Chapter 8
“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” REAGAN’S voice cracks as she yanks me into a vice-like grip on my shoulders.
“Yes. Please don’t tell Travis. I have to sort this out myself.”
Her eyes go wide. “Are you in danger?”
“No, but Jeremy’s back for revenge, and he’s playing it smart. If he lays a hand on me, he’ll end up in jail. But if he manages to win this, I could go away for a really long time.”
Reagan’s lips press into a thin line. “I hate this, Vi. You need to talk to someone.”
I swallow the knot of dread tightening in my chest. “I know, and I will, I just can’t do it tonight. Tonight is about Travis, and we’re here to have fun.”
She nods, then breaks out into a smile, as if clinging to any spark of brightness. “I do love this limo.”
I manage a shaky smile.
“Does Trav make you travel in this so he knows where you are?”
“Most likely, he has that possessive streak, not creepy though, I hope.”
She laughs. “Travis Phoenix can be possessive and jealous if he likes, because he’s hot enough to do so.”
“Apparently,” I laugh.
“You lucky bitch, in his arms. I live for that man.”
I nod, breathless. “Me too.”
My phone buzzes. I glance down.
T: See you soon?
“Trav?” Reagan leans closer.
I nod. “Yeah.”
V: I’m already on my way.
T: How was your day?
I consider deflection, then choose honesty.
V: It was okay.
T: Just okay?
V: Just okay, rockstar. See you soon.
T: Later, baby x
We arrive at the packed venue. The roar of the crowd rattles my ribs.
I don’t get a second with Travis before he hits the stage, but I feel his presence like electricity when he appears.
Shirtless, black jeans shredded, his body gleaming under blue spotlights.
My heart hammers. He drops to his knees, slides across the stage, and we all surrender.
I scream, dance, cheer—play the devoted fan.
Reagan sways beside me, drinks in hand. Then a woman shimmies up to the stage for the finale.
She presses against him, fingers tracing his spine like she's done this a hundred times before—another choreographed moment in his carefully staged performance.
He leans in as the music swells, their lips meet beneath the spotlight's harsh glare.
He doesn't push her away. The crowd roars its approval while my stomach plummets, a free-fall through ice.
Three seconds of staged intimacy, and my world shatters.
I’m drunk—enough that I stagger and collapse into a man nearby. He steadies me with a grin and a drawl, “Whoa there, darlin’. Not every day a beautiful girl just stumbles into me.”
I don’t know what has gotten into me, this wild jealousy that is so childish, yet fuelled by alcohol. I take the man, and I grab his face and kiss him. He is obviously shocked, but quickly responds, like I have made his entire night.
My vision swims.
Then a bellow cuts through the music, “What the fuck?!”
The crowd parts as Travis quite literally launches off the stage and barrels forward, hauls the guy off me and connects his fist with the man's face, sending a sickening crack through the crowd.
I stumble back, landing hard on my ass. Heat and fear spike through me.
Travis roars, and a crowd of hands yank him away.
His eyes blaze on me: betrayal, rage. He strides over, grabs my arm and hauls me up, before dragging me into a locked side room.
The slam echoes.
Silence.
Then his voice, low and furious. “What the hell were you doing?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He presses closer, voice cold. “If you need to mess around, Violet, don’t call yourself mine.”
Anger ignites in me. I slam my palms on the bench. “I’m sorry, but never once have I said I am yours, and considering you just made out with a girl on stage, I don’t think you get to make a scene like that!”
His jaw clenches. “That’s different. It’s part of the act.”
I roar, “Bullshit!” My head aches, my heart burns. “You are a rockstar, I get it, but you could have warned me, could have discussed it with me. You say I’m yours? What a load of crap. You’re Travis Phoenix and your world is always going to destroy mine.”
He snarls, grips my shoulders. “You ARE mine, Violet. That’s all there is. That’s all there will ever be.”
His fingers tighten on my face, then his lips crash onto mine—raw, desperate, devouring.
I groan as he slams me back onto the bench, kisses me like he’s starving.
My body arcs up against him. He hoists me onto the countertop, yanks my dress up, shoves my panties aside, and plunges his tongue into me, sliding over my clit.
“Travis...God...” I shudder.
He pulls away, yanks his jeans down, draws out his thick cock. He tears open a condom, rolls it on, then aligns himself at my entrance. He presses in—slow torture—then slips out.
“Please,” I beg, hips rolling.
He teases me, slowly. “Did you like kissing him?”
My pulse hammers. “What?”
“Answer me!” He drives in hard.
“No!” I gasp.
He hammers into me, fast and brutal, and I cry out. “I saw you kissing that girl—jealousy blinded me. I just lost it.”
He pauses mid-thrust. His eyes lock on mine.
Then he fucks me until I am so close, so close, and he finds his own release, roaring as he spills into the condom, body shaking around mine.
He didn’t let me cum, he made sure he reached his release before me.
He wants me to know he is in control. Anger bubbles in my chest.
“You were punishing me,” I hiss.
He watches me, silent.
“Oh my God, Travis,” I scramble up, yanking down my dress. “I can handle your jealousy, your possessiveness—but punishing me because of something you did first? That’s messed up.”
I turn and rush out the door, fury and heartbreak tangled in every step. He doesn’t follow.
Maybe we’re doomed to repeat the past.
Maybe that was our story.
THE NEXT MORNING, YET again, my face is all over the internet.
Not in a glamorous pop-star way, but in the humiliating “mystery girl makes Travis Phoenix lose his mind mid-show” way.
TMZ has freeze frames of him leaping into the crowd; Rolling Stone calls me the “muse who sparked a meltdown.” The memes are relentless.
#PhoenixDown. #GroupieGate. Every push notification is a fresh reminder that this isn’t just a small drama, it’s gone nuclear.
The shame is so thick it's like I can taste it in the back of my throat. I hide in bed and scroll compulsively, giving myself paper-cut wounds of humiliation with every swipe. The doorbell rings just as I’m contemplating whether to smother myself with my pillow.
I shuffle to the door in sweatpants; Reagan stands on the stoop with a coffee, two croissants, a bag of ice for my bruised ego, and what looks suspiciously like an “I Told You So” smirk.
“Before you ask, yes, I saw,” she says, breezing past me and setting up camp on my living room couch. “You, my friend, have dethroned last year’s ‘Sex Tape’ debacle for best internet drama. Congratulations.”
I groan. “I didn't mean to—"
She waves it off. “You’re both idiots, but that’s not news. Sit.”
I do. The coffee is exactly how I like it. She must have gone heavy on the sugar out of sympathy.
“Okay,” she starts, eyes slicing through me, “are you ready to hear some hard truths?”
“No,” I moan, putting my face in my hands.
“Well too bad. I’m your best friend and it’s my job. You know what you did was childish, right? If you can’t handle him being a rockstar, if you can’t handle that he has to make out with randoms as part of the job, maybe he isn’t your guy. You know this, right? Tell me you know this.”
I want to protest and say it’s not fair, that it felt real, that I panicked, but the words wither in my mouth.
She holds up a hand. “Look, I love you, but you’re acting like you’re the only one with skin in this game.
You think every other woman he’s been with didn’t want more?
” Her look softens a fraction. “But you... you get more. If you keep this up, you’ll ruin it.
You need to ask yourself if you really want him, and if you do, then you have to understand his job. ”
“I know,” I exhale. “I was drunk and just lost it. I look like a fool, I feel like a fool, and I’m not certain if he will ever speak to me again.”
She reaches over and pokes my temple. “He will, because the man is crazy about you. Did you see the way he leapt off that stage? Girls are swooning over it, wishing it was for them.”
I curl up my lip.
She laughs. “Anyway, tell me, what are you going to do?”
“I need to talk with him,” I say. “I have to go see him.”
“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Reagan grins.
An hour later I am at the record label, nervously holding another coffee, trying to avoid anyone making eye contact with me as they walk in and out.
The sound system in the lobby of Travis’s office is blaring one of his own songs.
The receptionist gives me a once-over and sneers. “Are you on the list?”
She knows who I am.
Knows it.
“Listen, lady, I’m in no mood. You and I both know that I am on the top of that list and if I called Travis right now, and told him you were being a cow, he would be down here in a second. So, either you tell him I’m here, or I’ll call him myself. Either way, I’m going up there.”
Her eyes widen, and with her lips pursed, she does as I am asking.
She hates me.
I wish I cared.
Five minutes later, I am outside of Travis’ office, swallowing my pride and the saliva in my throat because it is building up way too fast with the nerves swirling in my chest. I close my eyes, and knock. After a beat, he calls, “Come in.”
He’s at his desk, leaning back in the chair, eyes tired like he hasn’t slept. He had to go back on-stage last night, and continue with the show, even after everything. Then no doubt there was an after-party. “Didn’t think you’d be here today,” he murmurs, voice low.
I close the door behind me, stand with my back pressed to it like a child forced to confess in the principal’s office. “Can I talk to you?”
He closes his arms, leaning back so the chair reclines, head tipped to the side. “Go for it.”
I take a breath. “I messed up,” I say. “I’m sorry. I lost it when I saw you with her on stage. I know it’s part of the job, I know it’s stupid, but I just—” I look at my hands. “I don’t want to be the girl who ruins your career.”
His jaw tics. “You’re not.”
“I don’t want to be the girl who ruins you, period.”
He laughs, dry and hollow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mischief. I was ruined since the day I was brought into this world.”
“Gosh, I wish you didn’t believe that was true,” I whisper. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever had in my life.”
The room fills with silence.
I break it. “So what now?”
“That depends,” he says. His eyes flick up, unreadable. “Are you done running and willing to accept that you and I, we’re something different, something perfect, and that is never going to change?”
“I believe it, but it’s also what scares me. You are different now, Trav, and I’m just...well...broken.”
He pats the desk next to him.
“Come here.”
I go over, sitting in front of him on the desk.
He looks up at me. God, he’s beautiful. Every single inch of him.
“When you’re ready, you’ll tell me about Lillian and why there is that darkness in your eyes, but that doesn’t change the fact that I want you, Violet.
Always have. Always will. The question is, do you want to be mine? Do you want to be wanted?”
I hold my breath, then exhale. “Yes.”
“Then that’s all there needs to be.”
He leans up, capturing my mouth in a kiss while his hand pushes up my skirt and peels my panties down with reverence, standing up in between my legs and staring at me with an intensity that makes my pulse race.
“Last night, I messed up. I was angry. I wanted to punish you. That’s on me.”
I shiver. “I deserved it.”
He shakes his head. “No. You didn’t. I made you suffer, now, I will make that better.”
Then he’s on me, every move slow and deliberate, his mouth undoing me piece by piece.
No roughness, no game—just a kind of worship I never imagined I’d get from a man like him.
He coaxes me to the edge, waits for my body to tremble, to break, to come apart in his hands.
When I do, he lets me savor it, lets me ride it out, leaning up to catch my mouth as I gasp.
Once he’s done using his mouth and his tongue, he makes love to me.
This time, it’s slow, every stroke measured, the desk creaking under our bodies.
He keeps his forearm hooked around my back, his hand tangled in my hair; every time I moan, he grins like he’s never heard a more beautiful sound.
When I come again, he follows, face buried in my neck.
God damn him.
“Promise me something?” I say, voice muffled by his chest.
“Anything.”
I tilt my chin up. “When you have to go on stage and make out with someone else, just tell me in advance?”
He laughs, kissing my forehead. “Deal. But I think after last night, the world’s figured out who I’m really obsessed with.”
Maybe this is dangerous. Maybe it’s fragile enough to break with the next hurricane. But for the first time in years, I believe in the idea of another day.
Maybe even another tomorrow.
With him.
With Travis Phoenix.