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She falls back on the bed. "I know."
"There are extra toothbrushes in the bathroom."
She looks up at me. "Okay."
"There's Advil too. Take one and drink a few glasses of water."
She stares back at me. "Good night, Ethan."
"You too."
I leave her in my bed and attempt to relax downstairs. It's not happening. My body and my heart are at war. It's throw the woman on your bed and split her in half vs. throw the woman out of your house before she hurts you again.
Violet may not be able to turn her brain off, but I can.
I go to our practice room and I play until I can't think or feel anything but the strings of my guitar.
Chapter 4
Violet
Oh sweet baby Jesus it's bright. How can it be this bright this early in the morning?
There's a loud noise downstairs. A pot clanging. My parents don't cook. Not on weekdays. And there's no way I drove myself home last night. I never drink and drive. Ever.
I take a deep breath and stretch my arms over my head. This isn't my bed. In my just-woke-up fog, I'm not sure who's bed it is. My thighs aren't sore. It's been long enough that I'd be sore if I spent the night screwing someone.
I catch sight of myself in the full length mirror. It's strategically placed above the bed. For watching yourself have sex.
I know that mirror. I know this bed. I really, really know the smell of this t-shirt. It smells like Ethan.
God damn, it smells good.
As if the smell of him and the sight of his incredibly hot sex mirror weren't enough to remind me of everything I miss about Ethan, the t-shirt is plastered with his band's name: Dangerous Noise.
Fuck…
I practically begged him to sleep with me. It's not that I don't get hot all over at the thought of Ethan driving his cock inside me, his hands digging into my hair as he groans my name—
Damn, it's getting hard to concentrate.
I drag myself to the bathroom, brush my teeth, shower, and try to ignore the memories of last night.
The man is with a different woman in every tabloid picture—I have Ethan Strong and Dangerous Noise Google alerts, sue me. He gives cocky interviews where he plays cool the entire time. He gets caught trashing hotel rooms and telling other musicians to go fuck themselves.
He's not the Ethan who taught me to play the Hole song Doll Parts. He's not the Ethan who showed me monster movies then squeezed me when I spent the entire film hiding behind my hands.
He's not the Ethan I fell in love with.
Hell, he was about to screw a strange woman when I ran into him—I should have known better than to go to our old hangout spot.
The woman meant so little to him that he abandoned her the second he saw me.
Maybe that should flatter me, but instead it screams Ethan Strong is not the sweet boy I loved. He's not even the asshole who broke my heart. He's a playboy rock star. Just another famous asshole who thinks women exist to get him off.
After I dry off and take a few more Advil, I change into last night's clothes and do what I can with the makeup I keep in my purse.
Out of excuses, I slink downstairs.
