Chapter eight
Violet
With my camera strapped around my neck, I swing my backpack over one shoulder and climb the narrow stairs into Pulse’s private jet.
“Welcome.” The hostess gives me a polished smile. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Of course there’s a hostess. This whole thing is stupidly surreal.
I step into the main cabin, and it’s already full. The band, the documentary crew, security—everyone half-buckled, settling in, getting ready for the eight-hour flight. I glance at my smartwatch.
Right on time.
So, naturally, everyone else decided to be early, just to fuck with me and make me feel late.
“Ah, I’m good, thanks.” I shake my head at the hostess.
Kai catches my eye and winks. Theo gives me a nod from where he’s sprawled across two seats. Xander lifts his hand in a small wave.
What the actual fuck?
I only met them briefly yesterday before the show, and now they’re greeting me like we’re old friends.
I spot Liam further down, phone pressed to his ear, brows slanted at his laptop screen as his fingers hammer the keys. Chris is beside him, shooting me a hard look before dropping his gaze back to his phone.
The rest of the PrimeTime+ crew are clustered toward the back of the cabin, already sliding into a little work bubble. I start heading that way.
“Hey, Vi, I saved you a seat.” Carter’s voice cuts across the low chatter of everyone settling in.
He’s at a four-seat table in the middle of the plane, a deck of cards spread in front of him, forearms braced on the glossy wood. He nods to the empty chair opposite him.
I hitch my backpack higher and glance at the PrimeTime+ crew again. I should sit with them. I don’t want to start shit by parking myself in front of the frontman.
“Everyone knows, Vi. Sit down.” He nods again to the seat.
I stalk over, catching the sharp stink eye Megan sends my way as she tracks me all the way to Carter’s table.
Fantastic.
I drop my backpack on the floor and sink into the ridiculously soft leather.
“What do you mean they know?” I whisper-shout.
“I don’t want to spend the next ten months pretending I don’t know you. It’s exhausting.” He shrugs.
“For fuck’s sake, Carter.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
That explains the band’s overly friendly greeting.
“You could have asked me first. I didn’t want people to know we used to know each other, or that Liam is my brother.
They’re going to think I got the job because I know you both. Did you think of that?”
“Who cares what they think?” He leans back a little, unbothered. “And no, they will not think that. I looked you up, Ms. Vega Wolfe.” His mouth curves. “You’re quite the photographer. According to Google, you’re one of the best photojournalists in the industry.” His eyes skim my face. “Well done.”
It’s weird, hearing it from him, hearing my alias coming from his mouth.
“Are you fucking with me?” I ask, suspicious out of habit.
“What? No.” Confusion skitters across his face. “I’m giving you a compliment. Jesus, take it, woman.”
We stare at each other, two stubborn idiots across a table, as the plane builds speed down the runway and lifts into the air.
“Thanks,” I finally mumble. I worked my ass off to build Vega’s reputation. It didn’t magically fall out of the sky.
I look around the cabin, searching for something, anything to redirect the conversation. Lots of polished wood and cream leather. A fully stocked bar and a giant flat screen with a sound system that probably costs more than my car. It’s utterly insane.
“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Carter asks, following my gaze as he starts shuffling the cards.
“Hmmm,” I concede, watching the way his hands move, fast and loose.
“It’s surprising how quickly you get used to it.”
I make another non-committal sound. I’m not planning on getting used to any of this. The click and slide of the cards stop, and he deals out six to each of us.
“Pick up your cards, Vi.”
“What are we playing?” I ask, gathering my hand.
“Poker.”
We play a few practice rounds in silence. It’s strangely easy, this pointless little back-and-forth. Cards down, cards picked up, bets that are only theoretical. We have years’ worth of heavy conversation hanging between us, and yet we’re choosing to talk in colors, shapes, and numbers.
I ease into the game and win the latest round quickly.
“We should have played for stakes,” I say, grinning despite myself.
I reach for my camera and turn it on. The images from last night’s concert flicker to life on the small screen.
Carter onstage, bathed in white light, veins protruding from his neck as he sings, head thrown back, guitar slung low.
The whole concert was unreal in person; on screen, it looks even more otherworldly.
He’s magnetic up there. Annoyingly so. Almost godlike, if I could believe in gods who wear sweat-soaked tees and curse into microphones.
I flick past wide shots of the arena, the crush of bodies, hands in the air, the band silhouetted against massive screens.
Shots of the crew doing their jobs, light techs with their eyes glued to consoles, stagehands poised in the wings.
Then I land on it—the shot that tells the entire night’s story in one frame.
A woman in the front row, tears streaking her cheeks, mouth open on a sound I can’t hear. The emotion is so raw, it almost hurts to look at. Awe, joy, relief, and love.
That is what their music does. What last night did.
I don’t blame her. For a while, in the shadows, I felt the same, the beat pulsing through my veins, tethering me to something bigger than myself.
I’ve shot more concerts than the average person will attend in their lifetime, and I have never felt anything quite like that.
It tipped over into something close to spiritual.
I was blown away by how the band fed off the crowd and gave it right back, this loop of energy that never dipped. And the way they played together, easy and instinctive, made it obvious they’re not just a band; they’re a bunch of guys who love what they do and actually love each other.
It overwhelmed me so much that, as soon as they walked offstage, I bolted.
Straight home to sleep in my bed for the last time, because the idea of seeing Carter after all that energy, all that history, made my skin feel too tight.
I don’t get overwhelmed often, not by anything except anger. Last night made the very short list.
“You know what? You’re on,” Carter says suddenly. “Let’s play for stakes.”
I look up. He’s watching me with that crooked half-smile, the one that did things to my insides when I was sixteen and, apparently, still has some residual power now.
Dark blond hair falling over one eye, week-old stubble, tattoos winding down his forearms all the way to the knuckles. White baggy tee. Navy sweats. Sneakers.
I can’t resist. I bring the camera up and take the shot.
He raises a brow. “Seriously?”
“Just doing my job,” I say, smirking around the camera body. “Give me a minute.”
I get up and move around the cabin, slipping into the version of myself that knows how to disappear, even in small spaces.
I capture Kai, hunched forward and swearing under his breath while playing Gran Turismo on the big screen.
Theo, his eyes closed, massive headphones on, one foot tapping.
Xander bent over a notebook, pen moving fast. Liam is still glued to his laptop, his face carved into his do not fucking talk to me expression. And Chris pointedly ignores me.
I keep my steps soft, my presence smaller than my lens, and circle back to my seat.
“So, want to play again?” Carter asks, already shuffling.
“Sure.” I shrug, dropping back into the leather. “But let’s make it interesting.”
He scratches his chin, the rasp of his fingers over stubble noticeable in the quiet between us.
“How about this?” he says. “Whoever wins gets to ask a question, and the other person has to answer. Truthfully. No holding back.”
I think for a moment, considering it. I only really have one question. Or more accurately, one question with a thousand variations and jagged edges.
“Let’s do it.”
He deals, and I pick up my cards. Four hearts in sequence, my brain doing the math automatically. I keep my face as neutral as possible, discard the odd card, and pull a new one from the deck.
When I see it, my teeth sink lightly into my top lip to stop my smile.
Straight flush. It’s over. I’ve won.
Winning should feel like relief, like some kind of cosmic correction. Instead, my heart starts to race, because the closer I get to opening my mouth, the closer I get to asking him about the night that shattered everything.
Why?
Why wasn’t I good enough?
Why did you shove me away like I was something dirty?
Why did you walk away and never look back?
Why did you pretend I didn’t exist when existing and surviving had been our whole thing?
I lay my hand down. “Call.”
He looks at my cards, then at me, eyes crinkling as a wide, beautiful smile breaks across his face. He taps his fingers once on the table, then places his own cards down.
A royal flush.
My jaw drops. I bark out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
He rubs his hands together like a kid on Christmas morning and leans back in his chair, pleased with himself.
“Where do I even begin?” he muses, eyes bright.
He crosses one arm over his chest, props his other elbow on it, resting his knuckles against his jaw in this ridiculous mock-philosopher pose.
I give him my most intimidating glare.
“I have a two-part question,” he announces.
“Fuck no. One question only, that was the deal.”
“It’s one question, but it has two parts.” He drops his hand, grin edging back in. “You can have a two-part question when you win.”
I do have multiple versions of my why waiting in the wings. I could probably use the extra room.
“Fine. Shoot.” I cross my legs and start drumming my fingers on the armrest to keep from fidgeting.
“Why do you work at Eden?” he asks.
I hold his gaze and let the silence stretch, giving him that dead-eyed stare I use on grown men to shut them down mid-sentence. It usually makes them backpedal . . . fast.
Carter just watches me, relaxed, a tiny curve at the corner of his mouth that says he’s not backing down.
“Because I enjoy it,” I say finally. “And I’m good at it.”
His expression doesn’t change.
I lean in. “And it gives me the financial freedom to do what I actually love. I wouldn’t be Vega Wolfe without Eden.
Eden paid for my degree. It paid my rent when nobody wanted to hire an unknown photojournalist. There’s not a lot of work out there for someone who wants to shoot music and only music—not weddings, or babies, or influencer bullshit.
Eden bought me enough time to get good and build a name for myself, so I didn’t have to pivot to something I hate.
Even now, after years of busting my ass, I still need it.
It lets me pick and choose my clients. Say no when I want to. ”
My deep purple nails look almost black under the cabin lights.
I stare at them, then catch myself chewing on the side of my thumb.
It’s an old, disgusting habit. I thought I had killed it somewhere between leaving Jeanine’s home and my first gig.
Apparently, Carter brings out the worst in me.
Or maybe just the parts I left back in high school.
“Why do you go to Eden?” I throw the question back at him, knowing it’s not technically my turn but curious enough to test him.
He watches me, then lets out a breath.
“Because I crave control,” he says simply.
“I need the release it gives me that I can’t get anywhere else.
My life is fucking chaos. I don’t get much say in it.
I essentially belong to the people. Eden is the only place that’s mine, where I can fuck the way I want to fuck with no phones out and no media fallout. ”
His eyes darken, pinning me in place.
“I love bringing my woman pleasure,” he continues, voice dropping.
“Controlling how she moves, what she does, when she goes over the edge. I want to control it all. I like the pain of waiting, eventually folding into pleasure, watching her eyes roll back, knowing I did that. I want to be her everything in that room, her whole world, for as long as she’s with me.
In return, I want to take care of her, give her everything she needs.
I want it all on me. All the weight. All the responsibility. ”
His gaze holds mine, completely steady and unashamed.
Fuck. Me.
I was not expecting an answer like that. I was expecting some throwaway rock star line about hot girls, privacy, and no strings. Instead, he’s handed me something that sounds dangerously like the truth.
My clit pulses, and my core contracts around nothing. I lock my thighs and force my body to stay still, because the last thing I need is for him to see that his little monologue has my blood pumping.
“And that brings me to my next question,” he says.
“Wait. Just . . . wait.” I hold up a hand and shake my head. I need a second to unscramble my thoughts, shove my hormones back into their box. He’s still the guy who cut me out like a tumor. That doesn’t get erased because he has a gifted mouth and knows how to wield his words as well as a guitar.
“If you’re about to ask me to be your goddess for this tour,” I say slowly, “to fuck you and be your release or whatever, you can fuck right off.”
His mouth opens. I keep going. “Let me be very clear. I will never touch you. I will never fuck you, paid or otherwise. The mere idea of you even thinking that could be on the table . . .” I let out an angry little huff. “Makes me kind of stabby.”
My eye twitches. My fingers tingle with the urge to feel the Swiss Army knife tucked into my boot. One of the perks of flying private: bags get scanned, people don’t. Still, I’m not actually going to pull it out; that would be career suicide.
“Whoa. No need to get stabby,” Carter says, hands coming up in surrender, eyes wide for once. “And I wasn’t going to suggest that, anyway.”
I stare at him, flat.
His lips twitch.
“Okay, I was totally going to suggest that,” he blurts. “But in my defense, I had to ask. I would be stupid not to.”
“Well, you can get it out of your head,” I reply. “I’m here to work as a professional photographer, not to be your submissive fuck buddy.”
“Understood.” He gives me a mock salute, that beautiful grin tugging at his mouth, making it annoyingly hard to keep my glare in place.
He pulls the collar of his white T-shirt up, covering the lower half of his face, hiding his smile. But his eyes crease at the corners, giving him away completely.
I bite the inside of my cheek, look away, because I’m not rewarding that.
Dickhead.