Revenge Bound

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  “You’re Violet,” he says, and holds out an open palm. “I’m Jayce. You did our band’s photo shoot.”

  His eyes are serious, strained at the edges with worry. When I place my hand in his, he squeezes. The pressure sends a shiver of energy up my arm.

  Is it a reassurance? It feels like possession, but it feels safe.

  “Hi.” I don’t trust myself to say more. My face heats, and because I know I’m blushing and I know he can see it, I blush harder. Kill me now. Obviously, I don’t get out much, or else I wouldn’t be embarrassed by this simple gesture.

  He drops my hand and clears his throat, as if he’s just realized that I’m here on a mission. “Stella’s getting changed for the press conference.”

  I nod and dump my camera gear on a nearby chair, squatting next to it to assemble the lens and fill flash on my camera body. Jayce hovers just at the periphery, watching, and I feel his gaze hot and thick on me the way it felt when I was photographing the band.

  His look is knowing, as if he could unlock my secrets and lay me bare.

  CHAPTER 6: JAYCE

  All I see is red.

  Red hair in loose curls draped over her shoulders. The red tinge of a blush heating her cheeks and neck.

  She’s said just one word to me—hi—and I’m standing here like an idiot, hands shoved deep in my pockets, waiting for Stella while Violet unpacks her camera in economical, expert movements, the way I handle a knife or a guitar.

  I watch her zip her gear bag closed and wind her camera strap around her wrist. It’s like I’ve discovered a new species of girl: where the groupies are bold, she’s shy. Where they’re tanned and curvy and plucked and polished, she’s slim and pale and so fucking perfect it hurts to look at her.

  It hurts to touch her. Cool skin, smooth as marble, and when I squeezed her hand it wasn’t casual. She lit a fire in the center of my chest, and watching her tightens a vise around my throat so I can barely breathe.

  Who is this girl? The way she looks and moves affects me, but I squash my raging hormones down and focus on what the band needs from Violet right now: pictures of Tyler in his hospital room.

  Chief says the media will be more appeased by the truth—that Tyler’s had a diabetic seizure, not a drug overdose—if we can show them pictures of him resting comfortably in his hospital room.

  Violet stands and when our eyes connect, the strength and purpose in them knock me back a step.

  Get a grip, dumbass. I channel my best Rico Suave attitude, flash her a panty-melting smile that usually gets me what I want with groupies, and steer her toward Tyler’s hospital room.

  Stella follows us down the corridor into the belly of the ER. I touch Violet’s back to guide her and she flinches at first, but then softens, letting my light touch on her spine turn her left and right until we find Tyler behind a sickly green curtain. He’s sleeping.

  And then something changes. Like a creature emerging from its camouflage, Violet gathers the energy in the room. She directs Stella wordlessly to Tyler’s bedside and motions for her to straighten the sheets covering his chest.

  As Violet’s camera clicks and the hospital equipment beeps and buzzes, Violet is utterly in control. It paralyzes me. How did this skittish girl suddenly transform? She bends her long, lean frame for a different angle as Stella kisses Tyler’s forehead.

  Violet’s soft yellow shirt rides just high enough to expose a sliver of flesh on her lower back. More smooth skin, white as marble, flecked with delicate freckles.

  I snap my jaw shut and shake my head, forcing myself to stop staring at her. But seeing Tyler and Stella together is even more intimate—I didn’t realize the depth of their connection until now.

  The fire in my chest smolders, a deep want crushing my lungs. No matter how many groupies I’ve found, fucked, and forgotten, no matter how many times I’ve gotten off with a girl after an intense night playing with my band, I don’t think I’ve ever found the peace I see on Stella’s face when she caresses Tyler’s hand.

  And suddenly, I want that.

  More than a fuck.

  More than tits on a platter or a frenzied bang in the back of a limo.

  I want that. I’m just not sure what the hell that is.

  Violet startles me with a soft touch on my forearm. The dark blond hair there bristles with goose bumps. It’s the air conditioning. Her eyes flick toward the corridor back to the waiting room.

  I nod, but this time when I follow her, I’m not steering.

  ***

  I introduce Violet to Tattoo Thief’s manager, Chief, and she explains how she’ll upload the best photos to a site for the media to download. Her soft voice is strong, confident, and Chief points her to a small room where she can work.

  “I’m going with you.” The words tumble out of my mouth and both Violet and Chief look at me, surprised.

  “I can handle this.” She dismisses me with a wave of her hand. The fire in her green eyes commands respect. And distance.

  I take a step back as she strides toward the room, her camera bag bouncing on her hip. Chief shrugs but I shake my head. No way I’m going to let her out of my sight.

  I need to touch her again. Need to talk to her. Need to figure out what kind of magic she has that’s messing with my head.

  Violet’s setting her gear on the table when I push the door ajar. “Violet? Can I help you?”

  “I’m OK.” She keeps her back to me, pulling out a laptop and a cord, opening the side of her camera and popping out a memory card. Roosevelt Hospital’s so-called VIP meeting room is a tiny, windowless office with a couple chairs, a box of tissues, a phone extension, and a round table.

  “Please?” I enter the room and close the door behind me. It’s like all the air is gone from this space, and I wait, not breathing, for her to kick me out.

  Violet looks at me and her eyes soften. “You can watch. If you want to.”

  Oh, I want to. There’s no end to the things I want to do with you in this small room.

  I pull a chair around the table and position it behind her legs. She sits, nodding slightly in thanks but she’s focused on her computer. I pull another chair for me and bring it close to her—probably too close, but my body’s way ahead of my brain—and I lean in so I can see her computer screen.

  Images flash in rapid succession as they download. I breathe in the fragrance of her hair—light, slightly sweet. Her eyes are fixed on the screen but I’m studying her shoulders, the curve inside her elbow, the smooth column of her throat.

  To be this close and not touch her is torture. I rest my hand on the back of her chair and my thumb grazes her shoulder blade. She shivers but doesn’t look up at me.

  She doesn’t brush me off, either.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say, then clarify: “to help Tyler.” Hell, I’d be happy if she came to give me a root canal.

  “It’s no problem.” She clicks through the images, pausing at the better ones to highlight them.

  I’m frustrated, wondering how I can get her to talk to me, even look at me, but Violet is laser-focused on editing her photos.

  So I sit in silence with her, listening to her breathe and the tap of keystrokes on her laptop. This quiet moment is more intimate than anything I’ve had with a woman in ages. I’m frozen—all but my thumb, which keeps making little circles on her shoulder.

  The motion-sensor lights go out in the room, leaving our faces illuminated only by the light of her laptop screen.

  Neither of us moves.

  CHAPTER 7: VIOLET

  “That’s all of them?” Jayce peers over my shoulder at the photographs now that the download is complete. I feel his hot, sweet breath on my neck and his thumb lightly tracing my shoulder. He’s far too close for comfort, and darkness shrinks the room as if we’re both beneath the covers in bed.

  In bed. I press my knees together and force the thought away, being careful not to move too much and trigger the lights back on. The darkness feels sacred. Safe.
r />   I copy and paste the download link. “When your manager is ready, he can distribute this link and the media will be able to download whatever they like.”

  I study my laptop’s screen, pretending to double-check that all of my pictures are properly uploaded. I’m really just buying time before I have to close my computer and actually face the guy who’s making my insides melt like an ice cream cone in a heat wave.

  The heavy door muffles the hospital sounds so that I can hear every movement: the swish of fabric, the creak of the industrial-grade chair, the soft tap of Jayce’s fingers against the Formica table.

  After a long pause, Jayce asks, “So, who else have you photographed?”

  “No one you’d know,” I answer quickly. Most subjects for my fine-art photography were on my college swim team—they had fantastic bodies and loved showing them off, but none of them were models. “Tattoo Thief was actually my first freelance gig for The Indie Voice,” I admit, turning toward him.

  The lights snap on from my movement and we blink as our eyes adjust. I peek at Jayce’s face and his brows rise. “Really? What did you do before?”

  I so don’t want to go there, so I change the subject. “I taught school. What did you do before you were a famous rock star?”

  “I cooked.” Jayce’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “And before you get some romantic notion of me playing chef, I can assure you, it was a lot less glamorous than that.”

  He thrusts his hands at me and I gasp and pull back, but then I realize he’s showing me something. “See the scars?”

  I do. Some are fine white lines, some wider and raised. A few pinkish, shiny patches of skin on his hands and forearms look like burns.

  “I like doing stuff with my hands. Playing the guitar, cooking, building stuff. Doesn’t matter, as long as my hands are touching something.”

  I realize just how close Jayce’s hands are to my chest, just how slightly they’d need to move to reach out and touch me, and I shudder. I think he realizes the subtext too, because instantly he pulls his hands back and shoves them in his pockets.

  The rejection stings.

  Jayce shakes his head. “I don’t know why I just told you that. It’s stupid. I guess I just didn’t want you to see all this crazy media circus and think … well, I don’t know what you think.”

  He stops and his gaze pierces me, his amber eyes flashing, head ducked slightly to keep hold of my gaze.

  I take a quick breath and shake my head. “It’s not my place to judge. There are plenty of people who will judge you for everything you do, but I’m not about that. I’m just here to take pictures.”

  Jayce’s serious expression morphs back into the genuine smile I saw when he said he’d cooked and he grabs my hand. “Those are the most beautiful words I’ve heard all day.”

  ***

  I watch the press conference from the green room with Jayce, Dave, his girlfriend Kristina, and Gavin’s girlfriend Beryl. It’s a success, but I hang back as the band wraps up, monitoring my photo site’s downloads.

  I’m not part of this world, nor do I want to be. Jayce sees me on the fringe of the group and scoots over to me, trying to include me in the victory celebration.

  My phone pings with a new text message and I flinch like the text causes physical pain. Jayce’s eyes flick to me and then to my phone.

  I want you to spread your legs and think of me tonight, sexy Violet.

  Jayce reads the text faster than I move to cover it. My face heats and I’m sure my skin is tomato-red with shame.

  “Looks like your boyfriend misses you. It’s after midnight.” Jayce’s mouth is a hard line and he puts a few more inches of distance between us. I feel colder without him next to me.

  I thought we’d had a moment, but then the text showed up and ruined everything.

  The texts always ruin everything. First my job, and now my peace. I need to change my mobile number but since I’m jobless, I’m afraid to spend the money to make the switch.

  I shake my head, letting my deep red hair fall in my face to protect me from Jayce’s piercing gaze. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Must be a wrong number.” I stuff my laptop in the side of my camera bag in preparation to go.

  “Bull. The text said Violet.”

  “It’s nothing. I don’t know them. It’s—a mistake.” My voice wavers and I wrap my arms around my stomach. My lying sucks. As if to prove that point, my phone pings with another text and I shield it from Jayce.

  Think of me in your room, watching you sleep. Waking you up. Seducing you.

  Cold fear slithers down my back and makes me shake so hard I drop the phone.

  My address is on the Internet with my photo. If this guy is serious, he knows where I live. He could get inside my building—all it would take is a helpful neighbor. He could get inside my apartment.

  Jayce bends down to retrieve my phone from the industrial carpet, and he doesn’t even pretend he’s not looking at the screen when he hands it back.

  His face is stormy.

  “Either you tell me what’s going on, or I’m going to force the issue.”

  “It’s none of your business,” I mumble.

  “Fine. Get up.” Jayce tugs my elbow and I wobble to standing. He hoists my camera bag and throws the strap over his head, settling it across his broad chest. His jaw is set. “Let’s go.”

  I pull away from him but his firm hand anchors my elbow. “Where?”

  “I’m taking you home. Even though you’re lying to me, it’s after midnight and if you don’t know who they’re from, those texts were a hell of a lot more threatening than your typical booty call. Unless it was a booty call. Was it?”

  Jayce’s eyes narrow as he looks at me for confirmation that I truly don’t know the sender. I drop my chin and shake my head.

  “So we’re going home.”

  Something inside me rears up, defensive against his pushy command. “No.” I square my shoulders. At five-nine, I’m only a few inches shorter than Jayce. I swipe at my eyes and blink hard, trying for a stoic mask. “You’re not going anywhere with me. I’m fine by myself.”

  Safe Violet and Smart Violet are at war. Safe Violet knows I could really use an escort home, considering the creepers who could make good on the threatening texts. But Smart Violet knows Jayce is the worst possible escort because being a nobody is all I have left.

  If I were a celebrity, my photos would explode like a virus.

  Jayce sets his jaw. “Violet, you’re not fine. Unless you’ve got a frenemy playing some kind of sick prank, those texts are worth being worried about.” His voice drops an octave. “Believe me, OK? I’ve got a little experience with this.”

  Experience? Oh. I guess he’s had fans go too far, try to contact him. I don’t doubt that if his number got out, girls would blow it up with texts. And probably sexts and photos, too.

  I want to hold my ground, but something in the soft way Jayce says those last words, the way his eyes plead with me to let him protect me, are my undoing.

  That tips me.

  “Fine. But I don’t want to be seen leaving the hospital with you.”

  Jayce’s eyes widen and his jaw drops. OK, that might have been harsh. I can’t imagine most girls being against an association with arguably the hottest member of Tattoo Thief.

  Jayce grips my upper arms. “Look, give me a few minutes, OK? I promise nobody will recognize me. Just, promise you won’t leave yet, OK?”

  His hands are hot and hard, startling me. He’s touching me. His touch isn’t gentle or soft or exploratory. It’s insistent, commanding, thrilling.

  I can only nod before he releases me and runs out of the room.

  CHAPTER 8: VIOLET

  I fumble with my keys in the lock of my apartment’s street-level entry door and Jayce stands immediately behind me, facing the street and scanning it.

  “Thanks for helping me get home, Jayce, but really, I can take it from here.” I try to smile but it comes out watery and forced, my brows sti
ll pinched with worry.

  Jayce holds the door open for me and I cross into the foyer with the mailboxes, giving him a little goodbye wave. But he comes inside and closes the door behind him, jiggling it to make sure it’s secure.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I do.” Jayce cuts me off. “I promised to see you home safely. And I’m not going to come onto you—unless you want me to.”

  He gives me a wolfish grin and he looks brain-meltingly hot in scrubs. Suddenly I want to watch a zillion medical dramas starring Jayce McKittrick, my own personal Dr. McDreamy.

  Jayce follows me up the steps to my apartment, his borrowed blue scrubs totally out of place in the dingy corridor. Heck, he’s out of place here—no way does a rock star belong in my East Village stairwell in the middle of the night.

  I confess I considered slipping out of the green room without him, but then I realized he’d trapped me—when he ran out to dig up a disguise, he still had my camera bag slung over his shoulder. I won’t go anywhere without that.

  Jayce clears his throat. His powerful, broad build makes him feel like he towers over me. “Is your roommate home? Someone who can—”

  Another ping from my phone cuts him off and when I look at the readout this time, I scream.

  Nice to see you got home safely, Violet, but he’s really not your type.

  The stairs come up in a whoosh and I fall onto my knees, squeezing my eyes tight. Jayce wrenches the phone out of my hands but I don’t have the strength to protest.

  I don’t have the strength to breathe.

  Jayce mutters a curse and I feel his arms circle me. He lifts me up against his chest and climbs the rest of the stairs.

  I suck in air in short gasps, my head swimming. This is not supposed to be happening to me. I come from a good family. I’ve dated two men—two—and never once did anything half as kinky as the worst of my text messages.