14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter fourteen
Violet
There is nothing in the world like watching Carter Ashford walk onto a stage.
Every concert is a variation of the same ritual, and yet somehow, it’s never the same show twice. A shift in how he moves. The way he drags a chord out a second longer. The angle of his chin when the crowd screams his name, hitting him full force. It’s art, wild and messy and alive.
And I get to shoot it in real time. Catch the rawness before it burns out. Trap the electricity in a single photographic frame.
Artistically, it’s a dream. Personally, it’s torture.
By the time the last note dies, my breathing is uneven, my skin overheated, my nipples sensitive against my bra, and my underwear is a whole other situation. Every show leaves me hovering on the precipice of falling apart, and he has no idea he’s the reason.
Or maybe he does. He has to know exactly what his music does to people.
Carter comes offstage at a dead run, the crowd chanting for a second encore they’re not getting. His eyes find me instantly, zeroing in like he’s been tracking me all night. He hands his guitar to a tech without even looking, his focus locked on me. Only me.
He’s drenched, chest lifting and falling in deep pulls, hair shoved back by the heat. I’ve seen him in a thousand different states, but this is something else. He’s feral, supercharged in a way that shouldn’t be human.
Those eyes. Christ.
Before he reaches me, I raise my camera on instinct and take the shot. I don’t even think; it’s pure muscle memory. Eyes like that deserve to be immortalized.
In the next breath, he’s right in front of me, the roar of the crowd blurring into background noise. He plants his hands on the wall, on either side of my head, and cages me in. Heat, sweat, adrenaline, all of it pouring off him in waves. His presence is overwhelming, crowding out my oxygen.
He’s so close, I catch the salt on his skin and the faint metallic tang of guitar strings still clinging to his fingers. I want to breathe him in, drag every inch of him into my lungs, but I don’t. I hold my breath, terrified it will push me over the edge when I’m already wound tight.
He dips his head, mouth hovering inches from mine, eyes burning straight through me.
“Wanna get out of here?” His voice is rough from the set.
The words scrape out of me on half a breath. “Where do you want to go?”
His gaze tracks from my lips to my eyes and back again.
“Don’t know.” He glances over his shoulder. I follow it and see Mika with the camera pointed our way, red light on. “Anywhere but here. Somewhere quiet.”
The post-show high looks different on him tonight, more intense than elated.
“Sure,” I breathe against his lips. “My room.”
He straightens and steps back, but the intensity doesn’t drop. We move together through the maze of corridors, out the back entrance, where his SUV is waiting, security already in position.
Outside the barricades, the fans have made themselves into a human wall. Screaming, crying, hands reaching through gaps, phones shoved up in the air. They pound on the SUV as it crawls forward through the blockade. People call his name, beg, and sob.
Carter doesn’t look at any of them. He stares straight through the glass, as if all that noise and movement out there has nothing to do with him.
My hand moves before I think. I reach across the seat and take his, my fingers slipping between his knuckles. I squeeze and hold.
His eyes flick to mine, the heat there dimmed. He gives me a small half-smile that doesn’t reach the edges, then turns his head back toward the glass.
We keep our hands tangled all the way to the hotel.
It’s the same kind of chaos when we arrive. Security slices through the wall of bodies and funnels us into the underground car park. We take the elevator in silence.
He’s too quiet. Too turned inward. It feels wrong.
When we step into my room, he stands just inside the door, taking it in. Neutral walls, a decent bed, and a sad little kitchenette and sitting area. Comfortable enough, but nothing on the scale of the luxury he’d be used to.
He drops onto the couch and lets his head fall back, a wordless sound slipping out of him that could mean anything.
“You want a drink?” I ask, already walking toward the minibar.
He cracks one eye open. “Do you mind . . . no alcohol tonight?”
“Sure.” I grab a bottle of water, twist the cap off, and hand it over.
He downs the entire thing in two gulps, throat working, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The bottle lands empty on the coffee table.
“You want to shower?” I ask. “You’re a biohazard.”
He gives me a tired grin. “With you?”
“Keep dreaming, rock star.”
“You saying I stink, Vi?”
“Absolutely.”
He reaches out, catches my wrist, and tugs until I drop down beside him on the edge of the couch.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just tired.”
Liar.
I slide my fingers into his damp hair and push it off his forehead, smoothing it away from his face.
His eyes drift shut. “Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” I say quietly.
Time goes strange. It could be minutes. Could be an hour. His breathing evens out, not quite asleep, yet not quite awake either. My hand keeps moving through his hair. It feels too good to stop.
“Wanna play cards?” he says suddenly, eyes still closed.
Surprised, I let out a small puff of air. “Yeah, but shower first. I’d like to breathe.”
He laughs once, pushes himself upright, grabs his phone from his pocket to tap out a quick message, then heads for the bathroom.
“You sure you don’t want to join me?” he calls through the doorway. Water starts blasting. “I’d make it worth your while.”
“Not happening,” I say, loud enough for him to hear.
“Rude,” he replies, amused. “By the way, I texted Chris to bring me some fresh clothes.” The door swings shut.
“For fuck’s sake, Carter,” I yell and rub my fingers over the bridge of my nose.
“What?”
“He’s going to think we’re fucking.”
“What did you say?” he shouts through the door.
“I said, Chris is going to think we’re fucking now,” I yell even louder.
The bathroom door cracks open. His head pokes out, water running down his face that I want to lick up with my tongue. “What was that?”
This fucking guy.
“Chris. He’s going to think we’re fucking.”
He grins, entirely unbothered. “It’s only a matter of time, Vi.” He disappears back into the steam. “Can you get that?” he adds as a knock comes from the hotel door.
I swear under my breath on the way to answer it.
Chris stands there, expression stiff, holding a black overnight bag.
“He rang.” His tone is flat as sheet metal. He holds the bag out.
“Thanks.” I grab it and push a stray hair behind my ear.
He lowers his voice, eyes cutting past my shoulder toward the interior. “Whatever you’re doing with him, you should stop.”
My jaw drops. “Nothing is going on.”
“We’ll see,” he says. “If anything happens, and I mean any trouble, any fighting, anything that shakes the band, it comes back on you.”
I grip the bag handle tight to keep my hands from slamming the door in his face. “Anything else?”
“I like you, Violet. I do. But don’t fuck this up.” He turns and walks away. And I finally get to slam the door.
“Here, dickhead,” I call, pushing the bathroom door open enough to toss the bag inside. “Your clothes.”
“Thanks, Vi. You’re always so kind to me.”
I roll my eyes and head to the kitchenette. One soda for me. Another for him. The hiss of the can opening breaks the quiet.
The bathroom door opens, and he steps out in gray sweats and a black T-shirt, hair slicked back, smelling like deodorant. My ovaries stage a protest march.
I stare a second too long.
He catches it and smirks. “Roll that tongue back in your mouth, Vi, before I find a better use for it.”
I blink out of it, shove a can at his chest, and drop onto the couch.
“Uno?” he asks, already reaching for the deck of cards in his black bag.
“Okay. If we’re doing old times, we might as well go all in.”
Carter shuffles, fast and neat. “Same stakes as last time?” He deals us each seven cards.
“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
He flips the top card. Yellow six.
I sort my hand into colors and place down a yellow two. We go back and forth quickly, slapping down cards like something is chasing us, and soon enough, I hit him with a draw four on my second-last card. “Uno,” I declare. “And green.”
He groans as he picks up his penalty. I drop my last card with a flick of my fingers.
“Good game,” he says, taking a long pull from his soda. “Shoot your shot, little Vi.”
In all honesty, a swarm of my why questions are clawing to get out. But a different question has been sitting on my tongue since Singapore.
“The other night when you were wasted,” I say. “You said you were scared. Scared of dying?”
Carter pauses, the can halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t bother to hide the surprise that I went there. He sets the can on the table in front of us and drags a hand through his still-wet hair, then over his face. The breath he lets out feels like it came from the pits of his soul.
He turns to face me fully, meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. “Vi . . .” The rest comes out on a low exhale. “I’m sick.”
“What do you mean, sick?” My words come out sharp.
He stares at a point past my shoulder. “Sick, as in . . . something’s wrong. Been wrong.”
Heat rushes through me, then drops away fast, leaving behind a faint tremble. “Are you sure?”
He nods his head once.
My voice climbs. “Since when?”
“A while.”
“A while?” My lungs feel two sizes too small. “Carter, what the hell does that even mean? What kind of sick are we talking about?”
He shrugs. Actually shrugs. “Not sure yet.”
I almost come off the couch. “What?! What do you mean, ‘not sure’?”
“I think I’ve fucked up my liver.” He swallows. “My hands shake, my eyes go yellow sometimes. I’ve dropped weight, and there’s this pain in my gut. Sometimes, my skin itches, like ants crawling all over me.” He exhales hard. “I think . . . I think I have cancer.”
“Fuck, Carter! Wait.” Something clicks. “What do you mean, ‘you think’? Have you not been tested?”
He shakes his head.
I see red.