8x10 pictures of her in black lace lingerie, wearing red heels and red lipstick, holding a red heart balloon that says, “Love, Your Valentine.”
Rage rises up in my gut. And I don’t fucking know why. These pictures aren’t new, not from this year anyway. But that she did that for him for Valentine’s Day a year or two ago manages to set my blood to boiling.
The fucker broke her. She did shit like this for him, and he treated her like shit.
The boudoir shoot includes snapshots of her on her elbows and knees, blowing a kiss at the camera. A black and white pic of her on the bed, fisting the sheets, hair spilling over the pillow like a goddamn halo around her gorgeous face. Like this morning when she was in bed beside me.
Right now, I wish I could go back to this morning, to when I opened my eyes and saw her. I wish I could go back to that moment, roll over onto her, and lose myself in her.
There’s weight to the envelope even though I’ve got the snapshots, so I flick the envelope open and look inside. A stack of Polaroids in the bottom. My gut churns as I pull them out.
Nudes of Violet. Explicit ones.
I growl.
He’s been sitting here reminiscing over pictures of her that he doesn’t deserve to even look at. She should’ve set his shit on fire before she tossed it out the window, not packed everything neatly and driven to the airport to pick him up knowing she was ending it. Or in her words, gonna try to end it.
There’s another album in the basket filled with pictures of a younger Violet, pre-Raymond, I’m guessing. Pictures of her and her friends. Her on another vacation. Snapshots of her with her family. With Susanna Gagne.
Smiles and light in her eyes that’s now missing.
I drop the album and look around.
He’s desperate.
He’s desperate not just because he knows he fucked me over. He’s desperate for her.
Is the fucker sorry for what he did? Does he think he’s still entitled to keep her despite how he’s treated her?
Is he desperate enough to use a gun to try to eliminate me as a problem in his life? He owes me money. I owe him retribution. And I have his woman.
Correction. I have Violet. She hasn’t been his woman in a long time judging by all I’ve seen, not to mention the words that’ve come from her mouth.
Maybe he’s planning on holding someone else up and bringing me the money tonight. Not sure, but eyes will be on him.
I head into the bedroom and it’s trashed. Drawers open with Violet’s clothes hanging out. I’d bet hard cash that it didn’t look like this when she and I left the other night so clearly he went rooting through her stuff.
I plant another camera at the side of the frame surrounding the mirror over her dresser, pointing at the bed. Another mic inside the fabric hem of the lampshade on the table beside the bed.
And I look around.
He fucked her in here. I grind my teeth together at the mess of this place. Your bedroom is supposed to be a shrine to the love you have for your woman. Not a place to drop your dirty fucking clothes, to sleep on the mattress with the sheets half hanging off – not unless they were pulled off because you were energetically giving your woman an orgasm.
For a half a second I’m feeling like he needs to be booted from her space.
But then I realize that this isn’t her space anymore. It’s tainted by that jackass. I don’t want her coming back here. It’s too filthy for her.
My phone rings. Wes Traynor.
“Hey.”
“He’s left the library. Looks like he’s heading in the other direction. I’m on him, though.”
“Cheers. Everything’s set in here. I’ll send you the details so you can watch him in here. 24/7. You have double the budget I already gave you to put extra people on it.”
“Roger. I’ll talk to Zack.”
I hang up, slip out, and lock up.
I take the envelope of photos with me.
23
Violet
I’m freshly showered, still wrapped in a towel, when there’s a knock on the door. I poke my head out of the closet.
“Killian?” I call out, and he opens the door as I’m adding, “One sec-”
He freezes. “Shit, sorry. I heard my name and -” His eyes sweep over me. I’m in the doorway but from this angle, he can see all of me.
I clutch the towel at my chest. “I should’ve said one sec before I said your name.” I back into the closet a little more, hugging the door frame, but it doesn’t matter – from his vantage point he has a perfect view of me.
“I’ll see you out there.” He jerks his thumb back, but he’s not moving.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
It takes more than a beat before he answers, “You bring your laptop with you?’”
I shake my head.
“Looks like he pawned it.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s okay. He damaged it and my sound didn’t work. I was planning to get a new one.”
“It’s not okay, Violet.”
“You’re right. It’s not.”
He flexes his jaw muscles. “You eat something today?”
“Not yet.”
His eyes move down to my bare legs.
This towel is short. Really short. My toes curl into the fluffy rug and I feel like I want to shrink under his appraisal.
My comments to Susanna about Killian viewing me like a little sister? That’s not how he’s looking at me right now.
“I’ll heat that food from last night up for us before I take my shower. See you out there in five?” His eyes lazily travel back up to my face. He’s waiting for my reply.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He shuts the door.
As much as he apologized, he didn’t look sorry as he looked at me. He looked at me, taking his time, like he had every right to do so.
As I slip further into the closet and close the door before I drop the towel, I note my nipples are tingling. I shake it off and slip on my bra and underwear, then I put my robe on. I towel dry my hair and go into the bathroom to mousse it before I head out to the kitchen and see him setting things up for us at the dining table.
“Did you…” I begin to ask as I approach, eyes on the Star Wars chopsticks.
“I stopped by your apartment. Picked those up.”
“Was he there?”
“No.”
I meet him at the sink so I can wash my hands, which are sticky from the hair mousse.
“How’d you get inside?”
He reaches into his jeans pocket and puts my keys on the counter.
I frown.
How did he get these?
“He left your door unlocked though. Stupid fucker.”
“I had the locks changed. I guess he had no choice.”
“Well, I guess he’ll have to break in when he gets back there again, then, because I locked it on my way out.”
He reaches for his jacket that’s laying across a chair and produces a zippered sandwich bag from the inside pocket.
It takes a second to realize what I’m looking at. My jewelry.
I gasp as I lift it and tears fill my eyes.
I feel so much relief, I throw my arms around him and my face is smushed against his black shirt for a second before I back up, realizing I kind of threw myself at him and he didn’t hug me back, he just stood there.