Page 52 of Unleashed By Eden

Violet

Chris spent the entire flight from Stockholm to Lisbon shooting daggers at the side of my head. Four whole hours of it.

His eyes were acid. Every time he threw a look my way, it felt like the skin was being flayed off my face. Grotesque, dramatic, whatever. But accurate, nonetheless.

I made a game of pretending not to notice. Every time I caught his gaze, I gave him my sweetest, most harmless smile. It only confused him, which made it infinitely more satisfying. Even Megan noticed as she leaned over at one point and whispered, “What crawled up his ass this morning?” I shrugged and went back to my Kindle.

Before Carter got hauled out of my room in Stockholm, I made him promise. Whatever this thing is between us, it stays between us. Megan can’t know, his bandmates can’t know, and more importantly, Liam can’t know. I told him if he breathed a word to anyone, I’d get stabby.

He believed me.

But Chris is the leak I can’t control. The man knows everything, sees everything, and reports to my brother. A walking threat wrapped in Tom Ford.

According to Carter, he “handled it.” Translation: he backed Chris into a corner and told him if he opened his mouth to Liam, he’d lose his job and the privilege of swanning around in bespoke suits. For Chris, that ranks somewhere between losing a limb and losing his phone.

Apparently, spilling his guts isn’t worth as much as a three-piece suit. Didn’t stop him from spending the whole Stockholm–Lisbon leg radiating disapproval at my head.

Lisbon itself was a blink-and-miss-it stop, only a week, and Chris made sure that week turned into a creative form of blue-ball torture for Carter. A nice little “fuck you” as payback. I had no alone time with him. None.

Carter’s schedule was wall-to-wall: media, rehearsals, sound checks, after-parties, PrimeTime+ interviews, and “organic” hangouts with the band so the guys could film brotherhood footage.

I was there for all of it, in the background with my camera, doing my job. Framing shots. Tracking light and capturing the way the band moves.

It was disturbingly easy to slip back into ignoring Carter.

Distance and disdain fit me like an old, worn sweater. I didn’t have to think about it; I just pulled it on and let it do its thing. Turn away. Keep my tone dry. Keep the line between us sharp.

But he’s not doing as good a job. He’s struggling.

I’ve caught him watching me more than once. Flicking looks at me when he thinks I won’t notice. He has to be one of the world’s worst actors. A master showman but shit actor.

I tried waiting up for him at night. Sitting on my bed with my laptop open and the TV on mute, attempting to work. But by the time he’d drag himself back to the hotel, it was always early morning, and my eyes had given up and shut on their own.

Still, I know he came.

Every morning, I’d wake up to a paper rose on my bedside table, folded out of whatever the hotel had left lying around. A save-the-planet towel card. A room service menu. A welcome note. Crisp, tight folds, petals curling perfectly. Those nimble fingers know how to work more than just a fretboard.

The only time we’ve had real contact is through text. And he texts a lot. My fading phone battery now taps out by mid-afternoon.

Me

Come on, don’t be a stubborn dick. Let me talk to Liam.

Carter

You’re not going to let this go, are you?

No. I’m not.

We’re trailing through Madrid airport, me and the PrimeTime+ crew in a slow-moving clump of rolling suitcases and mild exhaustion. Up ahead, I can just make out Carter, phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other, walking with the band and security.

We texted the entire hour-and-a-half flight from Lisbon to Madrid, but this is the first time I’ve brought up Liam again. And the tests. I’m not going to let it slide.

Me

Do you know me at all?

Carter