Brutal Obsession (37)

“Greyson? It’s Martha.”

Dad’s long-time, aforementioned secretary. I didn’t mention that she’s only recently crossed the line into lover. His excuse? We can’t all be saints.

I let the silence fill the call.

She clears her throat. “Your father is in town. He’s meeting with the university president and the mayor, and then he wants to see you for dinner.”

I open my mouth to answer, then close it. It’s not a request, that’s for fucking sure. He didn’t even have the nerve to call and tell me himself.

This is a publicity stunt.

Dinner with the rising hockey star—never mind that I already was a hockey star at Brickell. People tend to gloss over that when my past is littered with slander. And trust me, those articles still exist. They’re buried, and they don’t come up on regular searches. My father pulled way too many fucking strings to give the illusion that scandal didn’t rock our family.

“A car will pick you up at six,” she finally says.

“Okay.”

She makes a noise, like she fucking won something. And maybe she did by getting me to answer. I don’t know what she thinks of me, and I don’t really give a shit. Who knows what my father told her, or the opinions she formed on her own.

I’ve only met her a handful of times.

I gather my swept pile and throw it out, then head back upstairs to make myself presentable. Erik is making noise in the basement—a loud, violent video game, judging by the sounds drifting up—and the other guys aren’t home. As soon as I close my door, the noise fades.

Once I’m clean, I text Violet.

Me



I want to see you later





My phone stays silent for too long. The seconds tick past, and I stare down at the screen. I haven’t seen her in two days—too long. Sundays are our only day without practice, which means most of the hockey team does absolutely nothing. I spent the morning at the gym, then I lounged around and caught up on homework.

But I want to know what Violet is doing.

I want to know what she’s thinking and wearing and where she is.

Finally, the bubble pops up that she’s typing.

Vi



I’m busy later.





That’s not acceptable.

Me



Make time.





I’ll make it worth your while.





I drop my phone on the bed and finish getting dressed. A button-down shirt that my dad expects, the silver chain he got me when I turned twenty. Black slacks and dress shoes—it’s an outfit I’d wear to go to a game. They always demand a certain way of presenting ourselves. The professional vibe.

You never know when a recruiter is watching.

Vi



Fine. If you can find me, you can see me.





I perk up at the text. Immediately, blood rushes to my cock. It stiffens against my zipper. There’s a certain thrill that comes with a hunt. And that’s exactly what this feels like: she’s the prey and I’m the predator, forever trying to get her ensnared.

Eventually, she won’t be able to run from me.

The urge to track her down right now is strong. I force myself to remain in my room, to lie back and go still. It’s an exercise in patience that I usually don’t excel in. The quiet is too much of a reminder of my childhood.

As a compromise, I open my Instagram and search her name. It doesn’t take too long to find her account. There’s one photo of her standing in front of the Beacon Hill hospital, her left leg encased in a black walking boot. Her dress hangs over it, stopping at her knees. A woman who looks startlingly similar to her, with more creases around her eyes and mouth. There’s a garish smear of red across her lips, and her hair seems more expensive than Violet’s wardrobe.

For the first time, it occurs to me that she might be poor. Even though her mom tends to be made of flashy things—or maybe she does that in spite of their financial situation. Because Violet drove a shitty car, and she’s lived in the same apartment with a roommate for years, and she never seems to wear anything new or crazy.

Maybe she’s chosen this lifestyle because there were no other options. Because of a selfish mother?

Whatever it is, I want to know every little thing about her.

The thought irritates me.

I keep scrolling.

There’s a video of her and Willow at a dance team competition. I pull the screen closer, searching for her in the throng of girls. They all wear the same thing: royal-blue tank tops, black booty shorts, blue-and-white knee-high socks under white sneakers. Their hair is all in high ponytails, slicked back and tied with blue-and-white ribbons.

It doesn’t take me too long to find her—she’s front and center, after all. The girls move around her, letting her take the lead. My mouth waters. She flips and twirls, then scoots backward to let other girls take the spotlight.

I scroll to the next one. A professional photo of her in a ballet leotard, mid-leap. The sort of image that could easily be in a magazine. Her muscles all stand in perfect relief, her limbs extended so it looks like she’s floating. Her expression is peaceful.

No sign of the physical strain that must take.

Not even her eyes show it. I zoom in to make sure, studying her relaxed lips, her jawline.