Brutal Obsession (42)
Being around Greyson inspires dumb decisions.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
I eye his arms in his dress shirt. The muscles bulge against the white fabric. I resist the urge to reach out and touch him.
He grunts. His one hand stays pressed between my shoulder blades, and he walks me out of the woods. I let him forcefully guide me all the way to the corner of my street, and then I shake him off.
“I’m fine from here.”
He narrows his eyes, then nods. “Go on, then.”
I pull the zipper down to give him the jacket back, but he stops me. A clear sign that he wants me to keep it on, at least for now.
I shake my head slightly and walk away from him.
“Oh, and Violet?”
I glance back.
“Don’t even think about making yourself come.”
My face flames, and I swallow sharply. I don’t answer, turning and hurrying away. Putting more and more distance between us, hoping that I’ll finally be able to breathe with every step I take.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.
His gaze stays on me all the way to my apartment.
Once I’m inside, I lose it. A lump forms in my throat, and my eyes flood with tears. An ugly sob tears out, breaking the silence.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth to try and stem the flow of sound, but it’s useless. My leg is on fire, pain lancing up from my shin through to my hip. I massage my thigh hopelessly and make my way to my room.
Willow’s door is shut, the light off.
It’s late—I made up an excuse about studying at the library and to not wait up, so she should be sleeping. I can lie and tell myself I don’t know what I’m doing, or why. But I’m worried that she’s going to try and talk me out of getting back into dancing shape.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is an absolute mess. My clothes, too. And Greyson has my student ID. I curse, then light up and pat down his pockets. Sure enough, my ID is safely tucked away in the left one.
I peel off his jacket and set it on the back of my desk chair. My phone is still on my charger on my nightstand, because I didn’t want Willow to wake up and track my location.
See? Total guilty person behavior.
I exhale and turn on the shower. There’s smudges of dirt on my arms, and it’s all over my clothes. The bed of pine needles and leaves we rolled around in seem to have all come home with me, too.
It’s a slow process to remove my clothing. Another zing of pain travels up my left leg when I try to balance on it, so I lean most of my weight on the counter to peel off my leggings. I touch my clit tentatively and gasp at the sensation. He didn’t get me off—didn’t want to, from the sound of it.
I consider continuing, taking myself there… but then his warning sounds in my head. And as painful as it is, I pull my hand away. I leave myself breathless and horny. Then I get in the shower and try to erase what happened tonight.
18
VIOLET
I wake up to my phone buzzing next to my face. I lift my head off the pillow and make out my mother’s name on the screen. My shock wakes me up a bit, and I swipe to answer it.
“Ah, so you are alive.” My voice is hoarse and rasping. About time she decided to check up about Mia Germain—it’s unlike her to curb her curiosity.
Well, I suppose it’s more like her nowadays, and I just hadn’t caught up to the new her. But she’s calling now, and that’s the important part. Right?
“You signed an NDA,” my mother hisses. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
I rear back from my phone. Not quite the response I was expecting.
“Um…” I scramble to catch up. Did Greyson release the video? I thought it was blackmail… I thought I did what he wanted. Panic stabs through me, ice-cold, and I throw the covers off my legs. The scar on my shin stands out in sharp relief against my pale skin. “Can you fill me in?”
“The Times. Look at the fucking Times.” She moans. “Oh, our lives are over. How could you do this to us?”
I don’t answer, putting her on speaker while I grab my laptop and type in the newspaper’s website. It’s a local Crown Point paper that runs print and digital. I think my mom gets their emails just in case I ever did anything impressive enough to warrant a screenshot—or, worse, for her to find a printed copy and carefully cut out the article or photo that mentioned me.
That was a lifetime ago, though.
Now, it’s Greyson’s picture that’s spread across the front page.
I scroll down, my heart in my throat. The headline says: Crown Point University’s rising hockey star has a torrid past.
I can’t breathe. Mom is still talking about how I’ve ruined us, how they’re going to come after both me and her. I tune her out and scan the article. It lays out an accusation without real evidence: that Greyson was involved in an accident, driving drunk, and it was swept under the rug.
“I didn’t do this,” I say weakly.
“Of course not,” Mom snaps. “That’s exactly what we’re going to say.”
The story goes on to talk about what happened to me. They found a photo of me outside the hospital in a walking boot. One I posted to my Instagram, if I’m not mistaken.