Chapter ten
Violet
Another show, another stadium losing its collective mind. Somehow, the guys keep finding a higher gear, ramping it up one level above the one I’m sure has to be the top.
I’ve spent the past three hours pressed up against the edge of the stage, camera glued to my face, catching sweat, light, and sound in frozen fragments. For the hundredth time in the last week, it blows me away how lucky I am that this is my job.
I’m flicking through the shots side-stage when Mika slings an arm around my shoulders, his bare skin slightly damp with sweat. He leans into my space like we’ve known each other for years, not just a couple of cities.
“Hey, Violet, you coming to the VIP room?” He grins.
“Sure, why not?” I tuck my camera close to my chest so it doesn’t bang into him as we head down the corridor.
“So, what did you get up to today?” he asks.
“Sentosa. Got some pretty epic shots of the water. You?”
“Universal Studios.” He looks pleased with himself.
I snort. “You couldn’t find something a little more culturally appropriate?”
“Nah,” he says without shame. “The Battlestar coaster with the vertical drop is wild.”
We turn the corner and push open the door to the VIP room, and two things hit me at once.
Tits. And perfume.
There are breasts everywhere, bouncing, pressed up against inked chests, spilling out of dresses, and the air is toxic with a lethal mix of flowers and vanilla that stings the back of my throat.
What did they do, bathe in the shit? And how the hell did they get naked so fast?
The guys walked offstage all of three minutes ago.
“Alriiiight,” Mika says under his breath, rubbing his hands together. “My type of party.”
I snort out a laugh. “You dog.”
“What?” He chuckles. “Once the camera turns off, I’m going to enjoy every second of this gig. I don’t mind sloppy seconds. In fact, sticking my dick into a warm, used snatch full of cum . . .” He rolls his eyes back, groaning quietly. “Amazing.”
“Ugh. Too much info, Mika,” I say, shoving his arm off my shoulder.
He wanders into the room, eyeing up the women, ready for his meal.
My eyes do what they always do. Find him.
Carter is in his usual position at the center of the room, two naked women already draped across him, competing for space.
It’s the same image that’s been looping in my head since my sixteenth birthday party.
Even back then, he had a revolving door of options, unlimited access to pussy.
The only one he never wanted was mine.
One woman drops to her knees between his legs. The other climbs higher, mouth mauling his neck. His head tips back slightly, that lazy, half-pleased expression on his face. He’s done this a million times and will probably do it a million more.
He catches me staring and raises his brows in question. I lift mine back in answer. It’s ridiculous how one single movement can mean so many different things.
I turn away when the girl between his legs reaches for his zipper. That’s my cue to stop watching. I’m no prude, not working at Eden. There’s almost nothing I haven’t seen, done, or photographed in some capacity.
But I don’t want to see his cock disappearing down some random groupie’s throat.
The only thing that takes the edge off the bitter taste in my mouth is knowing exactly what this is.
This is scratching an itch, burning off leftover adrenaline, plugging himself into something that doesn’t cost him anything real.
This isn’t what he craves, not the way he talked about control and devotion when we were on the plane.
I move to the makeshift bar and pour myself a rum and cola, heavy on the rum, brown almost to the top, with a token splash of cola to pretend we’re mixing. I take a long swallow. It burns, then settles, spreading a slow heat.
Megan appears at my elbow. “Can I have one of those?”
“Sure.” I pour her one exactly the same, because I’m helpful like that.
She takes a sip and immediately coughs, eyes watering. “Holy shit.”
I get a small flicker of satisfaction from it. Megan is fine. I don’t hate her, but I don’t like her, either. She’s technically my boss for the duration of the tour—she gets my respect, but it’s hard to warm to someone who’s had Carter in her sights since day one.
She turns and props her elbows on the bar, leaning back to watch the room. I stay facing the shelves of liquor.
“What was he like growing up?” she asks eventually.
I don’t have to ask who she means.
“Much the same,” I say, “but different at the same time.”
“Wow,” she responds dryly. “That’s insightful.”
I ain’t telling her shit. I’m not spilling the beans on what Carter was like as a teenager. We both crawled out of the kind of places that people turn into cautionary tales. We bled for our exits. And I’m not about to rehash it with a woman I barely know.
“I am going to fuck him, you know,” she says.
There it is. Her cards on the table.
I roll my eyes. “Go for it. He’s not mine.” The words taste wrong, but I keep going. “You might have to wait in line, though. Looks like he goes through a lot of women every night.”
“I’m a patient woman.” She smiles, slow.
Against my better judgment, I glance over my shoulder. Carter’s eyes are already locked on me, waiting.
From the border of my vision, I take in the full picture in ugly little pieces.
The girl on her knees is still moving, hands on his thighs for balance, head bobbing in a rhythm that would make a porn director proud.
The other girl is still plastered to his neck, sucking at his skin and rubbing her hands over his chest. But his jaw is clenched, and a tight muscle jumps near his ear.
He’s not enjoying this . . . at all.
His eyes give him away. There’s no smugness, none of the usual I’m the king of this room bullshit. Instead, there’s a quiet misery to his expression. He looks like a man sitting in the middle of everything he’s supposed to want and not feeling a fucking thing.
The sight knocks the air clean out of my lungs.
Pain and apology and want all tangled up, years of unsaid shit packed into one held stare. It would be easier if he just smirked with a wink and played into the show.
My fingers tense around the glass. I know what jealousy feels like. This is different. This is an old wound yawning open, the ache of rejection, the sting of the fact that he’s still right there and completely out of reach.
For a few seconds, it’s just us.
The women, the music, the laughter, the moans—all of it distorts at the edges. The girls between his legs and on his neck might as well be invisible. His eyes hold mine, and the conversation we’re not having is louder than any shouted argument.
Why did you push me away?
Why did you leave?
Why did you stay gone?
Why does looking at you still hurt?
My nipples tighten under my top, traitorous nerves lighting up even while my heart is squeezed in his fist. It’s fucking infuriating that my body hasn’t got the memo that we’re not doing this anymore, that we’re not those same kids.
I force a swallow past the lump in my throat. The longer I hold his gaze, the more I feel myself drifting toward it. If I’m not careful, the gravity between us will drag me across the floor and drop me right back at his feet.
I’m the one who eventually breaks it. I turn to the bar, my hair whipping over my shoulders, putting my back to him.
He doesn’t get to look at me like that.