“What the fuck?” My clock reads six a.m.
“That’s pretty much what I’ve got to say to you,” says Chief. “Look.” He thrusts his iPad at me and I read a news story with mounting horror. It’s everything.
Violet’s pictures, her nipples and crotch barely covered by a black bar. A sharper, enlarged picture of us dancing at Kiki’s party. Another picture of us coming back from our date last night.
“Jayce McKittrick’s latest lady,” the headline screams, “… or is she?”
The story goes on to crucify Violet, with details about how she was fired from her teaching job for unprofessional conduct for posing for porn. The article trashes her for playing the role of family-values icon in her father’s campaign, and does a side-by-side of her tied up next to one of her looking like a Sunday School teacher while speaking at a campaign event.
“Which is she—the saint or the sinner? Jayce might not know his new girl’s past, but it’s catching up to both of them,” the article concludes.
“Fuck. Me.” Bile rumbles in my gut and I want to puke out the filthy accusations. “Where did this come from?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to run down for the last hour,” Chief says. “The reporter called me to get a comment from you, and I pushed as hard as I could. All he’ll say is a source close to the band tipped him off to the photos of Violet. Like, really close.”
“Nobody knew about those pictures but Jayce,” Violet says, and I jerk around to see her dressed. “I never even told Stella.”
“You should have told me,” Chief growls at me. “I can’t do damage control unless I can see what's coming.”
“He had no right to tell you.” Violet says. “They’re my pictures. My secret. And he would never—”
I swallow. It was me. I may not have told the reporter or my band mates, but I handed the information to the worst possible person—Kristina. A girl who seems to hate Violet and Stella more with every passing day.
Violet’s eyes widen as she sees guilt wash over my face. “Did you? Did you tell someone about those pictures?” She crosses the room and wrests the iPad from my fingers, flicking through the article as color drains from her face. “You gave away my secret?”
“I didn’t mean to—” It’s all I can manage before Violet’s eyes flash with fury and hurt and betrayal.
“I don’t care what you meant. I care what you did.” She moves like a whirlwind, grabbing her purse and her phone. “You promised to protect me and now you’ve ruined any chance I have to get those pictures destroyed before our relationship is public.”
She spits the word relationship at me, and I flinch like she’s hit me, my heart ground to dust for what I’ve done, for sharing a secret that wasn’t mine to tell. “Violet, I swear, I never went to the press. I’d never do that to you.”
“But you told. How can you treat my life so casually? Maybe you don’t care if your sex life hits the tabloids, but I do!” She shoves her feet into shoes by the door.
“Give me a chance to explain. Please, Violet.”
“I gave you a chance and you ruined it. You ruined us.”
She slams my apartment door before I can go to her, hold her down and tie her up if I must, just to talk some sense into her. The slam echoes in the stillness of my apartment and my chest heaves like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me.
“You’re going after her.” Chief’s not asking. He knows what I need.
“Yes. But first, I’ll tell you what you can tell that fucking reporter.”
CHAPTER 42: VIOLET
I’m blind with fury as I hail a cab in the early dawn emptiness of the street, as I punch into my apartment lobby and pound up the stairs. I unlock my apartment door but Neil’s thrown the chain, so I pound on it and yell at him to get his ass out of bed and open up.
The chain slides back and I stomp inside, whirling around to tell Neil about Jayce’s betrayal. My mouth opens to pour out the hurt but the words freeze, cemented to my tongue.
A pair of dark, watchful eyes stare back at me. Not Neil’s.
He’s taller than I remember, with brown hair shaggy over his ears. His charcoal gray shirt drapes over a thin chest, his fingers resting lightly on his jeans-clad thighs. Without breaking our gaze, he throws the chain back into place.
“I knew you’d come home, Violet.” His voice is slithery-smooth, cold, and focused. He takes two steps to the side as if he’s a lion circling his prey. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I know him. I know him. I see him nearly every week at the bodega on the corner.
He crosses to my kitchen. “Would you like a drink?” I shake my head no but he ignores me, each movement deliberate as he cuts foil from a wine bottle, inserts the corkscrew, and pours a glass.
He comes at me with the glass, and I back up so fast the couch takes out my knees. I sit as terror shoots up my spine and he deposits the glass in my hands. Think, Violet. Be your own prince for once. Figure out how to save yourself.
I lift the glass to my lips and tip the barest sip, vinegar on my tongue. Struggling to keep the tremor of fear from my voice, I say, “Thank you. Would you have some with me?”
He smiles, his face relaxing with my invitation. “Perfect.” He takes the other glass from the kitchen and sits across from me. He takes a sip.
Yes. That’s good. Maybe he just wants to talk. Maybe he’ll leave fingerprints and DNA. Maybe he’ll drink and get relaxed and I can find a moment to run.
“I—I don’t think we’ve been introduced properly,” I say. “You’ve sent me flowers and letters, but you never signed them. What’s your name?”
“Ah, we’ll get to that. I do want you to know my name. I want you to know what to scream when I’m finally inside you.”
I choke, his matter-of-fact words bearing no hint of possibility, only finality. Determination. He’s been after me for weeks, and I was a fool to think he’d lose interest when every step toward me has only been an escalation.
Messages from afar. Messages that proved he was close. Flowers. The letter in my camera bag. The pictures of his naked, hard penis gripped in his hand as he stood in my room.
No, it’s clear he’ll take his fantasy all the way to its conclusion.
“You told me you loved me,” I say, trying another tack. “But you’re scaring me.”
His eyes flicker with greed. I’ve given him what he wants. Power, the ability to sway my emotions with his actions.
“It’s OK to be afraid in the beginning, Violet. I was scared to admit my feelings at first. But once you confess them, once you own them, everything becomes so much easier.”
He takes another sip of wine and I follow him, then sputter, struck by the horrible though that he might have drugged mine.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s just wine, sweet Violet. I want you alert and focused on everything I intend to do to you.” He stands and crosses my small living room, positioning himself on the couch next to me. I think of self-defense maneuvers, of clawing my way to the door, but he’s too close and power radiates from his body.
Just like Brady. The power of his presence wrapped itself around my throat and kept me from screaming or fighting when Brady tied me up. It’s a subtle threat, but clear all the same.
My stalker places his wineglass on the coffee table and takes my free hand nearest him, the one that isn’t gripping a glass so hard it could shatter. He trails his fingers up my inner wrist, to the crook of my elbow and up my arm to the sleeve of my T-shirt.
I swallow, then I see an unfamiliar gym bag across from me. It’s open and inside there’s a coil of rope.
“You like my toys?” he asks, and crosses the room in a flash to display them. The rope. A blindfold. Some kind of gag with a ball in the middle of it. A knife. He flicks open the hunting blade and rests it on the coffee table by the wineglass. “I brought them to play with you.”
My fear is gone, replaced by icy terror.
I could scream, but he’d sile
nce me, and likely with enough force that I’d lose my chance to escape. I force my body to be still as his finger trails down the side of my breast.
I shudder and my nipples peak, my traitorous body signaling that he’s found a button to press.
His mouth curves up, eyes on my breasts, and he squeezes my nipple painfully. “You like that. I knew it wouldn’t be long, Violet. I knew you’d find a way to respond to me, to show me you can love me, too.”
Love. On his lips the word is blasphemy. Love isn’t about force, it isn’t about taking power. Love isn’t surrender, either. I could give up and let him use my body so I can get through this without him using the knife.
Love is the opposite of fear.
Even in this roiling pit of terror and desperation, that thought shines clearer than anything. Love is the opposite of fear. In everything I’ve been through with Jayce, in every moment we’ve been together, I’ve had nothing to fear from him or with him.
He’s shown me love at every turn, love in each little sacrifice he’s made for me. Even when we were deep in the moment and he tied me up and I knew he wanted to be inside me, he sensed my fear, stopped, and cared for me.
The stalker picks up the knife, testing its weight in his hands. “This can be a good toy if you know how to use it, Violet,” he says. I hate the way he speaks my name, another violation. He slips the blade between my arm and my T-shirt, a quick thrust up and a flick of his wrist, and the sleeve splits like curtains.
I gasp. Each touch is a splinter of ice, his caress washing me in fear until I’m drowning, paralyzed with the reality of what is happening, and what will happen next.
“Maybe you’ll like it if I take you like this,” he says, the tip of his knife playing with my sleeve again until he slips it through the hole on a path to my throat. Another thrust and flick and my shirt falls away from one shoulder, sliced from the collar so it drapes down my chest and reveals my bra.
“This next cut will be fun for both of us, beautiful Violet,” he says, and I see his erection forming through his pants, his eyes darkening as he licks dry, thin lips. His knife point reaches for my bra strap and I flinch.
Hot red blood seeps from the wound even before I register the pain of the cut.
“Oh, now you’ve done it, Violet. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I will if I must.” He bends his head and licks the trickle of blood above my breast, near where my bra strap attaches to the cup. His tongue lingers on my skin before he straightens and smiles. “I will if you’re uncooperative.”
“Can I—can I touch you?” I force my voice to be steady, low with hunger instead of fear. Slowly, I move my hand toward his pants, watching his eyes widen and the knife go slack in his hand as I stroke him through his jeans.
As much as my stomach lurches and I want to throw up, I thrill with the effect, as if I’ve just found a light that can lead me out of this darkness.
“Very good, Violet. You’re doing so well.” He moans when I stroke him harder, then he straightens and swallows. “Let’s see what’s next.”
The knife springs to life in his grip, and I freeze as it comes near the cut that’s still trickling blood. He finds the small space where the curve of my breast pushes the bra strap away from my body, inserts the knife, and flicks. The elastic springs away and the bra cup sags, but the lace remains covering my breast.
“I’ve seen your breasts a thousand times in pictures, Violet, but to touch them … yesss.” He peels the lace cup down and my nipple springs free. His face is a burst of elation and avarice, and he licks his lips as if he’s ready to taste me. I move my hand in his lap again, eager to distract him.
“Touch me,” I choke out, hoping he’ll hear need instead of loathing. “Please.”
I see the indecision on his face as his eyes flick between his knife and my nipple. I stroke his penis harder through the denim, begging his hormones to cloud his judgment.
“All right. Since you asked so nicely.”
I watch as he places the knife on the coffee table, both hands free now to touch my breasts. He rolls my nipple between his fingers, his other hand working to push my T-shirt down under my other breast.
My far hand grasps the wine glass, my only weapon. “Taste me,” I beg. “Now.”
I hear him take a ragged breath and bend toward my nipple. Just before his lips close over it, I slam my hand with the wineglass into his face, driving shards into his eye.
The scream sears my brain as he grabs his face. I grab his knife and plunge it into his shoulder. His hand swings out wildly and knocks me to the ground.
The knife flies from my hand and I scramble to grab it again, feeling his fingernails dig into my calves as he comes after me. Broken glass slices my knee. I kick back hard, my shoe connecting with his jaw.
He lets go. I grab the knife. I hear a crunching sound as I turn to this bloody, howling animal, ready to stab it a thousand times and put every one of his victims out of their misery.
“No, Violet!” A hot hand clamps down on my wrist and I whirl around to stab the new intruder.
CHAPTER 43: JAYCE
Her eyes are wild, her teeth clenched, and I know what she’s ready to do. The howling man clutches his face, writhing on the floor from the kick I saw Violet land as I burst through the door.
I hold her wrist tight while she has a death grip on the knife, willing her to release it. I finally pry it from her fingers and press her down into a chair.
Waves of red hair mix with the blood from a slash just above her breast and her nipple is exposed, jutting out from translucent skin. She’s blind or disoriented, a thin pant squeaking from her throat.
I deal with the man next, hog-tying him with a rope that lies on the coffee table next to a ball gag. That rope was meant for Violet.
When I’m sure he’s not going anywhere, I dial 9-1-1 with bloody fingers.
Violet stares at her front door that hangs open at an awkward angle. Chunks of molding are gone from where the chain was once attached to the frame. When I heard that scream, I raced up the stairs and used my shoulder like a battering ram.
And now I’m here. Almost too late.
Violet’s skin is blue-white and a tremor rocks her. She’s bleeding on her chest and knees, but the cuts look superficial, so I direct her to her room to get the guy out of her sight and I wrap her in a comforter to combat the chills that shake her body.
The police arrive and I tell them what little I can guess about what happened. I lead them to Violet and a female detective sits on the bed next to her, talking softly as she asks the kind of questions I never wanted Violet to have to answer.
Another cop steers me away from her bedroom but I want to know. I have to know. How far did the stalker go? How much of Violet have I failed?
The stalker screams again as paramedics cut off my ropes and load him onto a stretcher. I demand he be restrained, telling the police that this is the stalker who’s been haunting Violet for weeks, for which she’s already made three police reports.
They put on grave faces and nod and try to placate me, but it’s not enough. Rage bursts through me and if I had the knife in my hand—the one a cop has just placed in an evidence bag—I’d do what I suspect Violet was getting ready to do when I burst through the door.
The female detective comes out of Violet’s room. “Will you stay with her?” I nod. “She’s in shock and she’s going to need a look at that knee, so take her to the hospital. But she’s not going to need a rape kit, so she can have a shower.”
God, it’s all so clinical. So matter-of-fact. The woman I love has just escaped with her life and they’re talking to me about a rape kit.
I am fucking done. I might not be able to hurt the stalker, but I know the guy who started it. Her ex-boyfriend.
I send Violet to the bathroom and tell her to take the longest, hottest shower possible. I don’t go in there because—well, because I’m afraid that betraying her by telling her secret still hangs between us. She’s mute, just nods a
nd follows my instructions.
I pull a change of clothes out of her drawer and take it to the bathroom while the cops wrap up their inspection of the living room. I take Violet’s purse to her bedroom and pull out her phone.
Her last call is to Katie Chase.
“Hey, sister.” The girl’s voice is a shade of Violet’s, but younger and softened by sleep. I remember she’s in high school, and I know they’re close. Close enough to know what I need.
“Katie, hi, sorry to call you so early. It’s Jayce.”
There’s silence on the line. “Jayce? As in, Jayce McKittrick? Like Tattoo Thief? The band?” With each question, her voice rises until it’s an excited squeak.
I laugh. “Yep, that’s the one. I’m calling because I need some info on your sister’s ex-boyfriend. I have to talk to him.” From researching Violet on Google, I’m pretty sure it’s Brady Keller, but I have to be sure.
“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Katie says, and I swear she’s scowling. “Why would you want to talk to him? They’re history. And why are you calling me with her phone?”
I blow out a breath and sit on Violet’s bed. It’s confession time—I have to tell Katie about the pictures Brady took and splashed across the World Wide Web. The story is live, and as the city wakes up, it’s just a matter of time before Violet’s family hears about it. I even confess the part I played in exposing her secret. Then I tell Katie about the stalker and the fight in Violet’s apartment.
“You’re an idiot.” Katie says, her voice choked with emotion after I assure her that her sister is safe now. “You think talking to Brady is going to fix anything? It’s not like he can un-publish the pictures. They’re out there.”
“I know. But I want him to pay for what he did. I want to ruin him. I want to strip him of everything he took from Violet, starting with his name.”
Katie tells me to wait and I hear shuffling in the background, then she rattles off his phone number. I write it down with shaking hands on a notepad on Violet’s desk. “You’re really going to do this?” Katie asks. “Because he’ll retaliate. His name is the thing he values most.”
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