by Emma Scott
He beamed with pride, and my damn heart cracked. I jerked my chin. “Go. Take as many pictures as you want.” I turned to the photographer, cranking up that I’m famous smile. “You don’t mind, right?”
“Uh, no. Not at all.”
“Thanks!” Sam said and wandered, photographing everything in the room, including close-ups of the food on that goddamn buffet table. The journalist trailed after him and his thousand-dollar camera.
I called Brenda over. “Can you do me a favor? Let me know what these kids need. Anything they want, just tell me.”
She smiled. “I will, thank you.”
“Sam needs a camera. Send me the bill, okay?”
Brenda looked about to gush more thanks, but she read my expression. “Very well, Mr. Stratton.”
“Everything okay?” Violet asked, joining me as I blinked hard, watching Sam take his pictures and smile and laugh like a little kid’s supposed to.
“Everything’s perfect.”
Chapter Thirty
Showtime arrived. That night, the air felt electric. The crowds were pouring into the Key Arena at the Seattle Center, and Violet listened to the thunder above and around us from the green room, her eyes shining.
“They’re all here to see you,” she said.
An assistant poked his head in. “Yo, Miller. Time to roll.”
“You know how crazy it gets in the front row,” I said as we headed for the door. “You sure you can handle it?”
She ringed her arms around my neck. “I’m going to drown in it and love every minute of it, watching my rock star.”
I rolled my eyes. “I hate that word.”
“But you wear it so well.” She kissed me softly, then grinned. “It won’t throw you off, will it? Me being out there?”
I hauled her to me. She wore a tight white T-shirt and short black skirt. My gaze swept over her, taking in every detail. “Every show I’ve ever done, you’re out there.” I brushed my thumb against her lip. “I told you, Vi. It’s all for you.”
I watched her delicate neck move as she swallowed. “I love you too, Miller.” She closed her eyes and kissed me, then hurried out where another assistant waited to take her down to the front row.
I joined the band and we took the stage together as the lights went down. A thunderous roar from the crowd went up. We huddled in the dark around Chad’s drum set.
“You guys have been really fucking great, every show,” I said. “I don’t say that enough.”
“Or ever,” Antonio said with a laugh. “We’ve only been on tour with you for about six months.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got my head out of my ass. Better late than never.”
“It’s all good, man,” Robert, the other guitarist said. “Let’s give them a hell of a show.”
And we did. Goddamn, I’d never felt so alive on stage before in my life. The music flowed through me, amplified by the guys in the band. And Violet was there in the front row, swaying in a sea of faces, so goddamn beautiful.
I poured my heart out onto that stage, into the microphone, laying it all out there, leaving nothing back. And when it came time to sing “Wait for Me,” it was just me on the stool, my acoustic guitar, and Violet.
Everything I hadn’t said to her in the last two years rushed out of me. The longing, loneliness, love. God, the endless well of love I had for that woman, as if I were born with it already inside me, in my marrow and cells. She was in every part of me that was whole and good, and what was broken in me, she had dedicated her life to healing.
When the last note of the last song dissipated, the applause and cheers rolled through me. I absorbed every single bit of that energy until I felt invincible. Sweat-soaked and powerful. I strode off stage after performing for fifteen-thousand screaming fans, and for the first time, I let my ego have a moment. My blood ran hot in my veins with the dire need to have Violet.
She was waiting for me in the green room, and in one glance, I felt the same need from her. A bunch of other people were hanging around, congratulating me as soon as I stepped in the door. I ignored them, striding to Violet with a single-minded purpose.
“Can I talk to you?” I said to her in a low voice, practically a growl.
Her lips parted with a breathy little gasp. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”
I took her by the hand and led her out, though I wanted to throw her over my shoulder like a goddamn caveman. Behind the green room, the venue had an executive suite set aside for me. I locked the door behind us, lifted Violet without a word, and set her on the long counter that ran along one wall.
Her skirt and T-shirt clung to her curves, hiding nothing. I moved between her legs, kissing her ferociously, mauling her, my hands in her hair, while her hands tore at the buttons on my jeans, her need as dire as mine.
“It was one thing to see you open for Ed, but you…” she breathed between kisses, lifting my T-shirt off. “All those people there for you. Now I know why rock stars have as much sex as they want. Why women throw their panties…flash their boobs. I get it now.” Her hands were everywhere on my heated skin. “That was sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I had no words but to kiss her hard, sucking at her luscious lips that were red and sweet. Something primal in me was coming awake. I needed to have her. To possess her. For years, I’d been singing to her since we were kids, cherishing her with every breath I took. When I finally had her, we’d been torn apart, leaving me wanting her from across so many miles and continents. My heart had pined and ached and loved. And now she was here for good, and my heart and soul could relax while my body took over. I wanted to fuck her hard and raw. No more poetry. No more music but for the banging of the furniture, her cries of pleasure singing out, the slapping of flesh on flesh and my own feral grunts as I took her.
My hands slid up her thighs and came back down with her silk panties, already damp. I grabbed a condom from the pocket of my jeans before they could drop to my ankles, put there for this exact moment.
I held her face in one hand, the other sliding under her ass, hauling her to the edge of the bar. She spread her legs wider to let me in and cried out as I thrust hard.
“Yes,” she hissed, her hands dropping to my hips to pull me tight to her. Deeper.
I bent over her, holding her hip with one hand, the other planted on the cool marble. Vi’s ecstatic cries rang out, adding to the delirium of this mindless, raw possession.
“Miller, I’m…” Her entire body tensed against mine, cutting off her words, her arms wrapping around me, her legs locked at the ankles, holding me tight to her. Her core clenched around me as her orgasm swelled.
I felt it build in her, and I wanted that too. Greedy for all of her after having gone without. I slowed my thrusting hips, pulled nearly all the way out, and then pushed back in, coaxing and drawing her orgasm to a crest. She clung to me, arms, legs, and teeth that bit down on the slope of my neck, screaming her pleasure into my skin as the wave tossed her.
My own release was crashing toward me. I gave in to it, driving inside her with a last, furious frenzy, until the knot of heat and electricity at the base of my spine exploded out and into her. I gritted my teeth, my fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave bruises, but I didn’t want to let go.
She’s here. She’s mine.
“Yes,” she breathed, her hands in my hair. “Yes, come in me.”
My body obeyed. I came in a final, shuddering thrust, emptying myself into her before sagging against her.
For a few moments, the only sounds were the rasping of our breaths and the muffled sounds of the after-party in the green room. Slowly, Violet released me, arms and legs falling loose and heavy.
“Jesus Christ, Miller…” Violet said with a tired laugh, both of us bathed in sweat and breathing hard. “I just lived every woman in that arena’s fantasy.” Her voice softened. “Except, I get to have all of you.”
I gave a tired laugh into the crook of her neck. “Even the possessive
part that would make our caveman ancestors proud.”
“I like it,” she said, pushing me back enough to kiss me and trail her finger along my jaw. “No, I love it. I love how you make love to me and how you fuck me and how I still feel safe with you no matter which. I feel how much you love me, even when you turn into a beast.” Her fingers went to the small bruises forming on her thigh.
“I never want to hurt you…” I said, alarmed.
“I want them. I want to feel marked by you. Inside and out. Because there’s no one else, Miller. There never was, and there never will be.”
Her words sunk deep into my chest, and this time, they stayed. I trusted them. And her. “I’ve wanted this for so long, Vi. Years.”
“Me too. It took us a long time to get here.”
My thumb traced her lips made swollen by my kisses. “We’re here now.”
Chapter Thirty-One
We pulled ourselves together and joined the rest of the band, a few VIP fans, and the press in the green room. I was sure everyone would know what we’d done, but the room was thick with post-show adrenaline and celebration. Miller hung around long enough to take a few photos, then we returned to our hotel room.
Dr. Brighton performed a check-up, and they went over his insulin dosages, loading the pump affixed to his abdomen to account for the exertion of the concert and the food he’d eaten post-show. The doctor gave us a stern look.
“We’ll need to account for any other ‘exertions’ you might feel inclined to partake in tonight.”
Miller shook his head. “I’m beat. And besides, Violet knows I’m saving myself until marriage.”
I snorted a laugh, and Brighton smirked. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
Miller and I showered—separately, to avoid tempting exertions—and then dressed in sleep clothes, he in flannel pants and a V-neck undershirt while I wore one of his T-shirts and my shorts. We climbed into bed and became entangled. Miller sank heavily into his pillow.
“You okay?” I asked.
“The concert took it out of me. Actually, the concert wasn’t the only thing that took it out of me.”
“Ugh, terrible,” I laughed, curling into him. I reached over and took his arm to read his watch.
“How am I looking, Doc?”
“You look perfect,” I said. “You were amazing tonight. It was as if everything I love about you that you keep inside came out. That’s why they come to see you, Miller. You shine.”
He toyed with a lock of my hair and then let his hand fall heavily down. “I’m done with the tour. I’m going to cancel the rest of the dates.”
I lifted my head off his chest. “You are? And do what?”
“Be with you.”
Swift tears sprang to my eyes at the simple declaration.
He touched my cheek, smiling tiredly. “You were right, Vi. We’re done saying goodbye. But you can’t give up your school and everything you’ve worked for. We’ll get a place in Waco, and when you’re finished with the year, you can transfer to UCSC. If that’s what you want.”
“I do, but my scholarship is with Baylor.”
“Your home is in Santa Cruz. If you don’t let me handle your tuition, I’ll go fucking crazy. We’ll get a place by the ocean. Maybe I’ll write a new album, a smaller album, while you study and be brilliant.” He smiled, his eyes heavy. “We’ll take care of each other. Okay?”
I nodded and kissed him softly. “Okay. I love you. So much.”
“Love you, Vi…” he said, and that was the last thing he said to me before he slept.
I drifted off more slowly, floating on the currents of a new life that was just on the horizon.
An alarm jolted me out of the warm, sleepy comfort, and I sat up, blinking, Miller’s name falling from my lips automatically. He was still sleeping, though his alarm was beeping frantically.
“Miller? Wake up.” I flipped on the nightstand light. A cry caught in my throat. He trembled as if an electric current were running through him, breathing in short, hiccupping gasps. His face was as pale as the pillow.
“Oh my God…” My gaze darted to the numbers on his watch. Forty-five. Then forty-four… “Oh my God.”
Instantly, my mouth went dry, and my blood thrashed in my ears. The words catastrophic hypoglycemic event streaked across my mind, called up from my years of researching diabetes as a kid. Research I’d done for him. So this wouldn’t happen.
A sense of preternatural calm came over me. The terror balled itself into a stone, and I pushed it down deep where it sat in my stomach so I could do what I had to do. I threw off the covers, rushed for the minifridge where his medicine was stored. Insulin to bring his blood sugar down if the numbers were high, and emergency syringes of glucagon if the numbers were low.
“Miller! Miller, I’m here,” I said, my voice jagged with fear. I tore the plastic packaging off a glucagon injection pen. “Stay with me, Miller. Stay right here.”
I climbed back onto the bed and pushed up the short sleeve of his undershirt. I pinched the skin with trembling fingers and injected the needle, depressing it until the vial was empty.
“Wake up, Miller.” I tossed the syringe and reached for my phone on the nightstand. “Come on, baby, wake up.”
I dialed 911 and put my fingers to Miller’s neck while I waited for an answer. His pulse thumped so fast, I could hardly distinguish one beat from another.
“911, what is your emergency?”
Calmly but quickly, I explained the situation, watching Miller’s numbers rise but not fast enough.
“He won’t wake up. Please hurry. He won’t wake up.”
An eternity crammed itself into the next fifteen minutes—the time it took for EMTs to bust in the door. I scrambled out of their way, the ball of terror in my stomach wanting to rise up into my throat.
Chaos ensued as Miller’s security team poured into the room with Brighton and a handful of assistants and tour managers. I threw on jeans, shoes, and a sweatshirt as the EMTs lifted Miller onto a gurney. Faces swam in front of me, but I pushed past them to stay with Miller. He still hadn’t woken up.
The EMTs asked questions about his medical history as Brighton and I hurried alongside the gurney through the hotel. Guests were peeking out of doors, gawking at the commotion. I told the EMTs about his past and Brighton explained his more current issues. Miller’s numbers had always been hard to manage, but my heart cracked to hear how he’d been struggling recently.
I demanded to ride with him to the hospital, afraid to let him out of my sight, even for a moment. Afraid if I looked away, he’d disappear. In the chaos of the jouncing ambulance, with EMTs talking over the beeping of machines, I sat beside Miller, held his limp hand in mine, and leaned over close. My face was on fire, still too panicked for tears. There wasn’t a drop of water in my body.
“Stay with me. I mean it. Stay right here,” I told him, over the thrashing of blood in my ears. “Stay with me, baby, please.”
Under an oxygen mask, Miller remained pale, eyes closed, mouth half open and slack.
At the hospital, they whisked him away, out of my sight and to the ICU. Someone led me to the waiting room, just outside the swinging doors. Someone else gave me a glass of water.
Dr. Brighton arrived. He touched my shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “You did good,” he said, then pushed through the ICU doors. Because he was a doctor and I wasn’t.
Assistants and managers arrived to crowd the room. I recognized one young woman, Tina, as his new assistant, a phone pressed to her ear.
“His mom,” I said in a hollow voice. “Someone call his mom.”
Helplessness pressed down on me now that Miller’s care was taken out of my hands. I had nothing to do but wait. The terror had gripped my heart in an icy fist and wouldn’t let go. Finally, a young doctor with a bald head but a full dark beard came out looking for Miller’s family. His face was inscrutable, no way to tell if he had good news or…
A flash of memory streak
ed across my vision: Miller climbing up the trellis and through my bedroom window. Miller and me, thirteen years old, lying in bed face to face. Miller sitting across from me, his guitar in his lap, singing songs he wrote for me and I never knew…
“Me,” I said hoarsely, mustering every ounce of courage I had. “Me. You can tell me.”
I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever it is because he’s mine and I’m his. Always.
The doctor sat across from me, a quiet smile under his beard. His nametag read Dr. Julian Monroe.
“Miller is in a diabetic coma.”
My head bobbed in a nod. “Yes. Okay.”
“We’ve given him fluids and glucose, and he’s now flitting in and out of consciousness. A very good sign.”
My eyes fell shut as relief washed over me. “He’s…awake?”
“Not yet but he’s trying. Were you the one who administered the glucagon?”
I nodded. “He had no symptoms,” I said in a small voice. “The night before, he had no symptoms. He was fine. He was perfect. I missed something. I should have known—”
Dr. Monroe cut me off. “You could not have known. Miller’s insulin pump malfunctioned and administered far more than he required. I also understand from Dr. Brighton that Miller has struggled to control his diabetes throughout his life. Prolonged fluctuation of blood sugars can lead to a dangerous suppression of symptoms called hypoglycemic unawareness.”
That term floated out from my childhood research too.
“I had no idea it was this bad. I should have…done something. Done more.”
“There’s nothing you could have done but what you did. We have him stabilized, and we’re running more tests. Brittle diabetes is not typical. It’s unpredictable and baffles even the best kind of care, which he was under with Dr. Brighton. To be honest, the real concern right now are his kidneys. Miller managed his diabetes on his own for quite a while, but I suspect that his unstable levels over the years have taken their toll.”
“In what way?” I asked, though I already knew.
