Chapter thirty-two
Carter
Chris is standing in the aisle, my phone in his hand, when we taxi into JFK airport.
“What do you want me to tell Violet?” he asks.
I shrug and stare out the tiny oval window. Rain streaks sideways as we pull into the hangar.
“Tell that bitch not to contact me again.”
Silence drops around us. Even over the engine whine, it’s noticeable. It lands exactly how I knew it would.
It’s fucking harsh, and a piece of my heart shrivels, but it’s necessary. I deserve the quiet “oh fuck” from Kai three rows back. But it has to be done.
I can’t trust anyone.
I know Vi didn’t leak those photos. I might be a fuck-up, but I’m not a moron.
There is no way she would sell me out to a tabloid and ruin her career at the same time.
Someone else did it. Someone close and on this tour.
Could be Mika or Dave. Both of them have that stupid kicked-puppy look around her sometimes.
Megan, maybe? She’s made it pretty damn clear she’d like a turn at me.
Right now, though, my money’s on Chris. He’s been weird about Violet this whole tour.
But fuck, it could be anyone.
So, yeah, I lie straight to Chris’s face and let him think I’m done with her. That I’m pissed and want distance. If I’m the only one on this jet who knows I don’t blame her, I’m the only one who can’t accidentally give it away.
There’s exactly one person I trust right now.
Liam.
He wasn’t with us on tour. Plus, he would throw himself in front of a train for her.
As would I. Always have. Always will.
The plane door hisses open, and I’m on my feet.
I need space. A few seconds when no one’s hovering like I’m about to decorate the bulkhead with my brains.
Chris has been attached to my hip since LA. Ripped a bottle of scotch out of my hand before we even left the hotel press conference. Wouldn’t even let me take a piss without security breathing down the door.
What did he think I was going to do, hang myself with a hand towel?
I’m pissed off. I’m not suicidal.
I haven’t craved a drink since Singapore. Then LA happened, and she got dumped on the other side of the world to choke on this mess without me. That’ll make any man reach for a bottle to dull the senses.
My boots hit the metal stairs, then the tarmac. Sunglasses on and a cigarette already between my lips. The air’s cold and wet, New York already numbing my fingers. Home sweet fucking home.
Behind me, the guys clatter down. Low voices, bags shuffling. Everyone pretending they’re not watching me while very much watching me.
We hit the private terminal doors.
Something moves at the corner of my vision.
Then pain explodes across my cheekbone.
My head snaps sideways. Sunglasses go flying. Cigarette disappears. My vision turns snow white before polished stone rushes up.
Before I can suck in a breath, there’s a whole body on me, heavy and furious, dragging me down by my leather jacket and slamming me against the floor.
“You fucked my sister, you fucking prick!”
Liam’s red face crowds my view, eyes wild, full of fury. Spit hits my skin when he shouts. His hands bunch my lapels, and he shakes me hard making my skull crack against the tiles.
Behind him, everything goes loud at once.
“Whoa—Liam—”
“Jesus, fuck—”
“Kai, get his arm—Theo, move—”
Airport security moves in, hands on radios, but Chris throws an arm out without even looking at them.
“We’ve got it,” he snaps. “Back off.”
They move away but keep watching. Same with the rest of the crew and my personal security spilling through the doors, the whole traveling circus. Exactly how I wanted to do this: beaten on the floor with the entire tour getting a front-row seat to my personal crap.
“She has had a crush on you her ENTIRE LIFE,” Liam roars in my face. “It was fucking obvious to everyone. Then one day, she couldn’t stand to hear your name. You broke her, Carter. She built herself back up from nothing and you—”
He slams me again. My teeth clack.
“—you fucking ruined her all over again. These photos?” His grip tightens, shaking. “You’re a piece of shit.”
My cheek is on fire. Copper spreads across my tongue.
What the fuck does he think happened?
My fury bares its teeth and bolts.
“It’s not like that.” I snarl and spit blood on the floor. “What the fuck are you talking about?!”
The terminal suddenly slants sideways. He must’ve got me twice; my jaw and lip are throbbing in time with my pulse.
Big hands lock around Liam from behind.
Theo gets him in a reverse bear hug and lifts him clean off me as if he weighs nothing.
“That’s enough,” Theo grunts. “You’ll kill him if I let you keep going. And we really don’t need another scandal right now, yeah?”
That cuts through. Liam’s shoulders drop, and he loosens his fists.
“Fine,” he grinds out. “Fine. Get off me.”
Theo eases his arms away and steps back, ready to grab him again if he so much as flinches.
I push myself up onto one elbow and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. It comes away red.
“It’s not like that,” I say again, more controlled, getting to my feet.
Liam storms closer, chest heaving. “Then spell it out for me—nice and clear.”
I run my tongue over the cut in my lip, and it bites back.
“Yes, we hooked up on tour,” I admit. “More than once.”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth.
“But we were together,” I add. “Actually together. This isn’t some fling. We were going to tell you after the tour. We weren’t hiding it to screw you over.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“And about when we were kids . . .” My throat goes tight, old shit clawing up. “Violet and I have gone through it. I’ll tell you everything; you deserve that. But not here. Not with the crew watching this shit show.”
I sweep a look around the ring of faces. Half of them pretend to suddenly find their phones interesting.
“Enough of my personal crap is out there,” I snap. “We don’t need to leak the rest in Arrivals.”
Liam stares at me, shoulders still tight, breath still too fast.
“This conversation isn’t over,” he clips out.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, asshole.” Touching my cheek, I hiss. “Nice shot, by the way.”
“Fuck,” Liam mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Chris crouches, scoops my sunglasses off the floor, brushes them off on his suit jacket, and hands them to me.
“Get these on,” he says. “We’ve got twenty minutes to get you to the hotel and cover that lovely shade of purple coming through.”
I slide them on and the frame digs into swollen flesh.
“Alright,” Liam calls out, voice cracking across the space as he slides into full manager mode. “Listen up.”
The terminal goes quiet.
“There will be no change of plans,” he announces. “We don’t cancel anything. If we move dates or pull out of appearances, it throws petrol on the fire. And this thing . . . It’s not going away anytime soon. We finish the tour, business as usual. We smash the show tonight, and press stays the same.”
He looks at Chris. “Statements?”
“Drafted,” Chris says. “Legal’s picking them clean as we speak.”
Liam nods. “Good. You”—he jabs a finger at me—“are going to answer every question like a goddamn choirboy. You say exactly what we tell you to. You memorize every line. You do not improvise. Not one word. Got it?”
I salute him with my middle finger. He rolls his eyes, but I see the twitch on his mouth.
He steps in close again, drops his voice for my ears only.
“I’m not letting Vi take the fall for this,” he says. “I don’t know who sold those photos, but as soon as we’re through the next seventy-two hours, I’m coming for them. She didn’t do this.”
“I know,” I whisper back. That was never a question. “But no one else can know I know. Right now, everyone needs to think I blame her. If whoever did this thinks they got what they wanted, maybe they’ll relax. Maybe they’ll fuck up.”
His eyes harden. “Fine.”
“When you find them,” I bite out. “I want their head on a fucking platter.”
“Done.”
He straightens, raises his voice again. “Let’s move. Roll out.”
The whole machine lurches back into motion. Security forms a moving wall. Crew grab cases. The guys fall in around us, talking about levels and set lists like we didn’t just do round one of Fight Club in the middle of the private terminal.
My cheek throbs, but that’s nothing compared to the real pain sitting lower, lodged beneath my ribs.
Violet is on the other side of the world, alone, completely blind to everything happening. She’ll be assuming the worst, carrying the blame that was never hers to bear. Because Chris is going to feed her the line that I planted.
“I want to talk to Vi,” I tell Liam as we walk.
“You can’t,” he says quietly. “Not right now. You need to focus on the show and the press. No distractions. I’ll call her.”
“Tell her—”
“I’ll tell her,” he cuts in. He holds my gaze, and there’s a rough understanding there, something that looks too close to pity.
I nod, but it does fuck all for the fact I’m already unraveling without her.
Three more days, and I’m on a plane.
If she wants out, she can look me in the eye and say it.
Until then, she’s still mine.