Revenge Bound

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  A bolt of energy shoots straight down my legs, inflaming the flesh between them. The room smells of lotion and sex as shadows dance across his face, the roughness of his fingertips teasing energy to swirl through my body like a gathering storm.

  Jayce chuckles. “I love how responsive you are.” As if to prove his point, he brushes my other nipple and my body jerks in response.

  When his fingers dive lower, deeper between my legs, I see his jaw clench and his eyes darken. He finds the bud with his finger, pinching and rolling it, his eyes fixed on mine as he creates little quakes, fissures in my self-control.

  I twist and writhe under his hand, his fingers plunging and spreading moisture across me. He moves faster and I’m coming apart, lower lip aching where my teeth bite down against the scream building inside me. Flick, twist, swirl. Plunge, twitch, withdraw.

  Release. It floods me with sensation and the scream escapes. I’m flying, tethered only to his finger and that tiny bundle of nerves that’s a red button on a nuclear reactor. Meltdown.

  I pant and twist, in overdrive as I peak and ride the high that drags all the air from my lungs, all the energy from my limbs, all the emotion from my heart. There is no dam strong enough to hold back this torrent, and no control left in me.

  Except his. His deliberate movements that know me, that light my skin and my soul on fire.

  His hand gentles to softer strokes, longer and more languid caresses. I’m spent and I just lie there, looking up at him in wonder.

  “I need your skin,” I say. I pull at his T-shirt and he strips it off, his hardened chest glowing in the dim light of the room. “All of it,” I beg. He stands, pushing his boxers down lean hips, and his erection springs free.

  I’m still paralyzed from my climax and I don’t reach for him, but he climbs back into the bed next to me, his arm sliding beneath my neck as he wraps me against his hot skin.

  He buries his face in my hair, inhaling, then he releases me enough that our faces are a few inches apart.

  “You were never more beautiful than just now,” he says, his voice raw. “When you came apart in my hands. When you gave me control.”

  CHAPTER 29: JAYCE

  Her skin is like satin—cool and smooth, begging to be touched. I pull Violet against me again so she won’t have to answer my stupid-as-hell comment.

  Why couldn’t I just tell her she’s beautiful?

  That she’s sexy?

  That she makes me crazy with lust?

  I suppose she could guess that from the way my cock’s digging into her hip, but she doesn’t reach for it.

  Shit. I’m doing this all wrong.

  Less than an hour ago, she was running away from me because I admitted I wanted to control her. And now I’ve just screwed the pooch with another comment about control. If that doesn’t make her run far and fast, I don’t know what will.

  I listen to her breathing and I’m grateful she doesn’t answer me. My grand plan—to get her nice and relaxed so she’ll be able to sleep after this new freaky stalker thing—went out the window as soon as I laid eyes on her bare skin, her bare ass, and those legs that just don’t quit.

  My hands, just like my dick, evidently have a mind of their own.

  Violet curls into me, tiny sounds of contentment humming from her chest as the minutes tick by and I stroke her back. When her breathing evens, I loosen my grip enough to kill the light by the bed.

  We’re in darkness, with only the city light filtering through my window. It’s a safe little cocoon—my apartment, my room, my bed—far enough from the stalker and the media and all the bullshit with my band and the Viper Records deal that I can finally think.

  I think I’m an idiot.

  I feel Violet’s breathing deepen with sleep and I glide my hand up the back of her neck to thread in the thick strands of her hair, to pull through them and comb out a few tangles, to fan the puddle of bloodred across my pillow.

  I dip my chin and inhale her scent, cherry blossoms and sunshine. I still smell her on my fingers, too, sweet and alkaline, like milk and honey.

  Skin to skin, Violet is everything, a whole world of scent and sensation, her softness blending into my hardness and we just fit. She feels right. I’m not pressed against rock-hard fake boobs, accidentally stabbed with fake nails, smeared with lipstick or smothered with hairspray.

  Groupies come with a lot of cosmetics, I’ve learned. But Violet, she just comes naturally.

  God. I am so fucked.

  Before I sleep, I make three resolutions.

  One, I’m going to make those pictures go away. I know what they do to me, and I hate the thought of some other guy jacking off to her, even if Violet wakes up and tells me she doesn’t want me. I don’t care what I have to pay Gus to make it happen, I want them gone.

  Two, I’m going to get the sonofabitch who’s after her. If the cops don’t make it happen first, I’m going to nail his balls to the wall to be sure he never comes at Violet again.

  Three is the hardest. I’m not going to lose control again. She deserves better than this, better than me coming at her with my hands or my dick just because I’m horny and tormented by pictures of her. Until she tells me she wants me, and on what terms, I’m not going to keep pushing her.

  Because I know I could break her. I could get what I want. It’s there for the taking. I could wrap the feelings I see plainly on her face together with little manipulations, little steps that tip the balance of power.

  I could win her, but it would break her.

  And I want Violet whole. Or nothing.

  ***

  Dawn knocks the cobwebs loose in my brain and it takes me a minute to understand why I’m sweating. The redheaded furnace in my arms is the answer.

  Her skin is normally cool to my touch. But last night as we slept, our legs tangled together and my arms wrapped her tight against my chest. The heat between us roared to life.

  I peel back the damp sheet and pull it up, letting it fall back against our bodies and sweep cool air over us. Violet murmurs something and then her dark lashes flutter, butterfly wings opening to reveal bright emerald eyes.

  I press my lips to her forehead and gently disentangle us. “You can sleep. I’m grabbing a shower.”

  I roll and walk to the bathroom, hoping she doesn’t see my cock bobbing as I go. Shower’s gonna be cold.

  When I finish, she’s sitting up in bed, the white sheet barely tucked under her arms to cover her breasts. Her phone’s in her hand and she’s grinning like she just won the lottery.

  “It’s the graffiti artist,” she squeaks. “I got a text last night from the girl at the tattoo shop, Willa. She said the artist is willing to meet me today at Righteous Ink.”

  I smile and go to my dresser for clothes, not really getting what she’s saying but happy she’s happy.

  “I’m going to text Stella. Get her to come with me, so she can write the captions for my photo essay.” Violet taps out a message on her phone and I slide open a drawer, expecting shirts, but finding nothing.

  Violet’s drawer.

  I don’t over-think it, just grab her bag and start emptying her stuff into the drawer: shirts, shorts, and a mound of lacy things that undo the work of the cold shower.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Unpacking for you.” I keep my tone neutral, my back to Violet as I dress.

  I turn and she’s staring at me.

  “You gave me a drawer?”

  “I’ll give you whatever you need.” I hold her eyes for a beat and understanding flashes in them.

  Dammit. I’ve been awake thirty minutes and already I’m pushing her, pecking away at the question that hangs between us.

  What will she give me? Control?

  “Coffee.” I flee the bedroom and busy myself in the kitchen, not only coffee but omelets and toast and the rest of the berries. By the time Violet emerges from the bedroom, showered and dressed casually as always, I’m turning a fluffy half-moon of egg onto a plate.
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br />   “This looks a lot better than just coffee,” Violet says, and I hand her a fork to dig in. She waits for me to finish the other omelet, though, and only when I’m seated beside her at the kitchen bar does she take the first bite.

  “You cooked,” she says. “Seriously.”

  I nod. “It gets pretty serious when that’s how you make rent. I cooked until we were gigging on the reg, touring regional shows and making more than just a scrape off the door. It took four years, but eventually we didn’t have to have side jobs anymore.”

  Violet nods, looking around my kitchen as if for the first time. Knives and measuring cups line a magnetic rack on the back wall. Hanging pots with their bottoms blackened by use all point to another endeavor that speaks to what I need.

  Control. It’s in the fire, ingredients, and chemistry of cooking. In music, it’s in the precision of pitch and timing. Even on the weight bench, it’s not just about adding another dime, another ten pounds to the rack. It’s about having the control for the precise lift that’s balanced through the stroke.

  I let her enjoy a few bites in silence, then clear my throat. “So, today. We’re supposed to meet Gus at noon. Practice is at two, and I’d like you to come with me.” I struggle to keep the command out of my words. “If you’re OK with that. Please.”

  “Where do we meet Gus? I’m meeting Stella for coffee and then we’ll go to Righteous Ink when it opens at ten.”

  I give her directions to his office and clear our plates. I’ve got my own meeting with the other attorney to go over the proposed Viper contract this morning.

  Violet moves to pick up her camera bag.

  “Stop.” The command is out before I soften it with a please, but caution prickles along my spine and I move between her and the bag. I was too messed up with hormones racing through my system last night to even think to inspect it, but the fact is, he had it.

  The stalker.

  I zip open the bag. Lying on top is a cream envelope, her name scrawled on top. I grab a tissue and stuff the envelope in a zip-top bag, then slip that into my messenger bag.

  “We’ll go to the police with this. But I don’t want you to have to carry it around today.”

  Violet shakes her head, not letting me boss her around any longer. “My letter, my problem.” She takes the letter from me, and I want to beg her not to open it to some fresh new horror.

  She takes my tissue and removes it from the bag. Takes a knife from the kitchen and slices the envelope open. Takes care not to touch the paper as she pries a note from inside it.

  I hover over her shoulder to read.

  I’m watching you, Violet, and waiting. You left your bag and I returned it.

  Do you see now how I can take care of you?

  Do you see how I love you?

  It’s only a matter of time before you realize how much you can love me.

  That time is coming.

  Violet folds the note and returns it and the envelope to the plastic bag with shaking fingers. She won’t meet my gaze.

  I’m angry she ignored me and angry at the stalker’s words, but I channel my fury into focus. I work my way through the rest of the bag but there are no further surprises—only her camera gear, lens-cleaning papers, memory cards and a few pens. Her wallet and the cell phone I gave her are in a side pocket.

  I hand her the bag and my hand brushes hers, a jolt of electricity affecting both of us. I soften my stance, move closer, and she bends to me, her mouth turned up, eyes open and expectant.

  “Be safe today,” I tell her, and take her face between my hands. I plant a soft kiss on her forehead, the only place that doesn’t lead to her mouth and absolute temptation.

  When I release her, there’s confusion in her eyes. “I will,” she promises. “See you at noon?”

  I nod and she’s out the door.

  CHAPTER 30: VIOLET

  “If you had asked me two weeks ago if dating Jayce was a good idea, I’d say no.” Stella frowns into her frothy latte. “I still say no, but it’s kind of weird and awesome of him to let you stay with him while your apartment’s being fumigated.”

  It was the best lie I could come up with. I make a mental note to tell Neil so he’ll cover for me if he talks to Stella. I hate lying to her, but I can’t tell her about the stalker and the pictures. It was hard enough admitting I was recently fired from my teaching job.

  “I know he’s a good friend,” Stella says. “He was awesome to me when Tyler had his diabetic seizure; he even stuck up for me when the rest of the band blamed me.”

  Jayce’s playboy reputation is well-deserved, Stella adds, but that doesn’t mean I should write him off.

  I take a sip of my caramel latte, and weigh the evidence. “I can’t get over the mixed signals. Like, last night he’s all hot and bothered, and this morning he kissed me on the forehead like I’m his little cousin.”

  Stella shrugs. “Maybe for once in his life he wants to take it slow?”

  I remember how he moved against my skin. He didn’t push me to do the deed, but he wasn’t chaste, either. “Do you think he’s still … dating other people?”

  “You mean the shallow end of the gene pool?” Stella snorts. “Doubt it. I’m not saying he’s going to get religion and quit being a man-whore, but from what Tyler’s told me, none of Jayce’s girls have been hanging around since the night we were at the hospital.”

  I tuck the timing of that into the back of my brain and check my phone again. “The shop’s open. Let’s go.”

  Willa’s behind the counter at Righteous Ink again, drawing in her sketchbook.

  She closes it as we approach. I study her face, guessing she can’t be much older than me. She’s curvy, about halfway between my five-ten and Stella’s five-two, with short, pink-streaked hair and delicate tattoos woven up the length of her arms.

  She looks a lot cooler than either of us. “You brought a friend?” Willa frowns.

  “And coffee.” I set the peace offering down on the counter, to-go cups for Willa and VIIIM, and drop a handful of creamers and sugar packets beside it.

  Willa nods to Stella as she doctors her coffee. “So you are?”

  “Stella Ramsey. I used to be a reporter for The Indie Voice but now I’m kind of between gigs. Violet asked me to come along to interview VIIIM and write captions or maybe a feature to go with the photo profile.”

  Willa’s eyes narrow. “I saw you on TV.”

  Stella ducks her head, an admission. “Yeah. Nothing like defending your boyfriend on national television.”

  Willa snorts. “I hope he’s worth it.”

  “He is.”

  I’m edgy from the challenge in Willa’s voice and Stella’s steely reaction, and the fact that VIIIM isn’t here yet, so I change the subject. “Willa, did you know Stella had a tattoo done here a few weeks ago? One of your coworkers, a big guy with a lot of tattoos.”

  “That describes pretty much everyone I work with,” Willa says.

  Stella rolls her wrist to reveal delicate, tattered angel’s wings paired with a Latin phrase, Alis volat propriis. It means “she flies with her own wings.”

  Willa’s eyes flash with recognition. “That’s Thomas’s work. He’s really good. He’s done most of these for me.” She rolls up her sleeve to reveal several lifelike bees sucking honey from flowers. “I designed them, but he did the ink. He has a nice touch with shading.”

  Stella’s still admiring her own tattoo so I clear my throat, eager to get going on the interview with VIIIM. “So, when do you think the artist will be joining us, Willa?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You?” My mouth drops open stupidly. “You’re VIIIM?”

  “No, I’m Willa. You just don’t know how to read my signature.” Willa cracks a grin at my surprise.

  “You’re the one who does the street art?” I’m floored, absolutely stunned, as if I’m finally putting a face to a famous voice. In the last year, as I’ve collected more than two dozen images of this artist�
�s work, I’ve nurtured a vision of who he must be in my mind: a hard-edged guy with paint-streaked fingers and a rap sheet.

  Seeing Willa as this elusive artist rocks my world and challenges every assumption. If you blink past the pink hair and tattoos, she could be just like me and Stella. One of us.

  “Wow. You’re really—young.” Stella blurts, and I’m thankful she puts that awkward question out there right away.

  “I’ve been on my own for eight years,” Willa counters.

  “But you’re—”

  “Twenty-three. Life isn’t always a yellow brick road.” Willa’s statement is defensive, but it connects with Stella and she softens.

  “You’re right.” Stella dips her hand in her bag for her notebook and uncaps a pen. “Look, I’m sorry we started out weird. Obviously, we didn’t expect you’d be so … accomplished. Can I get a do-over?”

  Stella offers Willa a sincere smile and I’m thankful for my friend’s ability to do the talking and tease information out of her in the interview. I listen to them banter as Stella starts with the easy questions. That’s why I brought her with me, because if it were just me here, I’d still be stuck on the question, “You’re VIIIM?”

  And that brings me back to something Willa said. When they pause, I ask, “Willa, you said we didn’t know how to read your signature. What do you mean by that?”

  She flips open her drawing pad and uses a fat, brush-tip marker to hastily scrawl V-I-I-I-M across the page. The graffiti script is full of movement, the letters distorted and stylized. She pushes the pad toward me. “Tell me what you see.”

  “VIIIM,” I say.

  Willa nods, then rotates the pad a hundred and eighty degrees. “Now what do you see?”

  My fingers trace the letters, now in reverse order. M is now a W. The first I is without a serif, but the next two I’s have just enough of a serif extending from them that they could be L’s. And the letter I’d always read as V, when inverted, looks like an A. The dot in the middle of the V, which I thought was decoration, now reads as a crossbar for an A.