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.
<
br /> 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 Seven
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.
Ethan: It's been a long time. I'm not holding shit against you. The two of us can be friends.
Violet: We can?
Ethan: If you stop undressing me with your eyes.
Violet: Stop wearing tight t-shirts and jeans and we'll talk. And eyeliner—don't even think about wearing eyeliner.
Ethan: You described my stage getup.
Violet: Did I?
Ethan: You know you did.
Violet: I described your old stage getup. How should I know what you wear now? A lot of other things have changed. You could have grown out of eyeliner.
Ethan: Grown out of it?
Violet: Yeah.
Ethan: Cause it's for kids or some shit?
Violet: That's not what I meant.
Ethan: You always jumped me when I was wearing eyeliner.
Violet: Maybe.
Ethan: You really think you can sell this story about how it's something I'd grow out of?
Violet: I looked hot when I wore a hot pink bra under my seethrough top. It was still a phase I grew out of.
Ethan: Sorry I missed that.
Violet: I was 15, you perv!
Ethan: We're the same age.
Violet: Technicalities.
Ethan: You think I look hot in eyeliner.
Violet: Maybe.
Ethan: You afraid to admit it?
Violet: Okay, you look hot in eyeliner. You look hot in everything, Ethan. You're a very attractive man.
Ethan: Why does that sound like an accusation?
Violet: Maybe I wish I could pull off that just-rolled-out-of-bed hairstyle.
Ethan: You always looked good when you rolled out of my bed.
Violet: With all of last night's makeup perfectly in place?
Ethan: I preferred when I got you sweaty enough your makeup smudged.
Violet: Are you flirting with me?
Ethan: Maybe.
Violet: Are you?
Ethan: You know I am. It's friendly. We'll be friends.
Violet: Just friends?
Ethan: Just friends.
Violet: You honestly believe we can do that?
Ethan: I can. Can you?
Violet: Remember that bit about you being an attractive man?
Ethan: You're still hot as fuck, Violet. Doesn't mean I can't be your friend.
Violet: Yeah. I guess you're right. I'll see you tomorrow.
Ethan: Sweet dreams.
Violet: You too.
Chapter Eight
Violet
I spend the morning having breakfast with my dad. He's not jazzed to see me leave, but he's more excited about this potential opportunity than Mom was. It takes a lot of effort to keep from blurting this is a load of bullshit, I'm doing work that has nothing to do with my field but I manage.
Then it's coffee with Mom. By
the time I get home, I only have an hour to pack. I appreciate how much my parents want me around, I really do. And I know they love me.
But I still want to be somewhere else.
I'm not sure that tagging along on my rock star ex-boyfriend's tour is where I want to be, but at this point, I'm willing to try just about anything.
After I pack, I spend far too much time picking out the perfect outfit to make Ethan regret throwing me away. High-waisted skinny jeans, a carefully cropped Garbage top, and heeled boots are just the right mix of ordinary concert outfit and I'm hot and I know it and I want to make sure you know it too.
I finish my makeup just as the doorbell rings. Piper, Ethan and Mal's little sister, is driving me to the show. It's in Los Angeles, only an hour away without traffic. This time of day, we should manage an hour and a half.
I take one last look around, I say goodbye to the memories that are haunting me here, and I meet Piper downstairs.
"Oh my God, Violet, you look great!" Piper's dark blond hair bounces as she throws her arms around me. "Your haircut is cute. And it's bold. I could never pull that off."
"Thanks."
She grabs my rolling duffel.
"I can get that."
"No, I insist." She leads me to her car—a practical silver sedan-and opens the passenger side door for me.
"Such a gentleman," I say. "Gentlewoman, I guess."
It's hard to believe Piper is such an adult. She must be nineteen and she really does look like a woman and not a girl. She's wearing a snug navy dress and wedge shoes and her makeup is pretty and subtle.
She gets into the car with a smile. "You have to tell me all about school and about living in New York City. I love visiting."
I catch her up on all the interesting details while she gets onto the freeway, then I take my turn asking about her life. She's a freshman at UCI now. She's not sure what she's going to study. She's still stuck with Ethan and especially Mal being annoying and overprotective, but I can tell she still adores both her brothers.
Well, almost.
"I swear." Piper squeezes the steering wheel. Her blue eyes—they're the same shade as Ethan's—narrow. "I can't believe Ethan is so stupid. He never listens to me. I told him that you wouldn't have left unless he pushed you. I told him that you loved him and that he was never going to find anyone like you—God, you should see the way he mows through cheap sluts. I know I shouldn't slut-shame and everything but ugh! It's gross. He always looks at me like—" she mimics Ethan "—'Aw, poor Pipes, she's so young that she doesn't understand grownup relationships.'"
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