Chapter twelve
Violet
Ishove the last of my clothes into the suitcase and sit on it to get the zipper around the curve. My hair is still damp from the shower, and I’m already in my pajamas—an old black tank and shorts that have seen better elastic.
My toiletries are still spread across the bathroom counter in an arranged mess that makes sense only to me. Those can go in my backpack in the morning, right before we leave Singapore and trade humid air for Stockholm chill.
Two countries in, and I finally get why touring bands always look half dead in photos. Constant packing, unpacking, airports, security, trying to remember what city you woke up in. Whatever glamour people imagine drains out fast.
After my drink with Megan a couple of hours ago, I tapped out. I couldn’t bring myself to stay any longer. The temptation of a dark hotel room, clean sheets, a glass of cola and a stupidly overpriced room-service burger won out.
There’s a knock at the door just as I pick up the TV remote.
Finally. My burger.
I pad across the carpet and open the door.
Carter fills the doorway, one hand braced on the frame.
He’s completely wasted. His eyes need a second to find my face, sliding around before they land, and he sways in place.
The security guard beside him reaches out, ready to stop his fall, but Carter rights himself at the last second with a stubborn little jerk.
From the way he tilts on his feet, I’d bet money he bounced off a few walls getting here.
“Viii,” he slurs, mouth dragging over the vowel.
“What are you doing here?”
He blinks slowly. “Needed to . . . to talk to you.”
His words stick together, and the bourbon rolling off him is strong enough to make my eyes water.
“Jesus, Carter.” I grab his forearm before he folds forward into the room. “Did you swim in it?”
“No,” he mumbles. “Only spilled a little.”
Yeah, sure. He smells like a distillery exploded on him.
I shoot a quick glance at security and drag him inside, kicking the door shut with my heel.
He’s heavy and uncoordinated, a drunken mess of very warm, very muscled deadweight.
“I’m sooorrrry . . .” He stretches out the word. “Everything . . . went . . . wrong.” His sentences keep falling apart on his tongue, losing pieces on the way out.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, steering him toward the bathroom, because that stench is something else. “What went wrong?”
“You . . . me . . . us . . .” He stares vaguely at my shoulder. “Wrong.”
I suck in a deep breath and try to control the raging bitch who always sits a little too close to the surface.
A memory I keep locked away in a mental bunker flashes before my eyes.
His expression that night. The words that finished me.
The way he has never looked back. I don’t want to unpack that with him while he’s drunk enough to forget his own name.
He’ll wake up tomorrow with a clean slate and no memory of what tore my heart apart.
I grit my teeth. “Not tonight, Carter. You don’t get to do this when you can’t even stand up.”
He squints at his T-shirt, then pinches the fabric between his fingers. “Wet.”
“That’s because you poured alcohol on yourself.” I bite back the rest. I’ve seen enough men drink themselves inside out to know when to pick my battles.
I get him into the bathroom. He stumbles once, shoulder clipping the doorframe, and I shove him upright until he manages to clamp both hands on the sink.
He starts tugging at his shirt, frowning in concentration, clearly heading for naked, so I turn away, giving him a sliver of privacy that lasts all of two seconds.
Fabric rustles behind me. Something hits tile.
His shirt lands on the floor near my bare toes. Then the soft thump of his jeans followed by the whisper of boxers joining the pile.
Against my better judgment, I look over my shoulder.
His chest and arms are fully exposed, every line of muscle and ink visible in the bright bathroom light. Old tattoos and new ones cover him, his story drawn on skin, healed smooth.
My gaze dips lower, and my breath catches before I can stop it.
I’ve only ever seen the tip of his cock, that one awful, messy night that I don’t allow myself to replay, but now there is metal through the tip and all down the shaft, a ladder of silver glinting stark in the light.
Even soft, his size is something most of Eden’s regulars would kill for.
I don’t feel guilty for looking. He wouldn’t, if our roles were reversed.
He’s a mess, but beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be legal.
I turn on the shower, adjust the temperature until the water runs warm, and guide him under the stream. The smell of bourbon starts to lift, swirling away with the steam.
He sways slightly under the spray, palms flattening against the tiles as he tips his head back.
“Vi,” he whimpers, my name broken at the edges.
He sounds small. And I’m not used to small from Carter.
“Come on,” I say quietly. “Let’s get you out before you pass out.”
I help him out of the shower, wrap him in a towel, and use another to rub water from his hair and shoulders. He lets me move him around, pliant in that way drunk bodies get when they finally stop fighting gravity. When he’s mostly dry, I guide him to the bed.
He slumps onto the mattress, all long limbs and damp skin, and lets his head find the pillow.
He stares into space, his eyelids dropping, his blinks getting longer.
“Scared shitless,” he mumbles.
I pause with my hand on the duvet. “Scared? Of what?”
His eyes slide closed again, lashes dark against his skin. “Dying,” he says softly, the word barely making it into the air.
It slips out of him, escaped in the gap between thoughts. By the time my brain scrambles for a response, he’s gone. Deadweight. Breathing deep and even, fully out.
I stand there, staring down at him.
He looks nothing like the man who stepped onto that stage tonight and made thousands of people scream themselves hoarse. Nothing like the rock star who the rest of the world loses its mind over.
He’s . . . emptied out. Bone tired.
“What the hell is going on with you?” I whisper.
His mouth hangs slightly open, the crease between his brows still there even in sleep.
I stand there for a moment longer, watching him. Then I reach for my camera on the bedside table and snap a single shot.
I don’t know why I take it. Maybe to not forget this version of him.
Rolling him onto his side, I pull the duvet up over his shoulder so he doesn’t freeze under the air-conditioning.
The room is dim, lit only by the city’s lights trickling through the gap in the curtains.
I grab the spare blanket from the wardrobe and move to the couch.
It’s wide and low and looks expensive, but it’s probably the least comfortable thing ever designed by a human.
Still, better than lying next to the man who’s haunted me for years.
Just as I lower myself onto the cushions, another knock rattles the door.
My heart jumps, ready for security or Chris to barge in and collect their lead singer. But when I ease the door open, it’s room service with my burger and soda.
I take the tray, thank the guy in a whisper, and close the door as quietly as possible.
Back on the couch, I tuck my legs under me and lift the metal lid. My stomach growls on cue. I don’t turn on the TV; the light and sound might wake him. I don’t put on my headphones, either. If he starts vomiting or decides to roll off the bed, I want to know.
I eat in the half-dark, the clink of ice against my glass and Carter’s deep breathing the only sounds in the room.
I look over at him between bites.
The rest of the world sees the frontman. The man who turns arenas into a church with nothing but music and notes as his scripture. They see the headlines, the tabloids.
But this is the version no one sees.
This is the Carter who sat hunched on my couch with bloody knuckles at nineteen. The one who used to sleep sitting up in case his mom tried to drive drunk. The man who left and never called. Who still shows up in my dreams, uninvited.
What happened to him?
The burger turns to cardboard in my mouth. I finish it more out of necessity than hunger, wipe my fingers on the napkin and set the tray on the floor.
I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and lie down, staring at the ceiling, watching the lights from outside crawl across it.
My mind will not shut up. It loops from the boy on that couch years ago to the man in my bed now, from his slurred “us . . . all wrong” to that one unfiltered word, “dying.”
Sleep hangs just out of reach, waiting at the edges, then backing off again. Questions sit in the dark with me, refusing to let me go under.
***
I wake with a headache pounding behind my eyes. Feels like a hangover, which is cute, considering I didn’t drink much last night. Apparently, a crappy couch and almost no sleep come with their own special brand of punishment.
I push myself upright and scrub my hands over my face, blinking until the room comes into focus. Carter is still asleep in my bed. At some point in the night, he rolled onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes, the duvet riding low on his hips.
I move quietly, muscles protesting when I stand. Shorts, flip-flops, loose T-shirt. I scrape my hair into a messy bun, grab my purse, and set a fresh bottle of water on his nightstand along with two painkillers.
He doesn’t stir. Mouth slack, snoring softly.
“Of course,” I mutter. “Sleep through the one time I do something nice for you.”
I slip out into the hallway, easing the door shut behind me. The floor is blissfully empty. Thankfully, no Chris or security.
The lobby is already busy, front desk staff doing that polite morning voice with early travelers checking out. The barista at the café station is way too cheerful for this hour.
“How’s your morning going?” he asks, hand reaching for cups.
“Fine,” I reply, voice flat. “Two lattes, please.”
He starts to say something else, then seems to read the complete lack of invitation on my face and tuns his focus to the machine instead.
Good for him. Focus on the coffee, kid.
I take the two lidded cups and ride the elevator back up, grateful for the blast of cool AC when I open the door to my room.
The water is gone.
The painkillers are gone.
And so is Carter.
I let out a long breath. A “thank you” would have been nice. Not that I should expect anything from him. Feeling anything about that man—good, bad, or whatever—is a waste of time.
He ghosted out of my room the same way he ghosted out of my life over ten years ago. Well, at least it’s on brand.
I set the coffees down, peel the curtains back and let daylight flood in, then strip out of my clothes and head for the shower. It’s quick and frantic, more of a rinse than a reset.
Steam spills out of the bathroom when I step back into the room. I tap my phone on the nightstand, screen flaring to life so I can check the time.
Six forty-five.
Fucking fantastic.
I’m supposed to be at the airport at seven.
Right on cue, my phone buzzes. I towel my hand dry and open the message.
Megan: Where are you? We’re leaving in two minutes.
“Shit.”
I dress at speed, tugging on jeans, a clean tee and sneakers, and stuff the last of my toiletries into my backpack with wet hair dripping down my back. Two coffees in one hand, my suitcase handle in the other, bag over my shoulder, I bolt for the door.
By the time I hit the rear entrance of the hotel, Megan is already there, arms crossed, leaning against a black SUV.
“The guys left ten minutes ago,” she says. No hello. “I don’t care what you do in your personal time. If you stay up all night shagging or partying, that’s your business. But you will be on time in the morning. This isn’t negotiable. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”
Her eyes drop to the two coffees stacked in my hand. I swallow a sigh and offer the top one to her. She hesitates, then takes it with a tight, reluctant nod. “Make sure it doesn’t,” she says, bringing the cup to her mouth.
She opens the back door and I slide in while the driver loads my suitcase. As soon as the door shuts and we pull away from the curb, Megan is back on her phone, thumbs flying.
I turn my head to the window and watch Singapore slide past. I’m glad I got to wander a little, although it already feels like a blur.
My phone vibrates in my backpack. I dig it out. Forty percent battery.
Fucker.
I unlock it and pause at the contact name glowing at the top of the notification bar.
GOD.
For fuck’s sake.
I open the thread.
GOD
Morning, little Vi.
I bite down on a grimace and start typing.
Me
Really?
GOD
What? Thought you’d appreciate the throwback.
Me
You’re an asshole.
GOD
You say that like it’s news.
I flick a glance at Megan. Still buried in her phone, earbuds in now.
Another bubble appears.
GOD
You left water and painkillers. See, you DO care about me.
Me
Don’t flatter yourself. How you feeling?
GOD
Like my skull’s trying to escape through my left eye.
I roll my eyes.
Me
Glad to hear it. Also, how the hell did you get your number in my phone?
His reply drops instantly.
GOD
Easy. Your phone was on the nightstand. And your passcode is pathetic.
My jaw goes slack for a second. Wonderful. He knows my teenage-era code that I never changed. It’s been so long I’d forgotten what the numbers even stood for.
Me
I set the code when I was sixteen. Did you guess it on the first try?
GOD
Second. Tried your birthday first. Which was stupid.
GOD
Then I put in mine. Worked like a charm.
I press my lips together, refusing to let the ridiculous flutter in my stomach grow into anything bigger.
Me
GOD? Really? Your ego’s terminal.
GOD
That IS what you’re gonna scream when my head’s between your legs, and you’re begging to fall apart on my tongue.
GOD
But I’ll hold you there, shaking on the edge, dripping and desperate, until I decide you’ve earned it.
My throat goes dry. Every bit of fluid in my body relocates south without asking permission.
Another message lands before I can line up a decent insult.
GOD
By the way . . . thanks for last night. For helping me. And not letting me choke to death on my own vomit.
My chest squeezes.
GOD
I mean it. Thank you.
I stare at the screen and type carefully.
Me
You’re welcome. Try not to make a habit of it.
GOD
I’ll do my best. My brain still wants to exit my skull though.
Me
Lovely visual. Goodbye.
GOD
Goodbye? You wrapping me up?
GOD
Cold, Vi. Cold.
My mouth tries to curve upward. I shut that shit down, lock the phone, and drop it into my lap before I can start grinning at the screen like a teenager.
I turn back to the window. Buildings thin out, the city pulling away. I shouldn’t feel anything for this man. I know exactly how much damage he can do without even trying.
But my thumb lingers over the screen, waiting. In case another message appears.
It never comes.