Chapter four
Carter
The black Range Rover rolls to a stop in the underground car park.
The door swings open and I step out, sunglasses in place.
I don’t need them in here, but it’s habit now, a shield; I’d feel exposed without them.
The bouncer pushes on the club door, a rush of bass spilling out.
I lift my chin in thanks and step inside.
James, Dameon, and Zac follow close behind, along with my security.
“Mr. Ashford. It’s a pleasure . . . uh . . . to meet you and um . . . an absolute honor to have you here for the launch.” A woman in corporate getup grips her clipboard tight to her chest. She blushes as she stumbles over her words.
I make her nervous. No, my fame makes her nervous. I wish people would chill the fuck out. It gets old real quick when people can’t form full sentences around you. If they’d seen me twenty years ago—a half-starved kid from bum-fuck-nowhere—they wouldn’t be getting their panties in a twist over me.
“Just doing my part to spread the word about another brand of alcohol the world so obviously needs.”
James snorts behind me, and the woman’s eyes go wide.
I clear my throat and plaster on my game face. “Happy to be here.” I force authenticity into my voice with a bright smile and hand on my heart.
“Ah . . . wonderful! Please follow me, I’ll show you to the VIP section.”
Jesus, Carter. Maybe don’t start the night being a dick.
“She’s just doing her job, you know. You don’t need to be an asshole about it,” Dameon says under his breath, wiping his lips to smother his grin.
“It slipped out.” I shrug. “An hour max and we’re out of here,” I warn.
We follow her deep into the club.
The number of launch parties I’m required to attend is crazy.
Being the frontman, I get all the promo jobs, while the rest of the band get free passes.
Bullshit if you ask me. When we had our first number one, I lived for these parties: free alcohol, and more pussy than I could ever want.
Plus, an abundance of people sucking up to you.
You can get any drug you want and pretty much anything you ask for, no matter how outrageous it may be.
One time, I asked for an ice sculpture of me dressed as Marcus Aurelius from Gladiator, and two hours later, there it was, dripping all over the carpet.
Now, though, this is the part I hate the most. The constant parties, the interviews, the endless pressure to be on all the damn time—it wears me down.
The only place I ever feel remotely alive anymore is onstage in front of thousands of screaming fans.
There’s something about stepping into the spotlight—the roar of the crowd, the way the music pulses through my veins like a second heartbeat.
The crowd answers with one of its own, a living creature that rises and falls, breathing in sync with me.
For those three hours, nothing else matters.
The never-ending noise of being Carter Ashford is silenced.
But once the stadium lights turn back on, the emptiness comes rushing back.
The VIP section is already pumping when we enter. We’re ushered into a secluded booth, and a waitress is already there with a bottle of vodka and shot glasses. I pick up the bottle and read the label.
Nova Vodka.
I crack the bottle open and take a whiff.
The strong scent makes me flinch, dragging up the memory of Mom’s breath. This is exactly why I don’t touch vodka. Ever. Even expensive ones like this. It smells the same as every other vodka on the market. The only difference is the hefty price tag.
Zac picks up a shot glass. “Are they expecting us to shot this shit?”
“Fucked if I know. Sweetheart, could you get us a bottle of the Macallan 18?” I ask the waitress.
“Of course.” Red tints her cheeks before she turns away, the bottom of her ass peeking out from under her minuscule skirt.
“How’s your pretty little sub going?” I ask Dameon.
“Good. Better than good. Best decision I ever made, offering her a contract. Beats doing Le Jardin every week. Speaking of, how was it the other night?”
“Didn’t happen. One of the goddesses called in sick and I had the unlucky number,” I respond, scanning the club.
“That sucks.”
“I can assure you, there was no sucking going on.”
Eden is the only place in the world where no one expects anything from me except to relax and have a good time.
In the mansion tucked away in suburbia, I can just exist. There are no cameras or fans or invasive questions about the album or whatever personal drama the tabloids have decided to cook up for me this week.
When Dameon’s sub, Hailee, apologized for canceling my Le Jardin booking at the last minute, I didn’t mind.
I was hoping to get my dick sucked. But I wasn’t going to be a prick about it.
Shit happens. It’s my escape from the madness, my little slice of normalcy in a life that has gone completely insane.
I only wish I could go there more often.
The waitress returns with our whiskey, and I twist it open and pour each of us four fingers.
“You’re coming next weekend, yeah?” James asks.
I raise my glass in a half-toast. “On the yacht? Hell yeah.”
The next most relaxing thing—after Eden—is hanging out with these losers on their yacht with nothing but the open water, top-shelf whiskey . . . and women. Disappearing for a few days before the tour kicks off couldn’t come at a better time.
The pain in my gut flickers again, a sharp twist that makes my grip on the glass tighten.
I know I should take the hint and set it down, be smart for once, but the promise of that velvety hit of vanilla and spice is too fucking sweet to ignore.
I raise the glass to my lips anyway, take a slow mouthful and let it sit on my tongue.
The warmth spreads before I swallow. Heaven, absolute heaven.
It goes down smoothly, without any burn.
We fall into an easy rhythm, trading stories and catching up.
James and Dameon tell me about their latest business ventures, and I fill them in on the chaos of preparing for the tour.
Zac shares his ER dramas, and it’s like slipping into an old, well-worn jacket—comfortable, familiar, normal.
If anyone were listening to our conversation, they would be bored shitless by how mundane it is. But not me. I live for this.
“When are you coming back to Australia?” Zac asks.
“Not for a while,” I say, picking up the whiskey bottle and refilling our glasses.
“After the tour, I’ll take a few months off and hole up at home.
Then I might start fucking around with writing and working on the next album.
See how I feel.” After spending most of the year on the road, I’m going to need space and time alone.
Being back in Australia always feels strange.
It’s familiar in all the wrong ways, like a place I know too well but no longer belong in.
Coming home stirs up shit I’d rather keep buried.
The cramped house from my childhood creeps back into focus, its ceilings yellowed with smoke, the sharp, chemical reek of spirits soaked into the carpet.
My mom passed out on the couch, one arm hanging loose, a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka tipped over on the floor.
I remember rolling her onto her side many times before going to bed, hoping she wouldn’t choke on her own vomit while I slept.
Hoping she’d still be breathing in the morning.
A bunch of memories that hurt like hell if I look at them too closely.
“You fuckers gonna make it to any of the shows?” I ask, lifting my glass, scratching absently at my cheek.
“Cora and I’ll come before the baby’s born,” James says. “Maybe Milan. She’s always wanted to go.”
“Italy sounds good,” Dameon says, nodding. “Count me in.”
“Same here,” Zac adds, lifting his drink.
“Milan it is.” We clink glasses.
I take a long pull from my drink and scan the club again.
Movement flickers at the edge of my vision, a woman sliding into focus.
Her hair spills down her back in a perfectly straight sheet that catches the light, sleek and glossy like silk.
It’s such a deep black, it throws off a hint of purple when she turns.
Something about it tugs at me, a tiny catch in my brain.
I’ve seen hair like that recently, I’m sure of it, the recognition sitting just out of reach, right there on the tip of my tongue.
She’s on the arm of a suit, and when she laughs at something he says, I finally see her profile.
My jaw goes slack.
Is that . . . Vi?
She’s fucking stunning.
I study her for a moment, standing there, flirting and laughing at everything this dickhead says.
She’s confident and . . . graceful. She puts her hand on his chest, and her eyes are bright and alive, hanging off every word he utters.
Her body, though—damn, her body has changed. I barely recognize her.
It’s her, though. Definitely her.
Seeing her again—
“Carter?”
“What?” The word comes out rough. My gaze stays locked on her, afraid that if I blink, she’ll disappear. But she doesn’t. She’s real. And right there.
Violet.
“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” Dameon murmurs.
My throat goes dry. I reach for my glass, taking another long drink to buy myself a second. “You know her?”
“Yeah,” he says. “She’s a goddess at Eden.”
I choke mid-sip, coughing as the Macallan burns my windpipe. “What? No fucking way.” Whiskey dribbles down my chin, and I swipe it off with the back of my hand.
Dameon laughs. “Yeah, man. She was there the other night.”
So that’s where I saw her. I knew I’d caught a glimpse of that hair before.
Now I can’t stop staring, willing her to look my way.
She turns, and her eyes sweep the dance floor.
Come on, Vi. Just a little more . . .
She finally looks toward the VIP section, and when her eyes find mine a few seconds later, everything in me quiets.
I forget to breathe.