Clash

by Belle Aurora

“When you’re better.”

  His jaw tightened. “I need a lawyer, baby. They won’t let me sign myself out.”

  “I know.”

  “Call Rita. Tell her to come as soon as she can.”

  Oh, Lord, this was not going to go down well. “No.”

  He lifted his head and blinked at me. “What?”

  “No,” I repeated, ignoring my thumping heart. “You’re staying this time.”

  His brows lowered. “For how long?”

  “Ninety days.” That was the longest length of inpatient rehab. Connor was still in withdrawal. I’d done my research. He needed to be around medical professionals at this stage, needed medication to fight withdrawal, because it was so physically painful. Heroin was not an easy drug to fight and the battle would be intense.

  “Ninety…” He sat up, looking confused, muttering, “Ninety days?” His manner changed in an instant. “No fucking way, Emmy. I’m getting out of here.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Says who?”

  My temper was starting to rile. “Says me.”

  “You don’t understand, Emmy. I said I’d go to rehab and I did. Now I’m done and I’m leaving.” He shot up off the bed and went to the closet, opening a duffle and throwing his clothes inside.

  My voice was as calm as it could be in this situation. “Connor, you’re not going anywhere. I’m in charge here.”

  Connor always got mean when he was upset. He threw more clothes into the bag. “And who the fuck are you to me?”

  “Your wife,” I told him and he stilled.

  Yeah.

  Remember when we got married, you asshole?

  His entire body stiffened. “That was a gag. It didn’t mean shit.”

  I huffed out a small laugh. “Not according to the state of Nevada.”

  The memory of our last night in Vegas assaulted me and, quite suddenly, I was there again.

  “Will you go somewhere with me?”

  It felt like a lifetime ago.

  It didn’t matter that we were both sex drunk and we laughed the entire ceremony, or that a Riff Raff lookalike from The Rocky Horror Picture Show was the celebrant. I had a marriage certificate and I had a ring. I walked down the aisle to ABBA’s “I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do,” and the memory is so vivid, so fresh, that I can still smell the cologne Connor wore that night.

  According to Rita, the only other person who knew about the marriage, Connor was not of sound mind at the minute so when I went to court to apply for medical guardianship, it was granted in less than a heartbeat.

  I was in charge of Connor’s health and that was not something I took lightly.

  “So, what?” he smiled nastily. “You’re pulling rank?”

  Leaning against the doorframe, I folded my arms across my chest and nodded. “I guess I am.”

  He looked miserable. Staring into my eyes, he picked up the duffle and threw it. It hit the wall with a loud thud and he pointed a menacing finger at me. “Fuck you.”

  God. It hurt.

  My chest began to ache but I stood tall. “It’s okay, Connor. You can yell at me. Hit me. Hate me. I don’t care.” I swallowed hard, licking my lips. “As long as you’re alive for it.”

  Without waiting for a response, I walked away.

  “Emmy,” he called out softly.

  I kept moving.

  “Emily!” He was becoming frantic.

  My heart could only take so much.

  “Emmy, come back! Baby, please!”

  Tears fell from my lashes as he bellowed out one last thing, utterly desperate.

  “I need you!”

  Feeling lower than dirt, I wept the entire way home.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I Don’t Fuck With You.

  Emmy

  Life went on for everyone on the outside. It was hard on all of us but I had done the right thing. It was high time I bit the bullet and let the truth out. I needed to tell everyone about the marriage between Connor and me. The guys were completely shocked, the girls not so much. I asked them all to keep quiet and when they made their promises, I had no doubt that news would not travel outside of our friendship group.

  It had been eighty-eight days since I’d seen Connor. Noah kept me updated on his progress when I asked about him and remained quiet when I didn’t. Time passed slowly and although I went about the motions of life, a cold numbness shadowed me everywhere I went. My smile dulled. My laugh came out forced. I felt a withdrawal of my own. Only mine couldn’t be cured with rehab.

  I knew the exact moment Connor completed his stint in rehab. I knew this because he posted a selfie on his InstaFotto account. I wasn’t following him but Cherry was and she told me about it which, of course, meant I stalked his account from the shadows of the web.

  @ConnorClashOfficial posted, I’m back, bitches.

  I couldn’t help but smile. He looked good, so much better than he had when I left him, and his smile was wide and so purely Connor it made my stomach dip.

  A notification sounded on my phone.

  @ConnorClashOfficial followed you.

  Then a moment later, another notification.

  @ConnorClashOfficial tagged you in a post.

  My eyes widened.

  Oh, no.

  I clicked on it as quickly as I could and frowned when a photo of The Violet Dame appeared on Connor’s thread. It was a shoot I’d done with The Vixens only weeks ago. The image was black and white, and I stood in the center of the image wearing white, skintight latex pants and a tiny cropped tank top, my legs braced as I pressed a baseball bat into the ground, using it as a crutch. My signature black lips were curled, my head slightly tilted as I winked at the camera. I was barefoot, my hair was lightly curled and my boobs were barely contained in the barely there tank top.

  The caption underneath said, Who is she?

  And my gut coiled in on itself.

  Oh my God.

  Connor was going to out me. I was stunned.

  I could not believe him.

  “Asshole,” I seethed.

  After all he’d done, he was out for blood?

  Was he serious?

  I had nothing left to give. I was so tired of this.

  Couldn’t we just pretend we never met? Because I would really like that.

  The next day, I received another notification and my heart began to race.

  @ConnorClashOfficial tagged you in a post.

  Jesus. Not again.

  Another photo of me, this time from an online tabloid where I had twisted back to Cherry, smirking, giving the photographer a great view of my curved backside. The black latex dress I wore was tank style and tightened around the knees, making it hard to walk, but it did highlight my figure. The black, six-inch, leather, lace-up ankle boots also made it hard to walk in but looked great.

  And Connor wrote, Dat Ass #KillerQueen

  Oh shit. What?

  I didn’t understand.

  What was he trying to do?

  Quite suddenly, my numbers started to grow, where Connor had fourteen million followers, I had just over one million and I considered that a huge feat. I mean, one million people were going through my InstaFotto account.

  How bizarre.

  But every time Connor tagged me in a post, that number doubled, then tripled, and five days later, I was sitting at a baffling seven million followers.

  Weeks passed and every single day, Connor added yet another photo of The Violet Dame. Every single day, another racy and suggestive caption followed.

  One day, it was a photo of me in my signature latex, a little skintight number that had a black busty halter with a bright pink pencil skirt, to which Connor wrote, Holy Shit. #YES.

  My eyes were downcast but there was a slight smirk on my lips, my long, violet hair running down my back, my lips in Midnight Dream, my cupid’s bow accentuated considerably.

  Another day, it was the photo
of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue I’d done. The dark brown latex one-piece was high at the waist and low at the front. My breasts were nicely lifted and my nipples were present to the party. My lips were pouty and my eyes had a nice “come hither” thing going on. Connor’s caption read, Jesus fucking CHRIST. #WorkIt.

  Maybe the black latex opera gloves were overkill but this was exactly what The Violet Dame was. She was a gimmick wrapped up in a stunt and all done for promotion.

  Last week, Connor posted the photo of my stageside outfit from the Vixens’ last show. The cameras followed us everywhere, even more so now that Connor’s InstaFotto obsession had begun. This sucked for me because it meant I always had to be on my A-game, makeup and hair flawless and my outfit strategically chosen for the occasion.

  Wearing a pair of latex pants that were so tight Cherry had to baby powder my legs before helping me into them, I decided on a pair of black six-inch-high pumps. The pants were such a tight fit that I could barely breathe but the girls insisted I looked hot.

  And I finally understood why some men opposed condoms.

  Pearl talked me out of wearing a bra, instead placing black tape over my nipples in the shape of an x. The photo showed me on my phone, walking into the Palace Nero Theatre, and the flash had caught me in a way that revealed exactly what was under my see-through white button-up shirt. Connor had simply written, #GotMilk.

  And I couldn’t figure him out.

  What was he doing? And, more importantly, why was he doing it?

  They say the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior and I firmly believed that, which was why I was on edge the way I was.

  Connor had spent weeks with me, building me up in private, until…

  Well, we all know what happened.

  I had a bad feeling about what was going on here and everything in his conduct pointed to betrayal.

  I wasn’t sure of much but I was sure of this. Connor was building me up to knock me down. Again. I felt it in my bones.

  He was close to publicly revealing that I was the poor little schlep from “Virgin Tears,” and I was starting to feel sick from the anxiety that built with every day that passed. Part of me wished he’d just do it already.

  So when The Vixens and I arrived home from a show, at LAX and predictably the paps were waiting on us, I decided to give Connor the fuel to light the bonfire he would eventually throw me into.

  I mean, better for it to come out sooner rather than later, right?

  A familiar pap approached and I kept my eyes down in the uninterested manner the girls had taught me. He had his video camera in his hand and, smiling, came at me.

  “Miss Violet! Wait up!” But I kept walking. Once he caught up, he said, “So, everyone wants to know. What’s the deal with Connor Clash?”

  Avoiding the camera, I uttered a bored, “Connor who?”

  “Connor Clash.” He laughed, knowing full well I knew who Connor was. “Ooh. You shady, Miss Vi.” My smirk was real, and when he asked an amused, “You got anything to say to Connor?” pressure built in my ears. My palms were sweaty, and my heart began to race.

  This was it.

  “Yeah, I got something to say.” I’d been listening to a lot of rap lately and that was probably the only reason I decided to quote Big Sean. I lowered my oversized sunglasses and spoke directly into the camera. “I don’t fuck with you.”

  The pap let out a shrill whoop before turning the camera on himself and laughing hysterically. “Damn. She bad. Oh, Lord.” His laughter continued. “Connor, she murdered you, bruh. That bish cold.”

  On the outside, I was icy and indifferent. However, on the inside, memories of how I felt when that god-awful song was released played in my head, over and over again.

  I guess it was just a matter of time before round two. I just hoped I was ready for it this time around.

  The next morning, I woke to find I had been tagged in a post from @ConnorClashOfficial, and my stomach rolled in on itself.

  Whelp.

  Here goes nothing.

  I was still in bed, a little sleep dazed. My jaw tight with anticipation, I clicked on the notification, and…

  Umm…

  I frowned when I saw the post.

  Huh?

  That frown deepened when I read Connor’s caption.

  The video from the day before, at the airport, had been edited to show only my responses to the questions asked. My finger hovered over the video and, in a mild state of confusion, I clicked on it a second time. The clip replayed.

  “Connor who?” followed by my deliberate smirk. The video skipped straight to my intense stare. “I don’t fuck with you.”

  My cheeks flushed with disgrace. Was this the person I’d become?

  It was Connor’s caption that confused me.

  One crying face emoji. Two laughing emojis. The hashtag #SLAYED, followed by three heart-eye emojis. But what he wrote underneath that humbled me.

  Love me a strong woman.

  It also perplexed me.

  I thought hard about the last few weeks.

  Had I misread the situation?

  Maybe I was wrong about his intent. I mean, it was unlikely but completely possible. I swallowed past the shame I felt and made the stupid mistake of reading some of the comments in the thread.

  Connor come to DC so I can fuck you!!!

  My lip curled. “Ugh.”

  Hahaha OMG. Slayed is right. She COLD!

  Don’t worry, baby. I’ll kiss you better, trailed by a heart eyes emoji.

  My voice still sleep husky, I muttered to myself, “Whatever.”

  Yo, why you ship this bitch so much? She’s fucking RANK!

  Don’t worry, bro. She looks like a drag queen dominatrix.

  My brows lifted. “Ouch.”

  Can you just fuck already?

  I sighed lightly. “Been there, sister.”

  Can’t wait till you guys get married. The sexual tension is killing me! LOL!

  A scoff burst out of me. “Also been there.”

  I love the new album, dude. You guys freaking killed it.

  That one made me smile.

  Before I knew it, half an hour had passed and I was ten posts deep into Connor’s InstaFotto account.

  Stalker much?

  My lips puckered and I threw my phone down onto the covers, staring up at the ceiling. I wasn’t experienced enough to read the signs on my own. I needed help.

  Without a second thought, I slid out of bed, taking my phone with me. Taking a left out of my room, I walked into Cherry’s room and dove onto her bed. “Are you awake?”

  She blinked at me through sleepy eyes. “I am now, bitch.”

  “Good.” I thrust my phone under her nose and she glared at me a moment before taking it from me and clicking on the video.

  “Connor who?” I heard myself. “I don’t fuck with you.”

  Cherry snuffled out a laugh. “Gets me every time.”

  I pointed to the thread. “Read it.” Patiently, I waited, and she handed me my phone. Her muteness was exasperating. I nudged her with the heel of my palm. “What does that mean?”

  Silence.

  “Cherry.” I leapt on top of her, speaking directly into her face. “Help!”

  Her face bunched. “You need to brush your damn teeth.”

  Wide-eyed, I quickly covered my mouth and mumbled, “What does it mean?”

  A long sigh left her. She looked up at me, and my eyes pled with her to give me something.

  Finally, she said tonelessly, “He’s flirting with you.”

  My brow lowered. “He is?” Really? Interesting. “Are you sure?”

  “No. I’m too jaded to give you honest advice, Emmy.” She turned over. “Go talk to Ettie about it. She’s the most levelheaded one out of all of us. She’ll tell you what’s what.”

  I rested on top of her a moment. After a minute, I spoke quietly. “Are you ever go
ing to tell me why you’re so jaded?”

  Her hesitance was heartbreaking. It was also very telling.

  Whatever had happened to Cherry… it was bad.

  “Okay. I won’t push.” Before I got up, I kissed her hair. “You are a beautiful, independent woman who doesn’t need a man.” When she huffed out a laugh, I added a smiling, “But there’s no shame in wanting one, Cher.”

  Her head snapped up. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,“ I shrugged by the door. “I guess I’ve noticed all the violets around the place.”

  The scoff she let out was harsh. “You think I want Helmer Novak?” Her laugh was forced. “Yeah, right.” She tried to look uncaring. “I mean, sure, Hell’s hot if you’re into that whole Viking thing he’s got going on.” She lost herself in thought. “With those green eyes, that long beard, and that savage braid of his.” A small smile played at her lips. “Those full lips.” Cherry added breathlessly, “Sure. If you’re into that.”

  It didn’t take a genius to see Cherry was into that. I just didn’t understand why she denied it. Hell was obviously into Cher, and he made no qualms about letting her know.

  I smiled inwardly.

  It was only a matter of time before they came together. And with the two of them being… well, the two of them, something told me when they finally lit the charge, their relationship would be explosive.

  My sarcasm game was strong. “Sure. If you’re into that.” When she flipped me the bird, I chuckled, “Okay, sleeping beauty, I need to see Ettie now, so bye.”

  Her call stopped me. “Emmy.”

  I poked my head back in and Cherry propped herself up on her elbows. She didn’t speak for a while, but when she did, it came out anxious. “I saw what he did to you.”

  Moving back, I came to stand in her open doorway.

  “Don’t…” She faltered. “Don’t forget what he did. It’s okay to forgive.” Her voice was deathly calm. “But don’t ever forget.”

  I saw the statement for what it was. My friend was telling me to be careful.

  “I won’t.”

  She took a deep breath in and nodded. “Good.” Then she threw her head back down onto the pillow. “Get out of here. I’m beat.”

  And off to Ettie’s I went.