On the third floor, we stop in front of my door but Jayce doesn’t put me down. He reaches a hand from beneath my knees and opens his palm. “Keys,” he whispers.
At first I think he’s trying to be quiet because of the late hour, but his body is so taught beneath mine I realize it’s thinly concealed rage.
Inside, he finally lets my feet touch the floor and I collapse on the couch. He throws both deadbolts and draws the chain.
“Your roommate. Is she here?”
I shake my head, then shrug, confusion trumping everything else. I’m vaguely aware of Jayce stalking through my apartment, opening doors and closets. In the kitchen, I hear cupboard doors open and liquid being poured.
“Drink this.” Jayce’s voice is close to me again and my eyelids flutter open. The woody, stinging smell of bourbon hits my nose and I recoil. Brown liquor isn’t my thing. “Come on, Violet. Just to help you sleep.”
I grimace but accept the glass and the bourbon sears my throat, making me cough. Jayce remains beside me for several long minutes as heat builds in my chest and my limbs feel heavier.
Another ping, and Jayce fishes my phone out of his pocket. I crane my neck to read it over his shoulder.
Are you naked and in bed yet, Violet? Send him home and get ready for me.
This. All of this. It’s too much. The texts add up to someone obsessed, someone who’s watching me.
I hurl a couch pillow across the room and wail, feeling totally exposed to the world. If I were stripped bare and tied to a lamppost in Times Square, I could not feel more naked. More vulnerable.
Again, Jayce’s arms come around me and this time I let go of everything. The hurt from my breakup. The fear from getting fired. The devastation of finding the pictures. The hopelessness of having my life infiltrated against my will by an unknown, unseen pursuer.
My tears and snot soak Jayce’s sky-blue scrubs and I cry without words, just letting the sobs bubble up in my chest and spill over, like a never-ending fountain of pain.
CHAPTER 9: JAYCE
I can handle crying.
Some girls cry to get their way. Some girls cry because they think they’ll change my mind. Some girls cry to win an argument.
But I’ve never heard crying like this. Violet’s fragile body shakes against mine and she cries as if her heart is breaking.
I squeeze my arms more tightly around her as if she’d fly into a million pieces if I didn’t hold her together. I want my hold to show her she’s safe, or at least stop the earthquake shaking her world.
I’ve had seven years to get used to fame, crazy fans and a few clingy girlfriends who sent stalkerish texts. But Violet’s texts are creepier, and they’re specific enough to shatter her sense of security.
I thread my arms under Violet’s legs, pull her up from the couch, and carry her toward the bedroom I assume is hers. I don’t turn on the lights. After my initial inspection of the apartment, I know her walls are a photo gallery of black and white nudes, and the hulking shape in the corner is a bed covered in a purple comforter that reminds me of her name. Violet.
I bend to place her on her bed and her arms stay locked around my neck so I can’t stand up. My pocket pings and I bite back another curse—why didn’t I turn her stupid phone off a long time ago? Why didn’t she?
I know why. We both need to see where this is going so we’ll know what to do next.
I lower myself on the bed beside Violet and her body shudders with the breath-hitching aftershocks of sobs. Her arms are still clasped tightly behind my neck and so I lie on my side, one arm beneath her and my other arm—where, exactly?
If this were any other girl, my hand would know right where to go. Up her shirt and on her tits. Down her hips and around her ass. And it’s not like I don’t want to do that to Violet. When we were uploading pictures together, each time a strand of hair slipped forward and brushed her collarbone, it made my cock twitch.
But tonight Violet’s lying on her bed, broken to pieces, and I don’t know how to make it right.
My hand finally chooses a resting spot of its own accord, on her shoulder. That’s safe, right? Not creepy? Only my cock seems a little too excited about touching her nearly bare shoulder and I scoot my ass back away from her to be sure she doesn’t accidentally brush against me.
What kind of man gets turned on by a broken, bawling girl?
A fucking sick jackass.
But not as sick at the bastard who keeps texting Violet. All she’ll say is he’s not a boyfriend, but who is he to her? A one-night stand? An ex? The texts didn’t really get me riled until the creepy-as-fuck stalker one.
Lie. I hated them the minute I thought she was with someone else.
Violet shudders and a fresh round of tears spill down her cheeks. Her soaked lashes are dark against nearly white skin dusted with freckles. Flame-red hair fans out across her white pillowcase.
Snot and all, this girl is fucking gorgeous.
How did I not see it the first time? Maybe because her boobs are hidden under a plain yellow T-shirt instead of pushed up to her chin like Shelly’s. Maybe because she doesn’t look like most girls I date.
I have a type. Curvy, bubbly, blonde. Big eyes, big tits, big smile. Easy talk, easy fun, easy hookup. No strings.
That last bit is key.
Violet rolls on her side away from me, leaving me with a face full of hair that smells faintly of flowers and a small, round ass that tapers to a slim waist. Her shoulders still tremble but the keening wail is done. I stroke her shoulder tentatively, and at first she tenses, but then she relaxes under my touch.
I can’t leave her like this.
It’s almost two in the morning and I’m on a bed, dressed in scrubs, with a snot-covered crying girl who is also fully clothed and scared out of her mind. This is not how I do things. I like to keep things light and free from obligations.
But Violet’s got some magnetic pull that anchors me here.
When I hear her breathing even out and I’m sure she’s asleep, I gradually pull my arm out from beneath her neck. I’ve got to take a piss.
I finish in the bathroom and go to the kitchen for a glass of water, then check my phone. Six missed calls—four from Shelly, two from Teal—and a dozen texts. I feel like kind of an asshole for standing one of them up (although I’m not sure which one), but Shelly’s getting pretty clingy and I need to nip that in the bud.
And I have a good reason for skipping the date. Tyler needed me.
And now Violet does.
I choke on the water I’m drinking as this thought hits me: I’m not here for me, I’m here for her. I don’t remember the last time I did that for a girl.
I reach into my pocket and pull out Violet’s phone to see what the sick fucker texted her last.
Dream of me and all the things I’ll do to you when we’re finally together.
I slam my palm against Violet’s chipped Formica kitchen counter, angry that someone’s talking to her like this. Angry at myself—why the hell should I care?
I scroll through her texts and there’s more: descriptions of what she looks like, her freckled face and her long, pale limbs. Her neighborhood, the bodega on her street corner and what kind of flowers he’d buy for her.
Some of the texts seem almost romantic. They’re about worshipping her body or pampering her, they say she deserves to be happy and he can offer her this. But other texts are more chilling: positions he’d like to see her in, ways he’d bind her hands and feet, how he’d spread her knees and her ass cheeks, how he’d fuck her pussy until she screamed and screamed and screamed.
I’m reading this shit and pain radiates from my jaw where it’s clenched so hard I could probably shatter my own teeth. My dick betrays me, though, as I think of the scenarios this freaky texter is writing about, think about how it would be if I were the one doing these things to Violet. If she wanted me to.
I adjust myself and try to clear my brain of this shit. Think of the smell of the hospital. Think o
f Tyler’s IV drip. Think of Stella’s wrecked expression when she showed up to the hospital.
I breathe deeply. There was something in Stella’s expression that was so pure and beautiful when she stood next to Tyler’s bed in the hospital. Now I see it clearly: love. She is in love with Tyler.
Jealousy zings up my spine and I stab at Violet’s phone to turn it off completely and stop the malicious texts. I feel fucking helpless, stuck in this crappy apartment while Violet sleeps, but it occurs to me there’s at least one thing I can do to help her.
I send a quick text and get a ping back in minutes. God, I love New York. You can get anything, anytime, and though I don’t have a personal assistant the way Gavin used to, the on-call concierge service I use totally rocks.
One time I even made them fetch me condoms for a one-night stand that kept going and going like the fucking Energizer bunny.
I wait in the living room for the delivery. I’m restless, but instead of television I check the locks on Violet’s windows. The bathroom widow lock is broken and I find a dustpan to keep it wedged shut. The rest of the windows, including the one in Violet’s roommate’s room, are fine. I wish I could set up some more security, though. Two deadbolts and a chain are not nearly enough.
Tomorrow I’ll talk to Violet about calling the police about the stalker. I wonder again, Who he is to Violet?
My phone pings and I’m relieved it’s not one of my girls, but the courier instead. I jog downstairs and sign for the cloth tote bag, then jog back upstairs and set all the locks again. Even the chain. If Violet’s roommate wants in, she can fucking pound on the door for all I care.
I stash a few things for breakfast in the fridge and chow down on a slice of pizza that’s still pretty warm. The bottom of the bag holds the main thing I wanted: A brand new iPhone.
I grin. It’s a stupid, extravagant gift—and I’m not in a habit of giving girls gifts. Girls take it all wrong, get even clingier and start dropping hints about jewelry and shopping sprees.
I don’t want a girl like that. I just want a girl who wants to have fun.
I open the iPhone box and its phone number is written on the back of the concierge service’s business card. I pull Violet’s ancient phone with a scratched screen out of my pocket and kill time transferring her contacts.
I’m still not tired.
Violet hasn’t received any more messages but that doesn’t mollify me. I transfer all of the numbers associated with creepy texts into my phone, then screen shot the messages and forward them to myself. Maybe I can figure out who’s tormenting her?
I’m going to give Violet this new phone, hold onto her old phone, and tell her if she gets an incoming text from someone who’s not a total creeper.
It’s a great plan.
The sky lightens from black to charcoal gray and I feel the exhaustion of four a.m. I have to get some sleep and at this point it doesn’t look like anyone’s going to break in. I turn off Violet’s old phone and hide it in my pocket again, then go back to her bedroom where she’s still curled on her side in a fetal position.
She looks so fragile, her long limbs folded in, her hair dark against porcelain skin in the dim light. She looks like a fucking angel, which is why I’m positive I shouldn’t be here right now. I want to curl up next to her and stroke her hair, feel the soft skin of her arm, and inhale the scent of her.
I should be on the couch. Like a gentleman.
Violet was so distraught when I brought her home tonight, she had no boundaries. She just let me hold her and carry her. But I suspect that she’s going to be much less pliant in the morning. I pull the purple comforter over her shoulder and she sighs in her sleep.
I should go. I must get out of here. Still, I can’t resist the pull of her hair—I run my fingers through it, letting the wavy strands sift through my fingers.
Once. Just once.
This could be addictive.
And then I turn and take up a position on the couch.
CHAPTER 10: VIOLET
I cover my head with my pillow to shut out the sun, but when I hear banging at the front door, I jump.
“Violet! What the hell? Let me in!” Neil’s familiar cranky voice makes me think his typical all-night escapade didn’t end well. I roll off my bed, feeling rumpled in the same shorts and T-shirt I wore when I went to the hospital to help Stella last night.
I emerge from my room in time to see Jayce fill the few inches between the doorjamb and the door, which is open only as much as the chain will allow.
“Who are you?” Jayce growls.
“No, who the fuck are you? This is my apartment. Let me in!” Neil pounds on the door again and yells my name.
“It’s OK, Jayce,” I say, and my voice is hoarse from crying last night. “That’s Neil. He really is my roommate.”
Jayce narrows his eyes at Neil, tension radiating off his broad shoulders. He pushes the door closed enough to release the chain.
Neil blows into our apartment in a huff, his tight jeans and too-cool-for-school shirt suggesting he was at a club or a very hip show last night. His hair stands up tall like Harry Styles’s and his Adam’s apple bobs with annoyance.
Jayce’s thick build would make anyone think twice about picking a fight—anyone but Neil. Neil’s maybe five-ten in tall shoes with his hair riding high, but he’s getting in Jayce’s face as if he’s king of the world.
“Who’d you drag home last night, Vi?” Neil says in his bitchiest queen voice. “A sexy little bouncer from a club’s B-team?”
Jayce takes a step back from Neil and bursts out laughing. “A B-team bouncer! That’s awesome.” Jayce’s grin reveals even, white teeth and dancing eyes and I swoon a little. Even without the scrubs, he looks good.
And then I realize exactly how good I don’t look, with my hair like Medusa’s going in sixteen directions and my clothes rumpled, tear-stained and rank.
Neil strides to the kitchen. “Did you make breakfast, or does your boy-toy cook, too?”
I follow my nose to discover a skillet full of scrambled eggs and bacon, a couple of extra-large cinnamon rolls and a full carafe of coffee in our coffee maker.
“Yes. I definitely cook,” Jayce says behind me. “There’s more to me than just a pretty face.”
“Don’t kid yourself. It’s not that pretty.” Neil scowls, pours a cup of coffee and swipes a piece of bacon.
“At least I have the body to make up for it.” Jayce sasses back. He’s taking Neil’s abuse and he looks like he loves it.
Neil snorts and stalks out of our kitchen that barely accommodates one. Jayce slips in and pours me a cup of coffee, which I doctor with extra cream while he piles two plates full of food.
I push aside stacks of mail and we sit at a tiny, two-person Ikea table to eat.
I keep my head down and focus on my plate, feeling a flush rise up my chest and neck. I can sense Jayce is watching me, and after what happened last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was staring at me like I had a third head.
“Violet. Are we going to talk about what happened last night?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why? I mean, I know those texts were scary—”
“That’s not it.” I cut Jayce off. “It’s just too embarrassing. I mean, I totally melted down and you had to see it.” My scalp tingles and I let my hair fall forward in a curtain to hide my face.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. I want Jayce to say something, but he doesn’t, and it’s maddening hearing him crunch bacon and sip coffee like we’re a couple.
As if.
Somehow I’ve got one of the hottest guys in rock music in my living room and I’m eating eggs with him. I take a deep breath and muster something adult, something polite to say.
“Thank you for being here for me.”
“Anytime. You were there for Tyler.” Jayce’s voice is mild and gentle, but it lacks any spark of heat or desire. I realize that I’ve totally overblown the hot rock star factor in my min
d. Sure, I think he’s hot. Me and a zillion other girls. But I’m pretty sure his primary emotion where I’m concerned is pity.
I pop the last bite of a cinnamon roll in my mouth. “Thank you for breakfast. How’d you get all this stuff? Did you go out this morning?”
Jayce shakes his head. “I didn’t want to leave you. Had it delivered.”
“The perks of being a rock star.” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, but solving a problem that way reeks of privilege.
The silence stretches between us, growing more uncomfortable as I feel his eyes on me. I sip my coffee, desperate to have something to do, plotting my escape so I can shower and change and … why is he still here?
“You didn’t have to stay.”
“I did.” His voice is low, intense.
“I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”
“Doesn’t mean you should have to handle it alone.” Jayce slides a shiny iPhone across the small table to me. “This is for you. A private number.”
What the what? “You can’t give me your phone,” I say stupidly.
“I’m not. This is your phone. A new number, so you won’t have to deal with those texts. Take it, Violet.”
I know I should be grateful, for this and for everything he’s done for me so far, but anger flares instead. Presumptuous, arrogant jerk. “Do you think you can just throw money at a problem and it’ll go away?”
“It works sometimes, Violet.”
My cheeks flame with embarrassment that he thinks I need to be rescued. “Well, it doesn’t work for me.”
Jayce pushes back from the table and grabs our empty plates, spinning toward the kitchen. Plates clatter and water runs.
I lean on the wall by the sink. “Since when do you think you can just wave your magic rock star wand and do this? Fix this? I don’t want your pity.”
There. It’s out there—a four-letter word that stings worse than any filthy epithet. Pity.
Revenge Bound Page 4
