Chapter eleven
Violet
Ten years ago
Ilie on my back, eyes pinned to the posters on my ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark stars faint under the ugly orange spill from the streetlight outside. Sleep bailed on me hours ago.
Carter is on the couch downstairs, only a few feet away, under the same roof. He does it most weekends when he’s back from uni, crashing here instead of staying at his mom’s. I hate it for him. I hate that he keeps putting himself through it.
He deserves better than that bitch.
He turns up to check she’s alive, tries to help, and it ends with him outside again, split lip, fresh bruise, some dickhead boyfriend screaming after him while his mom cries and chooses the bottle. But he keeps going back anyway.
I don’t get it.
He’s been looking after her for as long as I can remember. She’s had twenty years to get her shit together, to look after herself and her son, and she still hasn’t managed it. If she hasn’t done it by now, she never will.
My mind floats through the floorboards to where he is. I can almost feel the sadness drifting up through the springs of my mattress. I know he’s hurting, and it eats at me that I can’t fix it for him.
I don’t ever want to end up like that. Waiting around for someone who can’t, won’t choose me back.
At school, bitches like Cindy Winters have always made it crystal clear where I stand: on the outside looking in.
Once school’s over, I want real friends—people who actually like me for me. As soon as I hit eighteen, I’m gone.
Four months. One hundred and twenty-two days. I count backward, forward, in any direction that makes it seem closer.
With a huff, I throw the blanket off and swing my legs out of bed.
I creep out of my room and down the stairs, automatically skipping the worst creak spots.
I misjudge one and the step groans under me, loud enough to wake the dead.
I freeze, breath held, then inch forward and peer around the wall to the living room.
Carter lies flat on the couch, one forearm flung over his forehead, bare torso exposed, one jean-clad knee bent.
Even in the half-dark, I can see the fresh swelling around his eye, the faint purple starting to bloom under the skin.
A new tattoo, still wrapped in plastic, runs along his forearm.
I want to get a closer look to see what he decided deserved permanent space on his skin.
Every fresh mark on him is another piece of his puzzle.
I bite my lip instead and make myself move toward the kitchen.
The fridge whirrs when I open it, and cold air spills out, goosebumps rising along my arms. I grab the jug of water and pour myself a glass. Leaning back against the sink, I take a long drink. I try not to look through the doorway. I really do. But I last all of five seconds.
Damn, he looks really good without a shirt. All those hours hauling amps and gear into garages and crappy venues have paid off.
On the way back, I pause at the edge of the living room.
My eyes move over him from a closer distance this time.
His arm has slipped off his forehead, his face fully visible, and the bruise around his eye is clearer now.
I want to kiss it and press an icepack on it, hold it for him, tell him he doesn’t have to keep doing this, that she doesn’t deserve him. I hope he gave her boyfriend worse.
I just stand there and sip my water. When I’ve had my fill, I turn toward the stairs.
“Fuck, Violet.”
I stop dead.
The words barely reach me, a soft mumble from the couch, almost lost under the loud motor of the fridge and the tick of the wall clock, but I hear it. I know my name in his voice better than I know it in anyone else’s.
But then I remember, it’s Carter, and I’m . . . me.
Just as my foot hits the first step, he moans again, louder this time, no mistaking it.
“Violet . . . mmm.”
My heart misfires, and the glass slips in my grip, cold water sloshing over my fingers. Holy shit. He’s dreaming about me.
I hold my breath and wait. For what, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem real.
The sound of my name in that low, rough voice . . . I can’t believe it. He’s actually dreaming about me. Not just dreaming but . . . moaning my name.
I’m resisting the urge to jump up and down and laugh like a lunatic.
After all these years of orbiting him, the silent crush and helpless watching, surely this means he feels something too.
He wants me.
Without really thinking I set the glass on the coffee table, the base thudding softly on the wood.
My feet carry me closer. I sink to my knees beside the couch, close enough to see the puffed edge of the swelling around his eye, the shadow along his jaw, the small freckles scattered over his nose and cheeks.
He’s outright beautiful; staring straight at him almost hurts.
His lips part on another soft sound.
This is it. This is my moment. My chance to prove I’m more than just Liam’s kid sister.
My body moves before my brain has fully caught up. I lean in, my mouth a breath away from his. The warmth of him, the faint smell of smoke, and the ghost of beer from earlier wrap around me.
I press my lips to his, featherlight at first, testing.
He responds. His mouth moves under mine, a small shift that makes my heart swell and flutter. His lips mold to mine, firmer. I pull back to breathe, then dip my mouth lower, following the line of his throat, across his collarbone, down the planes of his chest.
He makes another deep sound, his breaths turning heavier, his body reacting, even if his mind is still somewhere inside the dream that has my name in it.
I kiss over his ribs, down the lines of his stomach, every inch of bare skin a new rush. By the time I reach the waistband of his jeans, there’s no denying the solid length pressing against the denim, the tip just visible above it.
I hesitate, hand hovering.
He’s hard. For me. He said my name. He’s enjoying this. That has to mean something. That has to mean I’m not completely insane, that this moment, this attraction, isn’t one-sided.
I hook my fingers into the top of his jeans and unfasten the button.
The sight of his head drives a small sound out of me.
I bend and take the very tip in my mouth, tongue circling, drawing him in slowly, my eyes fluttering closed at the taste of him.
My panties are soaked through, sticking to the outline of my lips.
I open my eyes and look up.
His blink open, too.
Everything stops.
His lashes flicker, and his brows pull tight, his gaze still unfocused, dragging itself out of sleep.
Then his eyes finally land on me.
His whole expression changes, horror rushing in and erasing everything else. The whites of his eyes widen.
He jerks away fast, hands pushing at my shoulders, at my head, anything to get me off him, and I land on my ass on the rug, stunned. He scrambles upright, one hand shoving himself back into his jeans, the other braced on the couch. His breathing is harsh and uneven.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he spits, pure panic in his eyes.
My skin goes ice cold.
Tears crowd my eyes and my cheeks flare, traitorously hot. I push backward on my palms, then scramble to my knees.
“I—” The word snags in my throat. No excuse makes sense even in my own head. I stupidly thought this would be the moment everything changed between us. Turns out, I’ve managed to humiliate myself on a whole new level.
He drags in a ragged breath, pulls himself up straighter, building distance that doesn’t just feel physical.
“Don’t ever fucking touch me again, Vi,” Carter says, voice flat and distant in a way I’ve never heard from him. Not with me. “You hear me?”
My lungs forget how to draw in air.
I turn and bolt for the stairs, feet slipping on the first step. I catch myself on the rail and keep going, legs moving on instinct. Hot tears spill over, blurring the chipped paint and the framed photos on the wall into watery splotches.
I burst into my room and throw myself onto the bed. The pillow muffles my face as I press into it, but it doesn’t stop the noises wrenching out of me, or the pounding in my skull, telling me exactly what I’ve done.
My whole body shakes. My insides roll, and I’m close to hurling. The way he looked at me, like I was something dirty he couldn’t scrub off fast enough . . . I can’t.
He hates me.
I’ve ruined everything.
I lie there in the dark and bury my face in the pillow. I’ve never wanted to disappear more in my life.