19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter nineteen
Violet
Bang. Bang. Bang.
What the fuck.
I finish running a brush through my hair, fix my nose stud, and stalk out of the bathroom. Whoever is hammering on my door at 7 a.m. on the first day of our break in Paris better be dying.
Six cities, constantly on the go, everyone pissing in each other’s pockets. We need a few days apart before someone gets murdered with a drumstick.
Bang. Bang-bang-bang-bang.
“Fuck, I’m coming!”
I yank the door open, ready to verbally eviscerate whoever’s on the other side.
Then my brain short-circuits.
It’s Carter.
But it’s . . . not.
He’s propped in the doorway with one arm braced on the frame, one ankle crossed over the other, hand on his hip.
He’s in a matching tracksuit so offensively dorky it has to be deliberate, a black fanny pack strapped to his waist, dark sunglasses, and a Knicks cap pulled low.
And I don’t know what the hell to call it, but black strands of hair are sticking out from under the cap.
“Oh my fucking God.” I burst out laughing. “Are you wearing a mullet wig?”
His grin is breathtaking despite the tragic getup. Which just goes to show, this man could wear a literal garbage bag and still ooze sex.
“You likey?” He does a full slow turn, palms out, giving me a complete three-sixty view of his disguise.
I bite my lip to hold in another laugh. It fails. “Call me Gazza,” he announces proudly.
He’s gone full Aussie bogan in Paris, and I’m helpless. I double over, laughing.
“What are you doing?” I manage, shaking my head.
“Since it’s our day off”—he points at me, then hooks his thumb toward his chest—“your ass is mine. Big day. Let’s move.”
“Wait, where are we going?”
He flicks his mullet over his shoulder. “I have the whole day planned out. It’s our first official date. And what better place to do it than Paris.”
Oh. This man.
I spin, grab my purse, my half-charged phone, and on impulse snatch up my camera. Then I step out and pull the door shut.
We slip out of the hotel before anyone can latch on, question us, or shove a phone in his face.
He tugs the cap lower, sunglasses shielding his eyes, and I fall into step beside him without a word.
There is no universe in which I’d say no to this man.
Not when everything between us is finally starting to feel . . . possible.
He slides his hand into mine as we hit the street. And I realize, this is the first time we’ve been alone together outside a hotel room. There’s no security shadowing us, or Chris hustling him to the next obligation, or Dave and Mika following with cameras while Megan hovers.
Just me and him, alone at last.
Paris opens around us, mild air carrying coffee, pastry, and Metro dust. I tilt my face into the sun and breathe it in, a smile on my lips. I’ve spent a long time being angry—at him, myself, and the world—that I don’t quite know what to do with the flicker of calm working its way through my body.
He takes me to a tiny café on Rue Cler, one of those market streets where old women buy flowers and cheese, and tourists wander with their cameras strapped around their necks.
We sit outside under a yellow awning. In this light, in that disguise, he almost passes for a random thirty-something guy in a ridiculous tracksuit. Untouched by fame.
Almost.
I lift my camera and take a shot. His head is bent over his coffee, glasses hiding his eyes, mullet tangled in the back. My chest expands like a balloon.
Back in Stockholm I gave him shit for choosing this life. Told him it came with a price. However, seeing the price, up close, in real time—seeing how much effort it takes for him to walk a street unbothered—is another thing entirely. It’s confronting in a way I never expected.
We share an almond croissant the size of my head.
He keeps stealing bites from my side of the plate like a seagull, and I pretend to grouch about it but don’t pull it away.
Watching him lick powdered sugar off his thumb is strangely intimate.
It’s mundane and completely normal and utterly irresistible.
After breakfast we wander around, down narrow streets lined with bookshops and cafés and stores filled with things I can’t afford.
His hand never leaves mine. Every casual touch pulls me a little deeper into whatever we are now.
The way he looks at me like I’m something precious he never expected to have renders me speechless.
Once we reach the Seine, the sun’s high above us and the water glitters, throwing light back in our faces. Carter buys us ice creams from a cart and assaults the vendor with French so appalling I almost feel bad for the language. It’s all vowels and hand gestures that top off his bogan look.
For a man meant to be incognito, he stands out like a neon sign. But for some reason, it works. No one notices him. Not even to do a double-take.
We sit on the riverbank with our cones. The stone is warm under my thighs and I stretch out, dropping my head into his lap. His fingers drift lazily through my hair.
It’s hard not to think about his test results. About hospitals, livers, and statistics. The thoughts invade my brain uninvited and I can guarantee it’s doing the exact same to him.
The last thing I want is for those thoughts to invade this one perfect day he carved out for us. Instead, I grab the distraction that’s been needling at me for a while.
“So,” I say, staring at the sky, “for the life of me, I still can’t figure out your kinks.”
His hand pauses in my hair and he snorts a laugh. “My kinks?”
“Yeah.” I tilt my head to look up at him. “You go to Eden. Is that just for privacy and convenience? Or is there something specific you’re chasing?”
He looks down at me, mouth quirking.
“I like being in control,” he replies after a beat. “That’s hardly news, though. I like to control my partner’s pleasure. I get off on giving her as many orgasms as humanly possible and deciding when and where she has them.”
“So you’re a pleasure Dom.”
He gives a quiet, amused sound. “You could call it that. If you want.”
A warm ripple runs right down my spine and settles between my legs.
“But I also like breath play,” he continues, “and free use.”
“Free use?” My brows shoot up. “How the hell does that work at Eden?”
“It doesn’t,” he says. “I don’t go there for that. That’s . . . relationship stuff. And it has to be with the right person, right rules. It’s not something I get to do often.”
I swallow a mouthful of ice cream. His hand is still in my hair. My brain is already playing with images I shouldn’t be thinking about on a public riverbank.
“And you?” he asks. “Come on, Vi. Sharing is caring.”
“I don’t have a specific kink.”
He scoffs.
“I don’t,” I insist. “I’m down for . . . pretty much anything. In theory.”
He laughs, the sound warm and sticky. “Of course you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My tone goes flat.
“Vi.” His fingers tug lightly on a strand of my hair. “You’re curious about everything. You always have been. You pretend to be hardened and jaded, but you react to shit like someone who hasn’t explored half as much as she wants in life.”
I stare at him, stunned into silence. His accuracy annoys me.
I look back up at the sky. “I’d be down with free use,” I continue. “In the right setting.” A few scenarios flicker through my head. “It’d be difficult on tour.”
“It would,” he says easily. “But it’s gotta be the perfect time and place, and with our people around us.”
He glances down at me. Even without seeing his eyes, I feel them.
The silence between us thickens with possibility.
When I think I might actually combust from the tension, he leans down and places his sticky lips on mine. His mouth is cool from the ice cream, and I taste vanilla, sugar, and him.
Then he pulls back, and he’s smiling. The charge flickers between us, making my thighs press together.
The rest of the afternoon is bliss. We walk through the Musée d’Orsay, lingering in front of anything that pulls one of us in. Every time, he stands behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, chin on my shoulder. His breath fans over my neck, his heat seeping into my back.
For once, no one’s asking for a photo or screaming his name. We’re just two people in a museum, looking at dead painters’ feelings.
We find a small bistro tucked down a side street for dinner. Candles burn low in old wine bottles, wax running in thick drips. The tables are too small, forcing us in close. His thigh presses against mine under the table and doesn’t move.
He orders for us—still in terrible French—and we end up with creamy pasta and full-bodied wine to die for. We talk about nothing and everything. Old gigs. Music trivia. Nightmare shoots. It’s a strange relief being somewhere alone and anonymous.
He doesn’t check his phone once. Or drift off into himself. He stays present, here with me.
Until his phone rings.
He goes very still before he reaches for it. Glances at the screen, then lifts it to his ear.
My stomach hollow outs.
I watch his face while he listens. The restaurant light makes it harder to read, shadows slicing across his features. His eyes flick up to mine, then away. His mouth presses into a line. One long breath leaves him, his shoulders drop, bit by bit.
“Okay,” he replies quietly. “Thank you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He ends the call.
And looks at me.
But I already know.
“It’s clear,” he says, swallowing. “It’s not cancer.”
The world stops spinning, everything stilling around us.
“Stage two cirrhosis of the liver,” he continues. “I’m fine. I mean, I’ve got shit I need to fix, but . . . I’m not dying.”
Relief floods through me. Tears sting my vision, burning behind my eyes before I can fight it. I slap my hand over my mouth, trying to contain the sound that wants to escape, but he reaches across the table and pulls it down, lacing our fingers together instead.
“Vi,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes over my knuckles. “It’s okay.”
I nod, once, twice. My throat is too tight for words. I’m dizzy, lightheaded, almost weightless, because the fear I’ve been carrying for him finally lifts.
He’s not dying.
I look at him across the table, candlelight flickering across his face, and the truth that’s been circling me since I stepped on this tour finally settles.
I’m in love with him.
Hopelessly. Stupidly. Irreversibly.
I probably never stopped loving him. I buried it under anger instead.
Sitting here in Paris with his fingers wrapped around mine, all the walls I built out of spite and survival start to crack.
The anger hasn’t vanished. It’s still there in the background, a reminder of every wound he left behind. But it no longer screams. It sits further back now, more candle flame than wildfire. For the first time, the idea of letting it go doesn’t terrify me.
He squeezes my hand gently.
“You okay, little Vi?”
I meet his eyes. “I’m perfect. And don’t call me that.”
He exhales down his nose, and the sound slides through me, warming everything it touches.
I fall for him just a little bit more.
Teenage me would probably melt down if she knew this was coming. I can picture it now—us, beyond the tour. The hotel rooms and backstage scraps replaced with mornings. Weeks. Maybe even years. The idea of staying by his side—of building something real with him—doesn’t feel impossible anymore.
Knowing I have time with him is a gift.
I’m not wasting a fucking second of it.