Page 10 of Unleashed By Eden

“That sucks.”

“I can assure you, there was no sucking going on.”

Eden is the only place in the world where no one expects anything from me except to relax and have a good time. In the mansion tucked away in suburbia, I can just exist. There are no cameras or fans or invasive questions about the album or whatever personal drama the tabloids have decided to cook up for me this week.

When Dameon’s sub, Hailee, apologized for canceling my Le Jardin booking at the last minute, I didn’t mind. I was hoping to get my dick sucked. But I wasn’t going to be a prick about it. Shit happens. It’s my escape from the madness, my little slice of normalcy in a life that has gone completely insane. I only wish I could go there more often.

The waitress returns with our whiskey, and I twist it open and pour each of us four fingers.

“You’re coming next weekend, yeah?” James asks.

I raise my glass in a half-toast. “On the yacht? Hell yeah.”

The next most relaxing thing—after Eden—is hanging out with these losers on their yacht with nothing but the open water, top-shelf whiskey . . . and women. Disappearing for a few days before the tour kicks off couldn’t come at a better time.

The pain in my gut flickers again, a sharp twist that makes my grip on the glass tighten. I know I should take the hint and set it down, be smart for once, but the promise of that velvety hit of vanilla and spice is too fucking sweet to ignore. I raise the glass to my lips anyway, take a slow mouthful and let it sit on my tongue. The warmth spreads before I swallow. Heaven, absolute heaven. It goes down smoothly, without any burn.

We fall into an easy rhythm, trading stories and catching up. James and Dameon tell me about their latest business ventures, and I fill them in on the chaos of preparing for the tour. Zac shares his ER dramas, and it’s like slipping into an old, well-worn jacket—comfortable, familiar, normal. If anyone were listening to our conversation, they would be bored shitless by how mundane it is. But not me. I live for this.

“When are you coming back to Australia?” Zac asks.

“Not for a while,” I say, picking up the whiskey bottle and refilling our glasses. “After the tour, I’ll take a few months off and hole up at home. Then I might start fucking around with writing and working on the next album. See how I feel.” After spending most of the year on the road, I’m going to need space and time alone.

Being back in Australia always feels strange. It’s familiar in all the wrong ways, like a place I know too well but no longer belong in. Coming home stirs up shit I’d rather keep buried. The cramped house from my childhood creeps back into focus, its ceilings yellowed with smoke, the sharp, chemical reek of spirits soaked into the carpet. My mom passed out on the couch, one arm hanging loose, a half-empty bottle of cheap vodka tipped over on the floor. I remember rolling her onto her side many times before going to bed, hoping she wouldn’t choke on her own vomit while I slept. Hoping she’d still be breathing in the morning. A bunch of memories that hurt like hell if I look at them too closely.

“You fuckers gonna make it to any of the shows?” I ask, lifting my glass, scratching absently at my cheek.

“Cora and I’ll come before the baby’s born,” James says. “Maybe Milan. She’s always wanted to go.”

“Italy sounds good,” Dameon says, nodding. “Count me in.”

“Same here,” Zac adds, lifting his drink.

“Milan it is.” We clink glasses.

I take a long pull from my drink and scan the club again. Movement flickers at the edge of my vision, a woman sliding into focus. Her hair spills down her back in a perfectly straight sheet that catches the light, sleek and glossy like silk. It’s such a deep black, it throws off a hint of purple when she turns. Something about it tugs at me, a tiny catch in my brain. I’ve seen hair like that recently, I’m sure of it, the recognition sitting just out of reach, right there on the tip of my tongue.

She’s on the arm of a suit, and when she laughs at something he says, I finally see her profile.

My jaw goes slack.

Is that . . . Vi?

She’s fucking stunning.

I study her for a moment, standing there, flirting and laughing at everything this dickhead says. She’s confident and . . . graceful. She puts her hand on his chest, and her eyes are bright and alive, hanging off every word he utters. Her body, though—damn, her body has changed. I barely recognize her.

It’s her, though. Definitely her.

Seeing her again—

“Carter?”

“What?” The word comes out rough. My gaze stays locked on her, afraid that if I blink, she’ll disappear. But she doesn’t. She’s real. And right there.

Violet.

“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” Dameon murmurs.