Page 17 of Carte

I just didn’t know what.

Just as I was drifting to sleep, still trying to figure out what to do, I heard it—the soft sound of guitar being played like the player was introducing themselves to the instrument. Moments later, a soft humming. Then the words came.

Raw. Hurt. Beautiful.

“That’s my girl.” I smiled to the ceiling.

She proved me right, she had it in her. She had the strength to get back all on her own.

I frowned. How did she get so strong? Or, better yet, why did she have to learn to do that?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. But I sure as hell needed to find out.

Fuck.

Chapter Five

Harley

My whole body hurt. It wasn’t the pain you got after a rigorous workout, or after a fall. It was the dull kind of pain that accompanied being in bed for longer than was necessary. Even my head felt stuffed from lack of sleep.

Last night, no matter what I did, I couldn’t settle down.

All I wanted to do was go back to Carter. The problem was it was not for the obvious reasons.

It wasn’t because I was scared out of my mind and needed to feel safe, but because he was the one providing me with a sense of security.

Sure, he made me feel all of that. But I couldn’t push from my mind the look he had on his face after he dealt with that man. How his eyes roamed over me, and how my skin tingled in each place they landed. My hands kept shaking from the need of having him touch me again, from aching to feel his skin against mine.

It was crazy, and I was positive I was losing my mind.

In order to not go tearing through the suite until I got to his bedroom, and then demanding he looked at me, touched me, moved inside me, I opted for the safer option. I grabbed my guitar and my notebook, and I let those wants free. I poured everything into music and words on paper hoping against hope it would somehow erase that need.

It was around five in the morning when I was finally able to feel at least a modicum of peace settle over me. My heart and soul were spent, my eyes scratchy like I was polishing my eyeballs with sandpaper, and I fell into a fitful sleep.

It was around seven that my phone started mercilessly buzzing on my nightstand. I slowly opened my eyes only to see a dim light filling the room, and my phone flashing like it was mimicking a rave party on the bedside table.

“No,” I moaned, and turned to the other side quickly. A big mistake as my muscles cried in protest. As the buzz from my phone continued to assault my ears, I turned back, and said to it, “I don’t wanna talk,” like it could magically convey my message to the person on the other line.

Sloane, my publicist, called first. Then she texted. After, Tim started bombarding my line.

I ignored every buzz, every light notification, every ping. They still didn’t get the message.

Just then, in the middle of my staring contest with the annoying object, a knock came at my bedroom door.

“Harley,” Carter called softly through the wood.

I hated that tone from him. I wanted his anger, I wanted his annoyance, I wanted his dominance. I didn’t want this soft version he was giving me since last night.

It said he thought I was weak, fragile. While last night, and maybe this morning, that could be a teeny, tiny bit true, I didn’t want him to think that. I wanted him to think of me as Dynamo.

Last night, hearing him christen me with that nickname felt like I conquered the world.

I wanted to hear all versions of it. I wanted him to call me that name in every possible tone.

Most of all, I wanted him to give me that name while he was looking down on me, his body covering mine, his—

I grabbed the pillow next to me, put it over my face, and groaned into it, “Ugh.” Getting turned on was the last thing I needed to do right now.