16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter sixteen
Violet
Chris spent the entire flight from Stockholm to Lisbon shooting daggers at the side of my head. Four whole hours of it.
His eyes were acid. Every time he threw a look my way, it felt like the skin was being flayed off my face. Grotesque, dramatic, whatever. But accurate, nonetheless.
I made a game of pretending not to notice.
Every time I caught his gaze, I gave him my sweetest, most harmless smile.
It only confused him, which made it infinitely more satisfying.
Even Megan noticed as she leaned over at one point and whispered, “What crawled up his ass this morning?” I shrugged and went back to my Kindle.
Before Carter got hauled out of my room in Stockholm, I made him promise. Whatever this thing is between us, it stays between us. Megan can’t know, his bandmates can’t know, and more importantly, Liam can’t know. I told him if he breathed a word to anyone, I’d get stabby.
He believed me.
But Chris is the leak I can’t control. The man knows everything, sees everything, and reports to my brother. A walking threat wrapped in Tom Ford.
According to Carter, he “handled it.” Translation: he backed Chris into a corner and told him if he opened his mouth to Liam, he’d lose his job and the privilege of swanning around in bespoke suits. For Chris, that ranks somewhere between losing a limb and losing his phone.
Apparently, spilling his guts isn’t worth as much as a three-piece suit. Didn’t stop him from spending the whole Stockholm–Lisbon leg radiating disapproval at my head.
Lisbon itself was a blink-and-miss-it stop, only a week, and Chris made sure that week turned into a creative form of blue-ball torture for Carter. A nice little “fuck you” as payback. I had no alone time with him. None.
Carter’s schedule was wall-to-wall: media, rehearsals, sound checks, after-parties, PrimeTime+ interviews, and “organic” hangouts with the band so the guys could film brotherhood footage.
I was there for all of it, in the background with my camera, doing my job. Framing shots. Tracking light and capturing the way the band moves.
It was disturbingly easy to slip back into ignoring Carter.
Distance and disdain fit me like an old, worn sweater. I didn’t have to think about it; I just pulled it on and let it do its thing. Turn away. Keep my tone dry. Keep the line between us sharp.
But he’s not doing as good a job. He’s struggling.
I’ve caught him watching me more than once. Flicking looks at me when he thinks I won’t notice. He has to be one of the world’s worst actors. A master showman but shit actor.
I tried waiting up for him at night. Sitting on my bed with my laptop open and the TV on mute, attempting to work. But by the time he’d drag himself back to the hotel, it was always early morning, and my eyes had given up and shut on their own.
Still, I know he came.
Every morning, I’d wake up to a paper rose on my bedside table, folded out of whatever the hotel had left lying around. A save-the-planet towel card. A room service menu. A welcome note. Crisp, tight folds, petals curling perfectly. Those nimble fingers know how to work more than just a fretboard.
The only time we’ve had real contact is through text. And he texts a lot. My fading phone battery now taps out by mid-afternoon.
Me
Come on, don’t be a stubborn dick. Let me talk to Liam.
Carter
You’re not going to let this go, are you?
No. I’m not.
We’re trailing through Madrid airport, me and the PrimeTime+ crew in a slow-moving clump of rolling suitcases and mild exhaustion. Up ahead, I can just make out Carter, phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other, walking with the band and security.
We texted the entire hour-and-a-half flight from Lisbon to Madrid, but this is the first time I’ve brought up Liam again. And the tests. I’m not going to let it slide.
Me
Do you know me at all?
Carter
Stupid question. Okay, I’ll tell him. Tonight. But I’m doing this for you.
I stare at his shitty response. He shouldn’t be doing it “for me.” He should be doing it because his liver is sending up flares, and he wants to live long enough to die of old age. But a win’s a win, so I’ll take it.
One problem down, one to go.
I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans as the sliding doors hiss open and Madrid greets us with a gust of cold air. At least it’s not as icy as Stockholm.
Still, I yank my hoodie over my head and shove my hands into the kangaroo pocket. To our left, a crowd of fans pack in behind a metal barricade, screaming, holding up signs and phones. A neat line of black SUVs waits on the curb, ready to whisk us away to the hotel.
Carter and the band peel off toward the barricades. They stop to sign and pose with the fans. The crew heads for the first cars, eager to get to their rooms.
“I’ll catch up with you at the hotel,” I tell Megan. She hums without looking up from her emails.
I move to the side, swing my backpack off my shoulder, and pull out my camera. Strap across my neck, finger on the shutter.
Carter’s in full PR mode. Smile on and chin angled perfectly. He moves down the fence with ease, signing whatever’s shoved at him: photos, ticket stubs, albums. He uses one pen, quick scrawl, thank you, next.
I snap shots of the crowd. A girl on the verge of hysteria. A guy in full eyeliner and a tour T-shirt, clutching a vinyl to his chest. A mom holding her kid up so he can see.
Then Carter reaches a woman who has her cleavage hoisted and bared, top tugged down, talking a mile a minute in Spanish, gesturing to her chest with manic enthusiasm. Even without understanding a word, the message is clear: “Sign here, please.”
I smirk and raise my camera, fully prepared to immortalize Carter Ashford autographing a stranger’s tits in high resolution.
My finger presses the shutter.
Except instead of looking down, he glances up.
Straight at me.
The camera clicks, capturing his face mid-movement, pen hovering over bare skin, his eyes locked on mine with a question in them.
For a split second, I stare, completely thrown. Then my brain kicks back in. Lowering the camera, I widen my eyes at him in a “shut up and sign the boobs, you idiot” kind of way.
He gets it. He looks back down and scrawls his name across her chest.
Why the hell he needs my non-verbal blessing to sign a fan’s body is beyond me. I don’t get jealous over that shit. Not my style.
I don’t even let myself glance around to see if anyone else caught that look. The fans were too busy losing their minds, but that doesn’t mean nobody on our side noticed.
He finishes with the markers and moves on to selfies. His smile is good, but I know his real one, and this isn’t it. This is muscle memory. Sign, pose, move on.
I let the camera fall back against my chest, loop my backpack over my shoulders, and head for the nearest waiting SUV.
Chris is on his phone, leaning against the car, wearing one of his suave three-piece Tom Ford suits and his hair neatly slicked back.
I roll my suitcase over to the driver. As I’m shrugging my backpack off to climb into the car, Chris speaks without looking up.
“Never thought I’d see the day Carter Ashford, three-time ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ and world’s favorite bachelor, would ask permission from a woman to sign a fan’s breasts.”
Ah, shit.
So someone did notice. Problem number two, right on cue.
I pause with one leg in the car. He’s still scrolling, thumb flicking over the screen.
I step back down onto the pavement and let the door swing shut.
“Hey,” I start. “As much as it pains me to say this, thanks. For not telling Liam and keeping it to yourself.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?” He finally tucks his phone into his pocket and uses his other hand to smooth a palm down his jacket-covered arm.
“No,” I agree. “But you got your revenge. Well played.” I dip my head.
He lifts an eyebrow, assessing me, waiting to see where I’m going with this.
I’ve spent most of my life going in hard. Threats, sharp words, and a promise of violence. I could go that route with him. Tell him to stop sabotaging my sex life or I’ll rearrange his teeth.
Instead, I take a breath and try something new. Honey instead of vinegar.
“I would,” I say, tone almost pleasant, “really appreciate it if you’d stop cock-blocking me, though.”
That gets his attention.
“I’m missing out on some epic dicking here,” I continue. “I’m one grumpy bitch when I don’t get a regular dose of vitamin D. Especially after finally getting a taste and then being shoved straight back into the shade. I’ve been missing this particular sun since I was a teenager.”
His lips twitch.
“You have my word.” I hold his gaze. “I won’t be a distraction to him. I won’t get in the way of the band. And I won’t pull a Yoko Ono. Truce?”
His eyes are pitch black; they’re almost reptilian in the way they watch you. Chris is annoyingly handsome, but he’s way too pretty for me. I like men who’ve lived a little, not ones who’d flinch at the idea of a scuff on their shoes.
He purses his lips as he studies me, and I feel my old strategy—anger, threats, blades—bubbling just under my skin, waiting for an excuse. My fingers itch for the Swiss Army knife in my boot.
He inhales and exhales heavily, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure I can arrange some gaps in his schedule,” he says finally. “Who am I to deny someone vitamin D? It keeps my skin flawless.” He points at his face, dead serious.
A slow smile climbs onto my mouth and refuses to leave.
“But consider yourself warned,” he adds. “You fuck this up, cause any drama, and I’m coming after you.”
“Deal.” I hold out my fist.
He bumps it without hesitation.
I open the door and hop into the SUV. As the car pulls away from the curb, I catch a glimpse of him in the side mirror, already back on his phone.
My smile stays.
Maybe you do catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
Apparently, twenty-seven isn’t too old to learn a new trick.
***