There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(54)
Author: M. Leighton

Just like Jet probably damaged me—permanently. With no hope of ever being repaired.

Unfixable.

Unhelpable.

Hopeless.

“Do you need me to come over? Because I will.”

I’m sure she would, but this isn’t exactly Tia’s strong suit. If I were in need of a night out, she’d be my girl. But this? I think this puts her in a place where she’s not comfortable, a place where she doesn’t want to go again. So I won’t ask her to.

“No, I’m fine. I think I’d rather just be alone anyway. But thank you.”

“If you change your mind, call. Or send up the Bat Signal. Or smoke signal. Whatever you can find and I’ll be there.”

“I will,” I say, even though I won’t.

“I love you, Vi.”

“I love you, too.”

“You’re too good for him anyway. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I reply, wishing I really thought that was true. But even now, even after everything, I can’t forget the tenderness I saw in him, the brokenness. That might’ve been a lie, too, but right now I can’t bear to think of it that way. Losing that might just be more than I can take.

FORTY-TWO: Jet

I have no idea how long I’ve been outside. More importantly, I don’t give a shit. I’ve lost enthusiasm for anything but figuring out a way to get Violet back, to at least talk to her and make her see . . . make her see . . .

I stomp back inside. I’m angry. At myself. At my band. At everybody. Except Violet. She’s the one innocent person in all this. But everyone else can suck my dick!

I fling open the door and shoulder my way through the crowd. I ignore the girls who try to talk to me, who get in my way and put their hands on me. I’d just as soon they all go to hell. Everybody.

I barely take notice of the complete lack of women backstage when I walk through the door. I just want to get my shit and leave. It’s the quiet that really gets my attention. Everyone, from Sam to Trent, is standing or sitting in the small room, just watching me.

I glance from face to face. “What?” I snap.

It’s Sam who speaks. “You all right, man?”

I clench my hands into tight fists. I’d love to punch him right in the face. For laughing earlier. For not caring earlier. For daring me to do something so twisted. For just being around on a night when I don’t want to see anybody. Except Violet.

But I bite it all back. I don’t even want to waste my time fighting. As good as it would feel, I’d rather just be alone.

Or with Violet.

“Hey,” Sam repeats. “You all right?”

“What the hell do you care?” I yell. “This is your fault!”

“How is it my fault?” he asks indignantly.

“What kind of shit do you have in your soul, man? Who would even think to dare someone to do a sick thing like that?”

“Dude, I was just yanking your chain. Nobody actually thought you’d do it. You can’t blame me for sick, man. That’s all on you.”

I know he’s right, but that doesn’t stifle my fury one bit. With a growl, I lunge at Sam. I have every intention of breaking his arrogant jaw. With as many punches as it takes.

But the others are between us before I can get close enough to touch him.

“You’re an ass**le, Sam! Did it ever occur to you that people could get hurt?”

“Of course it did, you idiot. But I never thought it would be you.”

That sobers me—that Sam thinks I’m so hard and twisted that it wouldn’t bother me. It’s not lost on me that he would care so little about hurting someone else either. The whole thing is just disgusting.

And it’s nothing worse than what I was doing. In fact, I’m the real villain here. All the disdain I feel for him is being directed at the wrong person. It belongs on me. Like the blame and the shame and the fallout. It all belongs on me.

Furious, with myself and with everyone else in the room, I grab my stuff and head right back out the door. I’m ready for this night to be over.

FORTY-THREE: Violet

It’s finally Friday, the end of one of the worst weeks of my life.

It began with the “Monday of Puzzled Devastation,” as I like to call it. After the disheartening trip home from New Orleans, I woke feeling unsettled and . . . raw. Little did I know what tsunami of sadness was headed my way.

Wednesday. I might forever look back on it as the day my heart was permanently broken. And then encased in a fragile box of glass just behind my ribs. I’ve never felt more emotional agony or hopelessness in my life. And it seems that all it has taken to bring me to tears since that night is a sharp word or a stern look. The glass case is cracked on every surface, and ready to crumble at a moment’s notice. It’s all I can do to hold it together.

For today. Friday. When I can fall apart and no one will care. No one is depending on me to be at my job, to be focused on helping them. I get to be selfish for forty-eight hours. I get to tend to the ever-bleeding wounds that lie just beneath the surface.

I unlock my front door and step inside the dark, quiet interior of my sanctuary. Quickly, I shut it behind me, like I’m running from something that’s hot on my heels.

Which I am. I’m running from the truth. From reality. From the realization that I fell. And I landed flat on my face. On a bed of nails.

I throw my purse on the entry table and kick off my shoes, pushing them haphazardly out of the way. Out of habit, I glance down at my phone. It’s still silent. Like it has been since the last time I talked to Tia.

It kills me that I keep waiting for Jet to call—and that he doesn’t. And that it even bothers me, which it shouldn’t. I should be glad he’s not calling me. I should be relieved. But I’m not. It hurts every time I look at my phone. Maybe more each time.

Deep down, I wanted him to beg. To grovel. To plead with me to listen to him, to give him one more chance. Maybe I thought that would mean that he actually did care. Which he didn’t. That much is obvious.

I throw my phone onto the couch. It’s that or throw it onto the floor and dance on it until it’s nothing more than black powder.

Dejectedly, I make my way back to my bedroom to change into suitable hibernation clothes. Obviously, that means finding the ugliest, rattiest, holiest items that I own. In this case, a pair of blue sweats that have a huge tear in the leg and a white, threadbare T-shirt that’s spattered with every color of paint under the sun. It also sports a tear. Right in the middle of my stomach. I’ve had both the pants and the shirt since high school and it shows. But they’re comfortable and soft, and right now it’s like slipping on a better time of life. And that’s what I need more than anything.