It's empty. The place doesn't open for another half an hour.
Ethan looks at the coffee shop, then his eyes are on me. "It's easy to forget how much things have changed."
Yeah. It is.
I take deep breaths while I collect my thoughts. The silence should be heavy, what with this whole we should talk thing hanging over our heads, but it's not.
It's easy and light. Like old times. He smiles when I steal sips of his iced coffee. He moves closer when I shiver and zip my jacket.
His eyes meet mine with this look that begs me to spill my guts.
He waits to speak until his drink is melting ice. "I know you think Mal is pulling strings to get us back together."
"Is there a reason why you don't object to this?"
"Mal doesn't listen to anybody but Mal. Besides, I've seen him stressing about numbers. He doesn't have the expertise. And I'm not saying you do, but he's right. You're somebody we trust." Ethan's eyes find mine. "If you want the gig, you should take it."
His voice is even, effortless. Usually, Ethan wears his intentions on his face. But not right now.
No. That was the old Ethan, the one I knew. This playboy rock star version of Ethan… who knows what he does or why.
I take a long sip of my now lukewarm drink. "Won't that bother you?"
"No." His voice is shaky for a moment. "Just, well… I'm not gonna be celibate just because you're around."
"Excuse me?"
"I get it. You think I'm a manwhore. I won't argue." He runs his hand through his wavy hair. "You're right. I fuck a lot of women. That isn't going to change if you join us on tour."
"Thanks for the update on your sex life."
"Don't want you to get upset if you see me with someone else." His voice is clipped, his expression is frustrated.
But why? I stare back at him. "I don't give a fuck where you stick your dick."
"Good."
"Yeah, great. Is that it?"
"Pretty much."
I stare back at Ethan. I'm getting in the last word here. "Goes for you, too. I didn't swear off sex when we broke up."
Okay, so I've only slept with one guy since Ethan and I broke up. Denny and I dated for a few months. He was crazy about me—he wanted to move in together—but I never felt the same. After we broke up, he nearly evaporated from my mind. It still goes back to Ethan every time I pull out my rabbit-style vibrator (he did buy it for me). Or every time I touch myself sans mechanical assistance.
I clear my throat and smile my most confident smile. "Don't get upset if you see me with someone else."
"You're sleeping around?"
"That's not a crime, is it?" I chew on my lower lip. It's not the case either, but he doesn't need to know that.
"No. Of course not. I'm glad. Anybody I know?"
"No."
"You coming often, at least?"
"Excuse me?"
"We're gonna be around each other. We should be friendly."
"Pretty sure you coming often goes past most people's idea of friendly."
"Of course, Vi. Would never want to make you uncomfortable." He smiles, the look in his eyes screaming I guess that's a no.
I clear my throat. "Yeah, I'm coming a lot. Every night." By my hand, but that's a technicality. "Sometimes multiple times."
His expression flares with frustration. "Great."
"And you? Enjoy screwing strangers at bars?"
"Depends on the stranger."
I laugh-scoff. "I guess it would."
He smiles.
Even though we're hate-flirting, I fucking melt.
Chapter 6
Violet
Sometimes people tell me that STEM students don't have enough creativity. That's dead wrong. Math is all one plus one equals two at the lower levels. Once you get into the stuff I study, it's not objective. It requires thinking outside the box. It requires a hell of a lot of creativity.
At the moment, I can feel every drop of my incredibly vivid imagination. I can practically feel Ethan's body on top of mine, can practically smell his sweat and taste his lips.
I open the door and go to slide Ethan's jacket off my shoulders.
"Hold onto it," he says.
This time, I say the right thing. "No. It's yours." I hand over the jacket. "I'm sure you get cold screwing strangers in alleys."
"Actually, the screwing keeps me pretty warm."
Dammit, I'm smiling. I let out a full-blown belly laugh. "Does it?"
He nods. "You really have to ask?"
No, I don't. But I don't like thinking about Ethan with other women.
Dammit, I'm hot. I need to leave before I do something I'll regret. "Thanks for the tea." I dig my car key out of my wallet.
"Anytime." He nods goodbye.
I slam the car door shut but it doesn't shut out his presence. Even after I drive all the way home, Ethan sticks around in my head and my heart.
Ethan Strong, rock star guitarist, does not want me. Not the way I need him to. Guys like him, like the new Ethan, use girls like me.
No matter what happens, I can't fall for him again.
At home, I change into one of my favorite dresses and I perfect my makeup. Smokey eye in warm shades of purple, a little concealer, blush, dark lipstick. I'm ready to go out but I can't bring myself to leave the house.
I spend the afternoon hiding out in my bedroom with my e-reader. I'm not sure who I'm hiding from. My parents are at work. Asher was my only sibling. No one else is here.
When I get stir crazy, I move into the hallway. It's the same as it's always been— beige walls, beige carpet, old hinges that creek far too much.
Asher's room is next to mine. The door is half open.
So much of that room is the same. It has the same movie posters—he loved pretentious French films and he would go on and on about The 400 Blows and The Bicycle Thief. He had the same taste in movies and books as Dad—this nihilistic stuff about how life is awful and it's hard being a man. I can't say I ever got it, though I did try.
His desk is still topped with the stack of books his favorite literature teacher recommended. She was fresh out of getting her Teaching Credential and he had a massive crush on her—not just because she was cute, though she was, but because she was smart and deep. It was very teenager, falling for the insightful teacher.
I move downstairs before I give into the temptation to go into his room and dig through his things. My parents' house hasn't changed much in the last twenty-three years. It's a cozy four-bedroom—we use the extra room as a den—with a small dining area/living room/kitchen combo downstairs.
I take a seat on the leather piano bench. Asher lived in this house but, really, he lived right here, his fingers dancing on the ivory and black keys.
Being here, near all the memories of my baby brother (we're twins but he was eight minutes younger), is awful. It's not my parents' fault. They try to balance remembering him with moving on. But everywhere I look, I see someplace I failed him.
It's even worse than wanting Ethan and knowing I'll never have him, not the way I need to have him.
I want to take the gig, but my parents aren't going to like me leaving a few days into spring break.
There are keys jangling, then the doorknob turns. Mom steps inside, shifting the takeout bag to her other hand so she can shut the door. She's in her suit, fresh from work.
"Where were you last night, sweetie?" she asks.
I texted her that I was staying with a friend, but I was vague about the rest of the details. "I met up with an old friend. We got to talking and it was so late I figured I'd crash at their place."
"Anyone I know?" She sets the takeout bag on the table and moves into the kitchen. "I got chicken tandoori and vegetable curry. What do you say we split it, fifty-fifty."
"Okay." I help her set the table. "Dad working late?"
"It's that time of year."
She gets plates and silverware. I get drinks and napkins. The routine of it makes me
feel like I'm fifteen again. Lying about spending the night at a guy's place doesn't hurt the feeling like a teenager front.
"Sorry, sweetie. Did I miss you saying who you were with?" Mom's green eyes get curious. There's no accusation in her voice but the implication is clear. I know you neglected to mention who you were with. She brushes her auburn hair behind her ear and adjusts her tortoise-shell glasses. "Violet?"
Okay, she wants an answer.
I love my mom, but she can be a little judgmental about appearances. It's not her fault, exactly. Her parents were the same way. The second she saw Ethan's tattoos and his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair, she judged him as wannabe bad boy loser who is wasting my studious daughter's time.
She never flat-out said he wasn't good enough for me. Hell, she tried to be supportive of our relationship. But I could always tell she hoped I'd realize I could do better.
I clear my throat. "Someone from college."
Mom raises a brow but she says nothing as she scoops food onto her plate.
I do the same. The chicken smells amazing but the vegetable curry calls my name. I mix it with plenty of basmati rice and I take a bite. The carrots are sweet, the green beans are crisp, the potatoes are soft. And it's spicy too.
"Thanks for getting dinner, Mom." I take another bite and chew it incredibly slowly.
Mom nods you're welcome. She gives me a long once-over. "Is that a new dress?"
Her tone is friendly but the implication is there. Why don't you buy some normal clothes, Violet?
"It was on sale." And I like everything about the black and purple fit-and-flare dress.
"Do you have a suit for job interviews? It's getting to be that time, isn't it?"
"It is." And I still haven't decided what field I want to go into after school.
Damn, she's looking at me expectantly. There's a softness in her eyes. This is something Mom knows—she knows how to get jobs as a woman in STEM—and she wants to help me.
Telling her I'm about to bail on spring break at home is going to crush her. It's not personal, really. She and Dad are sweet, supportive parents, even if they never really got my sense of humor, my style, or my taste in movies.
Okay, need to soften this blow. "I, uh, I was offered a gig for the next week and a half, and I think I should take it. But it means I'm leaving." Okay, judging from the way her eyes are turning down, there's the blow. Now to soften it. "But maybe we could meet up to shop for suits tomorrow, before I leave."
"We can go on my lunch break." Her brows arch with confusion. "What kind of gig?"
I can't tell her I'll be working with my rock star ex-boyfriend. I certainly can't tell her I'll be sharing a bus with four men and, possibly, an assortment of roadies.
I try not to lie, but this is one of those times where it's the only option. "The place in New York where I interned last summer. It's a really great opportunity, and I need the cash."
She presses her lips together. "Dad and I can always help with money."
"I know." But I'd rather feel self-reliant. "If I really need help, I'll ask."
"Okay."
"You can pick out my suit," I say.
Mom chuckles. "Violet, you know I only bring up your unique style because I worry about you."
I nod.
"Your makeup isn't my kind of thing, but you pull it off well."
I smile. "You really think so?"
She nods. "But you'll wash it off for job interviews?"
"I'll tone it down by ten percent."
"Twenty," she counters.
"Okay, twenty. And how about we watch a movie after dinner? Your pick?"
Mom lights up. "Of course, sweetie."
I can tell she isn't jazzed about me leaving, but I need to not be here.
I ask her questions about work until we're both lost in the web of office drama and gossip.
After we finish Away from Her, an incredibly depressing indie film about a man watching his wife suffer through Alzheimer's, Mom goes to bed, and I go to my room (Dad is still at work).
My walls are still deep purple—I painted them back in high school. My bed has the same purple and black comforter I've had for years.
The same one I had when I was with Ethan.
My parents have always worked long hours. Ethan and I had so many afternoons and evenings in this room.
When I close my eyes, I can feel the weight of his body sinking into mine. I can feel his lips on my neck, his hands under my skirt, his hard cock pressing against my pelvis.
I can see his eyes lighting up with desire as he touches me.
Worse, I can feel the affection, love, and trust that used to pour between us. I can feel the way he looked at me like he understood me, like I meant everything to him.
I don't want to be here. I want the money. Hell, I even want to see Mal, Joel, and Kit—I don't know the bassist well but he's always been courteous to me—again.
But fuck, can I really handle being around Ethan?
There are a million reasons why I should take this gig. The only con is Ethan.
Logic dictates I take the gig.
I let myself sleep on it.
When I wake, I'm sure.
I text Mal.
Violet: I'm in.
Chapter 7
Ethan
I take a deep breath, shrug my shoulders, and attempt to get through the song again.
Fucking Drew. His shit is complicated. But then I knew that when I agreed to fill in for the Sinful Serenade guitarist.
Sinful Serenade is headlining our current tour. I'm a convenient choice. But Drew is too much of a perfectionist to go with convenience. He's trusting me with a lot.
Can't fuck that up.
I agreed in a heartbeat. The man had just found out his fiancée was pregnant. Just from our brief phone call, I could tell he was going to choose her over anything else. Someone had to step in. I'm more than capable. It made sense.
I didn't consider how hard it is to master his songs. Certainly didn't consider what a big deal it is filling in for the Drew Denton.
But then there's nothing that could have convinced me to decline the offer.
I don't back down from a challenge. Whether it's filling in for Drew or hanging out around Violet without falling in love with her, I don't give in when shit is hard.
I take a few minutes to stretch my hands, get water, shake off all the doubt creeping into my head. Not sure if it's about playing or about Violet. Doesn't matter. Neither challenge is defeating me.
First, I play the Sinful Serenade song I know the best. Then the next. By song four, I'm lost in the music.
This is where the world makes sense, when it's me and my guitar and nothing else.
The door opens and Mal steps inside the room. He nods keep going.
I'm not his monkey, but, dammit, even at twenty-four, I still get giddy over my big brother's approval.
I finish the song.
"I'm going to have to watch out or you'll become Drew's full-time replacement." Mal hooks his mic up to his amp. "Mind if I join?"
"You gonna sing with moans every other word like Miles does?"
I'm not sure which is more disturbing—Mal moaning every other word the way Miles Webb, the Sinful Serenade singer does, or Mal's usual breathy style. Either way, he sounds like he's in the middle of a vigorous fuck.
Mal shrugs, playing coy.
I go on to the next song on the setlist. It's tough, with a killer guitar solo. Mal does his usual breathy thing. As much as I hate to think of the implications of his overly sensual voice, it sounds fucking good with the music.
I get lost in the feel of the song. Then we're playing another. Then we're finishing the entire setlist.
We play for an hour before we break.
Mal nods his approval. "Vi agreed to take the gig."
"Great. Proud of yourself?"
He shrugs. "Not everything is about you, Ethan. Sometimes you gotta think about other people."
As if Mal
thinks about anything besides staying king of the Strong family and king of Dangerous Noise.
Fuck, we even call him The King behind his back.
Mal's bright eyes get intense. "If you can't handle being around Violet, I get it. Hard to resist a woman that fine."
He's baiting me but he's right.
Not many guys would resist Violet.
My blood goes cold at the thought of her coming screaming some other guy's name.
She isn't mine anymore. I can't do anything about her moving on unless I'm ready to make her mine again.
I swallow hard.
Mal shakes his head. I can hear his thoughts. You're hopeless, little bro.
"You're such a fucking know-it-all." I flip him off as playfully as I can.
"No. I just happen to know everything." He laughs and steps out the door.
My bed still smells like Violet. It's driving me out of my mind.
This—thinking about her naked, under me, screaming my name—is not productive. Opening for Sinful Serenade is the opportunity of a lifetime. Already, our album sales are skyrocketing. Already, we're getting offers for all sorts of commercial deals.
The only thing I've ever wanted, aside from Violet, is to make music that matters to people. Can't let my feelings for Violet fuck with that.
I should text her a manifesto about how the two of us are never getting back together.
My fingers refuse to cooperate. My fingers want her soft skin. They want her cunt pulsing around them as she comes.
My fingers are awfully cooperative most of the time. If they refuse to tell Violet to fuck off, fine. Violet and I can be friends.
Ethan: You okay at home?
Violet: I'll be away soon enough.
Ethan: You talk to your parents?
Violet: A little. I should pack. Anything I need to keep in mind?
Ethan: It will be cold in Portland, Seattle, and Chicago. Rainy too.
Violet: Thanks. I'm not planning on doing much sightseeing.
Ethan: Fuck that. I'll show you around.
Violet: Maybe.
Dangerous Kiss (Dangerous Noise Book 1) Page 4