The Certainty of Violet & Luke(5)

‘Violet?’ I step past the sink area toward the bathtub. ‘Are you in here?’

‘In here.’ Her voice is small and sounds like it’s coming from the shower/tub area.

I pull back the curtain and there she is in the bathtub, her knees pulled to her chest, hugging herself so tight it looks like she’s trying to curl into herself. I crouch down beside her, cup her chin in my hand, angling her face back so I can see how drunk she is. Her enlarged pupils and inability to focus on anything lets me know it’s time to get her out of her.

‘I’m ready to go.’ Her speech is slurred and tears start slipping out of her eyes. This has happened many times so I know exactly what to do. I scoop her up and carry her out of the house, taking her home like she asked.


It’s two o’clock in the morning when I pull up to our apartment complex, in a decent area of town and walking distance to the University when it’s warm enough. Violet passed out in the truck on the way home after puking in the bushes so I have to carry her upstairs, something I don’t mind doing. She’s never been a big drinker and it shows every time she attempts to drink. I hate that it does. I want my Violet back.

My Violet? What the hell? Like she belongs to me. She doesn’t. Although, looking down at her, her green eyes shut, full lips slightly parted, black and red wavy hair hanging over my arm, her body curled up against me, trusting me to carry her inside, she feels like she’s mine.

‘If she f*cking heard what you were thinking, she’d f*cking castrate you,’ I mutter to myself. Violet has never been the kind of girl who likes to be owned by anyone. She’s always strong willed and independent and that is part of the reason why I fell in love with her. I’ve done the whole needy women thing and it bugs the shit out of me, hooking up with women who not only want direction but also want to cling to me. I didn’t hate it at the time. I loved having the control – needed it after spending most of my childhood being controlled by my overbearing, psychotic mother. But once I met Violet Hayes and saw a different side, felt the challenge, the connection, the desire to actually want someone on a more passionate level, I knew there was no going back. And I don’t ever want to go back to my life before Violet. I just wish we were on more stable ground; wished she could get over the thing with my mother, that my mother was in prison so Violet had a reason to try and heal herself; wished I could help her bring that wild, independent, strength back out. I don’t blame her for being angry, or for struggling, for being confused. She has every right and all I can do is help her until she’s ready to move on.

As I’m reaching the top of the stairway, I give a wave to the black car with tinted windows that I know is the police car. It’s here every night, parked near the curb, watching the place, thanks to Preston and his need to continuously taunt Violet with his texts and threats to kill her. This put the police on high alert since Preston is now a suspect for Violet’s parents’ murders.

As I arrive at our apartment door, I’m struggling to take out my keys without putting Violet down, when I notice a box in front of the door. At first I think it’s part of the mail, but then I lean down and notice that it’s addressed to Violet Hayes with no postage stamp, no return address, or even our address. I immediately get an uneasy feeling about it. Glancing around at the doors around us and then at the parking lot below, I hurry and get the door unlocked and us inside. After carefully setting Violet down on the sofa I make my way back to the box, deciding what to do. Pick it up and open it? Honestly, I just want to throw it away and never see what’s inside, because I know it has to be bad, that whatever is in there is going to just add to the shittiness going on right now. But at the same time, not knowing could end up being bad too. With great hesitancy, I step outside and bend down to carefully tear the tape of the box, noting how light it feels. When I open it up, I can see why. All that’s in there is a single photo, of Violet. My jaw instantly tightens and my fingers itch to ram my fist through the wall. In the picture, Violet is only wearing a bra and panties. She’s holding the short black dress that she’s wearing right now, ready to put it on, which means it was taken before we went to the party. From the angle, it looks like the picture was taken from somewhere across the street, either on the balcony of the restaurant round the corner from us, or from the two-story home that’s been for sale for the last month. It doesn’t say who took it, but I know who it’s from. The same guy who had a room full of pictures of Violet, who sends her the threatening texts – Preston.