop in the living room doorway, taking in the sight of him.
The piano stands in the corner, framed by floor-to-ceiling views across Columbus. Broadway sits on the stool, his fingers grazing the keys with grace. It’s almost odd seeing him like this. So... peaceful.
I know he’s a dangerous man. He exudes a confidence that leaves me in tatters. Everything about him is threatening, menacing, fucking lethal, but as he sits in front of the concert grand piano, playing what I now recognize to be Come as You Are by Nirvana, he shows that softer side I adore.
He’s completely relaxed. Lost in the melody.
I shuffle closer, ignoring the shame heating my cheeks. I’m not sure what I’m more embarrassed about: giving in to my lust by kissing him or giving in to my fear and bolting. I rest my hands on the cool top of the piano.
Broadway doesn’t flinch, but the slight uptick in the corner of his lips tells me he’s pleased I’m here. I lean forward, openly staring at his long fingers skimming the keys.
The same fingers that pulled the trigger time and time again when he saved me from the pandemonium the auction descended into.
The same fingers that gently circled those pressure points on my wrist and nape.
The same fingers that frantically ghosted my cheeks and tangled my hair that one time in Carter’s kitchen.
He looks up, his gaze unreadable as one finger sustains a high, plaintive note and he scoots to the far end of the long stool, making space for me to sit.
I move to the liquor cabinet first, fetching a glass of wine that will hopefully calm my nerves. I don’t want to be jittery around him but it’s hard not to overthink since I threw myself at him then hightailed it away.
Careful not to interrupt, I take a seat beside him, leaning back so his left hand can stretch down to the low keys.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, raising the wine to my lips.
“It’s simple,” he corrects. “I haven’t played in ages. Had to start with the basics to warm up my fingers.” He takes a sip of his neat Bourbon, setting the glass back on top of the piano before morphing the melody into something else. Something more intricate. “How are you feeling?”
Now that’s a loaded question if I ever heard one.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” I admit. “How am I feeling about what?”
“Let’s start with your general well-being.”
“Um... I’m okay, I guess. A little tired.”
He nods, eyes fixated on his fingers dancing over the keys. “Why did you run, Violet?” The question is gentle, almost hesitant, but cuts the atmosphere like a knife.
My heart picks up pace and I look away, sipping the wine to marshal my emotions. “I... I panicked. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” He stops playing and stands, the crashing silence almost deafening.
I watch him cross the room toward the control panel. A different kind of music fills the living room.
Grittier, darker, more sensual.
He sits on the couch, patting the space beside him, eyes on mine. “Come here.”
I hesitate only for a second. The cushion sinks under my weight as I settle down, leaving just enough space between us to feel the heat radiating off him.
“Go on. Talk to me. I want to know what I did wrong, so I don’t make the same mistake again.”
“Again? You want... you want to kiss me again? Even though I ran away and I’m obviously not alright?” I tap the side of my head for impact.
“You’re perfect, Violet. There isn’t a second I don’t want to kiss you, baby, so I need to know exactly what scared you.”
I love his raw honesty.
“You did nothing wrong.” I take a deep breath, angling my body toward him a little more. “It just took me by surprise when you caged me in like that.”
His head hits the back of the couch, and his shoulders lump as he exhales, relief loud and clear. “So it’s not because I kissed you, just my poor execution?”
I chuckle into my wine glass. “Your execution was perfect. I just didn’t expect to be pushed against the wall.”
It sounds so bad. So fucking irrational, but there’s jack shit I can do about the blockades inside my mind. I need to know what’s happening, what’s coming, or else I panic.
“I knew you wouldn’t want my hands on you,” he says. “But I couldn’t trust myself not to touch you without trapping them. I didn’t mean to scare you and I wouldn’t have hurt you.”
“I know you wouldn’t. I trust you, I just... I need to know what’s coming to cope.”
He straightens in his seat, those dark eyes flicking between mine and down to my lips. “Now you’ve let me this close, I want more, Violet. I want you . And I think you want me too, but you also want...” He shakes his head, dismissing his last word. “No, you need control.”