Dad has steak and mashed potatoes, broccoli covered in a glazed sauce and sesame seeds. He glances over at me and frowns. “I ordered for us. Hope you don’t mind, it seemed you were running late.”
I wasn’t, but I don’t bother arguing. Or pointing out his failure to know my food preferences.
He’d have to actually share more than five meals with me over the last year for that to happen.
I pick at the salmon and cut the asparagus carefully, avoiding the coconut rice. I divide the green stalks into small, manageable pieces, and shove them into my mouth one at a time. I watch Dad devour his steak like he’s never had anything better, while I take gulps of water between each small bite of salmon.
Finally, our meal comes to an end. My father finishes his wine and food, and I’ve messed my plate up enough to look like I put a dent in all of it. He pats his mouth with his napkin and slips the waiter his card.
Once the receipt comes back, he signs it with a flourish. He rises, and I mirror him. We walk to the door together, and he hugs me again. It’s one of those things that I wish I could duck out of, because he doesn’t deserve this publicity. Maybe he sees it on my face because he grips me harder.
Out of the corner of my eye, a camera flash pops. Capturing our engineered moment.
His mouth presses against my ear. “You fucking owe me, kid. The least you can do is look happy to see your old man once a quarter. Now smile.”
I smile on autopilot as we step back. I offer my hand, and he shakes it once. His fingers are cool and dry, not a callous on him, and he squeezes once. There’s another flash of a camera. Then, I’m free.
I take a step back and watch him get into the car. I catch a blur of pink fabric and know Martha’s already inside, waiting out of sight. The driver closes them in, encasing them in a tinted glass bubble, and I remain on the sidewalk. I slip my hands into my pockets, and I watch them pull away from the curb. I ignore the reporter who lingers in my peripheral.
No part of me wishes tonight had ended differently, because my thoughts are already turning to Violet. Where would she be?
The better question: where would she think I wouldn’t find her?
I mull that over and start walking. I unbutton the top of my shirt and crack my neck. Already, I can see Crown Point in my mind and start to piece together more of what I know about Violet. Anticipation licks at my skin. I’m eager to begin the hunt.
She doesn’t know it yet, but this is my favorite sport.
17
VIOLET
The gym on campus is in the basement of one of the residence halls. After signing in, I go quietly down the stairs and into the dark room. There’s a wall of mirrors, exercise machines, weights.
It’s as familiar as it is foreign.
I bypass the weights and go to the elliptical. In theory, this should be easier on my leg. Less impact. I say a quick thank you to my body that nine times out of ten, I land jumps on my right leg. It was always stronger, holding me upright through all the grueling exercises and rehearsals.
Dancing again still seems like a dream. I consider that as I climb onto the machine and turn it on. I program my height and weight, then set it to a weight-loss program. It climbs in resistance quickly. Within five minutes, I’m drenched in sweat.
I tear off my sweatshirt and drape it across the machine beside me. My t-shirt sticks to my skin, and my lungs sear with how little exertion I’ve put them through in so long. I’m ready to quit immediately, but I don’t. I keep pushing until my thighs tremble and I’m heaving so hard I might puke.
The time ticks down, and I stumble off the machine. I stand in the middle of the room, trying to regain my breath, then gulp water from the fountain. The nausea eases slightly, and when I straighten, I start. A person stands in the shadows of the alcove entrance. I back away and bump into the mirrors, until they step into the light.
Greyson. In black slacks and white collared shirt, a black puffer jacket unzipped over it. I tilt my head, wondering why he’s standing in a random basement gym. Dressed like that.
Then I realize what I stupidly texted him earlier.
A dare to find me.
“How did you know where I was?”
He smirks and takes another step toward me. “Lucky guess.”
I shiver, but he doesn’t stop. He comes right up next to me and leans in. His tongue flicks out at my temple, no doubt tasting my sweat. Goosebumps rise on my arms.
“Here’s the thing,” he says quietly. “I liked finding you—but it was too easy.”
“Too easy,” I repeat, my voice faint. “You found me in the basement of a dorm I don’t live in…”
“You’re going to run.” His arms rise, caging me in. The opposite of his orders. “Run and don’t let me catch you. Because wherever I do catch you, I’m going to tear your leggings down and fuck you until I come inside your cunt. If it’s in public, if it’s in front of your best friend, or your fucking dance team, or your precious ex—I don’t give a shit.”
My mouth gapes open. “I don’t—”
“You want this to stop, and you say stop. Anything other than that word, I don’t care. If I catch you, I’m fucking you.” He trails a finger down my chest, between my breasts. “How much you fight determines if you get to come or not. But understand this, Violet. I’m always going to be the monster hunting you down. I’m always going to be right behind you wherever you go.”
Oh, great.
“And if I don’t?” I lift my chin. “If I just stay?”
The finger he ran down my chest now hooks the bottom hem of my shirt. He balls it into a fist and pulls me closer. His gaze turns to ice. “You can chance it…”
My body clenches, and my mind immediately goes to the video he has. The fucking blackmail. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t even hint, but I’m not an idiot. I have a good imagination, too. There are other ways he could get back at me.
This shouldn’t sound like something I’d be into, but my heart racing belies my nerves. The fact that I don’t just scream stop right now and end it means I’ve officially lost my mind.
Running seems like the better choice. He knows it and I know it.
He steps back, dropping his arms, and I bolt. It’s a split-second decision. Fight or flight. Run or… something worse. No fucking way is that video getting out.
I leave my sweatshirt behind and dash up the stairs, bursting through the doors. I take half a second to choose a direction, even with the girl at the desk yelling after me about my student ID. His threat of fucking me wherever he catches me rings in my ears. I can’t stick to public roads—not when he’s bound to be eager to hunt me down.
The woods.
I glance behind me and see him striding out the door. Not in a hurry. Not at all perturbed. He looks every inch the composed predator, and I’m turning into the scared prey. He says something to the girl at the desk, and she hands him my ID. His lips keep moving, the smile in place, but the glass blocks me from hearing the lies he tells her.
His gaze shifts to me, and I gasp at how hot it is. If it had any weight, I’d combust on the spot. But it also holds more malice than I expected, and that forces me to move.
I burst into a sprint, heading away from campus. I don’t want him to catch me, but perhaps I can lose him on one of the many trails that winds through the park a block away. It’s parallel to my neighborhood, so if I get far enough, I can cut across and lock him out of my apartment.