Chapter twenty-four
Violet
“Psst, Vi.”
I stop mid-step, my head whipping around. Crew are hauling cases with headsets crackling, everyone locked in tunnel vision, preparing for the Toronto show. No one’s looking at me.
I start walking again, convinced I imagined it.
Someone grabs the back of my T-shirt and yanks.
I barely get a breath before I’m dragged into the nearest room, the door shut fast behind us.
“Jesus—” I start. “Carter?”
He’s already in stage gear, looking lethally hot. We’re wedged inside a storage room stacked with cables, cases, and random shit no one’s probably cataloged since the early noughties.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I ask, half amused.
He backs me up until my spine hits the door, a devious grin at his mouth.
“I need another hit.”
I blink, not following for a second—
Oh.
“You’re due at soundcheck. And Megan and the guys are waiting for me. Like. Now.”
“Free use, Storm.” His voice drops. “And I’m not going onstage until I get it.”
I snort despite myself. I’m totally into this “free use” thing.
It’s not something I’d ever thought about before, but the idea of being available for Carter whenever he feels like it is hot as hell.
After we laid down a couple of ground rules in Paris, he’s basically had open access whenever the mood hits. Behind closed doors, of course.
He cages me in, arms braced above my shoulders, eyes locked on mine. The blue is stupidly bright up close, such a gorgeous color with flecks of black in it. I fight the urge to push back the blond strands covering his left eye.
He leans down and presses his lips against mine in a soft, searching kiss. When he pulls back, his expression is downright diabolical.
He drops to his knees without breaking eye contact.
Unbuttoning my shorts, he slides them down along with my panties over my sneakers, then hooks my leg onto his shoulder. When his nose presses against my mound, he inhales deep.
“Always so wet for me.”
He flattens his tongue and swipes up my slit, gathering my wetness before swirling his tongue around my clit. One hand digs into my hip, the other anchors my thigh, keeping me open, on his shoulder.
He doesn’t hold back. Time’s tight, and he moves with precision, knowing exactly what he came here for. He eats like he means it, and the sounds coming from him are filthy.
I clutch his hair and grind on him, pushing him deeper, rubbing myself all over his mouth and nose.
My skull hits the door with a thud.
“Fuck, Carter,” I breathe. “Your tongue . . .”
He can’t answer, but I feel his moan vibrate through me anyway.
My core tightens dangerously fast, all my muscles contract, my eyes screw shut, and—
“Have you seen Carter?”
Liam’s voice comes from behind my head, muffled through the door.
Ice water drips down my spine. Carter freezes, then pulls back to look up at me. His pupils are blown, jaw tight. He mouths, Don’t you fucking stop. Give it to me. Now.
I’ve never seen him like this. This desperate and wild.
He dives back in, and I bite down hard on my lip. My hips betray me immediately, chasing the release that was swept away only moments before. It comes roaring back, sharper for the delay.
“I haven’t,” a voice answers Liam on the other side of the door. It must be Chris. “Think he wrapped soundcheck with the guys.”
My face crumples as I’m flung off the cliff into ecstasy. I shake, my breath coming out in quiet broken pants.
“If you see him, tell him I’m waiting in his dressing room,” Liam says. “Have you seen Vi?”
“Uh . . . no.” Chris hesitates. He knows. Of course he knows.
I’m doing everything I can to stay quiet, breathing shallow to steady myself, while Carter is doing the exact opposite, slurping loudly.
I give his head a light shove, shooting him a warning look.
He pulls back, grinning, my juices covering half his face and his eyes smug and satisfied like the bastard he is.
He rises from his knees, licking his lips.
“Thanks, Storm,” he murmurs. “Needed that.”
He grabs my hips, pulls me forward, cracks the door to check the hall—then slips out.
And I’m left here, wet and half naked, puzzled by this man and his need to eat me out before his show, while my brother was on the other side of the plywood.
I fix myself as best I can, tugging clothes back into place, retying my hair. I peek out, then bolt the second the hall clears, praying no one notices me slipping out of a supply room that I definitely didn’t need to be in.
Megan’s already mid-briefing when I join them. I nod at the right moments, but none of it enters my brain. My stomach is tight, dread lodged high in my throat.
Liam almost caught us.
We have to tell him. I know that. But, knowing doesn’t make it any easier. The last thing I want is to be the wedge between them.
When Megan finally wraps up, I don’t wait. I head straight for Carter’s dressing room.
I knock.
The door swings open immediately.
Liam stands there in a button-down and slacks, arms wide, smiling.
We’re not huggers, never have been. But it’s been five cities since Paris, and tour time moves fast when you’re working nonstop and fucking around with Carter in the cracks between it.
A lot’s shifted since Sydney. Liam’s a dad now.
And Carter . . . Carter has permanently inked himself on my heart.
We’re not the same people we were at the start.
When Liam opens his arms, I don’t overthink it—I step into him and hug him hard.
“How are Anne and Indigo?” I ask into his shoulder.
“Couldn’t be better,” he says softly.
Over his shoulder, I catch Carter on the couch, cigarette between his fingers, watching me with a lazy tilt of his lips.
Dirty bastard.
I doubt he even bothered wiping his face.
We pull apart.
“So,” Liam begins, eyeing me. “He treating you alright? I can still kick his ass.”
Carter grunts. “You’ve never been able to kick my ass.”
“He’s been . . . treating me well,” I reply.
God. That was tragic.
Carter’s gaze sharpens a fraction.
Message received: Stay cool, bitch.
I’m fucking trying to.
I hate being in this situation. It’s up to Carter to tell him, and he better do that fast before Liam finds out another way.
A knock cuts in. “Carter, on in five.”
“Duty calls.” He stubs out his cigarette and stands.
“Same,” I say, glancing up at Liam. “I need to move.”
“Do your thing.” He waves me off. “I’ll catch you after.”
We spill out of the dressing room. Carter jogs to catch up with the guys, Liam hangs back with Chris, and I head for the front row, camera up, slipping into position.
The lights go down.
***
Electric. Unhinged. Those are the only words that come to mind after witnessing two-and-a-half hours of pure magic.
The guys are still on their feet for the encore, bleeding themselves dry under the lights.
I duck backstage as the first notes hit, weaving through cables and crew. From side-stage, the crowd is different—no longer heat rolling off bodies around you, but a collective roar that smacks you in the face, turning the stadium into one enormous animal.
Liam’s already there with Chris and Megan. Dave and Mika are both filming, which is a genius move. Having two cameramen capture tonight’s show is going to pay off in post-production.
“Good timing,” Megan says without looking away from the stage. “Get me the side-stage reactions. Crowd, band, and Liam, if he’ll cooperate.”
Liam scoffs. “I always cooperate.”
Pulse launches into “Closer,” and Carter turns it into a new confession.
I avoided Pulse for years. I didn’t want Carter’s voice in my head when I’d worked too hard to keep him out of my life. I’d never really listened to the lyrics until this tour.
Now, I can’t unhear them.
It’s the same song every show, but somehow never the same.
Carter drags something different out of it each night.
Sometimes it’s rage. Other times it’s an apology.
Tonight it’s . . . softer. Almost sweet.
Call me crazy, but I swear he’s making a promise to himself in front of thousands of witnesses and daring the universe to call him on it.
I lift the camera, track Theo’s hands on the bass, catch him in that perfect moment where sweat shines and his grin turns savage. The shot is clean. Beautiful. I drop my eyes to the monitor to check exposure—
Powdery-sweet perfume floats in around me and my nose wrinkles immediately.
A blonde woman slides into my peripheral vision next to me, too close.
I look across—and my stomach drops.
I haven’t seen her since I was old enough to leave that shithole town for good, but some faces never get erased. Her bone structure’s the same—still pretty, just older. And she’s still into pink, apparently. The baby-pink dress clings to her body.
She doesn’t even look at me. She watches the stage with a smirk that I could happily knock sideways.
“Hi, Grunty.”
“Careful, Cindy,” I reply, flatly. “We’re not teenagers anymore. I’ve got zero issue punching you in the face and rearranging whatever Botox you’ve got in there. Don’t tempt me, bitch.”
Her smirk widens. “Still touchy, huh. Some things never change.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Carter invited me.” Her chin lifts toward the stage. “His tour manager personally extended an invitation. Guess he knew I moved to Toronto.”
She finally turns her head, and there it is—hope, bright as a torch. She’s got that dreamy, delusional excitement of someone who’s ready to hunt down her happily-ever-after.
“It’s nice to know he kept track of me,” she says, hand fluttering to her chest. “He must really want to . . . reconnect. Can you believe it?”
No. I genuinely fucking can’t.
I see red—proper, cinematic red. My brain drops into a Kill Bill fight scene, siren and all. Shame I don’t have a katana sword.
I do, however, have my Swiss Army knife in my boot.
Carter knows my history with her. We literally fought about her in Paris. Why would he—
Unless he didn’t.
Unless this is Chris being a prick. I thought we were on the same page. But this seems unnecessarily cruel, even for his standards.
Or Cindy is lying through her veneers.