Page 4 of Unleashed By Eden

Fucking hell. What’s he doing here?

The tour isn’t starting until the end of the month. He shouldn’t even be in the country. I do a quick scan for my brother, but it seems he’s alone. I knew I had fucked myself over yesterday by thinking things couldn’t get any worse. I just had to tempt the universe to keep flinging shit my way.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me for a moment. I’ll send another goddess over.” Rising from the guy’s lap, I squeeze his shoulder and look directly in his eyes. I drop my voice to a sultry purr. “I look forward to seeing you soon.” I blow him a kiss and head toward the staff door.

Time to get the fuck out of here.

Carter is by the bar, talking to our regular client and Hailee’s partner, Dameon. I move fast, but not fast enough to be noticed, and slip into the back.

***

By the time I speak to Hailee and ask to bail on Le Jardin, it’s been dark outside for a while, and the night is thankfully cooler.

I hate letting Hailee down and leaving her in an awkward position with no one to take my place. But Carter can’t see me—not at Eden. Of all places.

Outside, the streets are quiet. I hike up my backpack and tap Play on my go-to playlist. Metallica kicks in, drums pulsing through my earbuds, muffling the rest of the world.

I dip my chin and start the short walk home. The thud of my Doc Martens keeps time with the beat, but it’s eventually lost beneath the melody.

I love walking home at this hour, when Double Bay is nearly deserted. It’s peaceful—just me, the music, and the empty streets.

This neighborhood is about as far from my style as it gets. It’s all sculpted hedges and sleek mansions with too many rooms and not enough soul. Husbands in tailored suits, hiding affairs behind Bluetooth calls. Trophy wives with perfect hair and Pilates-sculpted arms, sipping green juice and flirting with their gardeners but never learning their names. Toddlers running across manicured lawns in ethically sourced organic cotton, chased by designer dogs bred to match the furniture.

But at night the pretentious facade peels back, leaving nothing but quiet, tree-lined streets—a hollow stage, emptied of its players.

Still, it’s close to work. And I’d bet my last paycheck it’s the safest suburb in Sydney. I’ve never been concerned about getting jumped on my way home. Plus, I’ve got my Swiss Army knife in my boot, and I’m not afraid to cut a bitch if need be. I might not win, but I’d definitely leave a mark.

The familiar silhouette of my apartment building comes into view, an aging art deco structure wedged between sleek McMansions. It’s tiny and cramped. But it’s mine. I jimmy the key into the lock and kick my boots off the second I’m through the door. Wiggling my sock-covered toes against the cool tiles, I toss my keys onto the counter as a yawn claws its way out of me.

It’s cozy in a mismatched, thrift-store way. The couch is a hand-me-down from Jeanine, my foster mom. Some of the dishes in the kitchen were hers, too, though I doubt she even noticed they were missing when I left. By then, she barely noticed anything. Her boyfriends got more attention than I or my brother ever did.

But I don’t blame her. She did her part for humanity, I guess, taking in two kids who’d already lost their mother. Two strays looking for somewhere, anywhere, to land.

I collapse onto the couch, head sinking into the cushions. For a second, I let my eyes close, let myself drift toward that sweet slip into nothingness—

My body jerks awake, as though I’ve stepped off a cliff, heart pounding and lungs gasping for air.

Shit.

I hate when that happens. I read somewhere it’s a survival instinct, that if you fall asleep too fast, your brain panics and drags you back to consciousness. Who the fuck knows?

Groaning, I force myself upright and grab the remote, flicking on the TV for background noise. I have no idea why I’m so wiped. I’m never home this early from Eden, even when I’m working the bar. I thumb through channels without really seeing them, one blur of canned sitcom laughter after another. Then a headline scrolls across the bottom of the screen on a news channel, and my finger freezes on the button.

Rock sensation Carter Ashford and his band, Pulse, touch down in Sydney ahead of sold-out world tour.

The screen cuts to Carter stepping off a private jet, surrounded by security, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but I know what’s behind the dark lenses—a vivid blue gaze, cold as ice.

Pretty sure smoking on the tarmac isn’t allowed. The thought makes me smirk. I’d like to see someone try to stop him.

“Tickets are sold out to Pulse’s one and only Australian show,” the anchor is saying, “but scalpers are cashing in. Fans are lining up—”

Click.

I drop the remote onto the couch beside me. The silence sinks its talons in, twisting through my mind. One mention of him—that’s all it takes. Now I’m right back where I swore I wouldn’t go. Reclining, I fix my eyes on the ceiling and wait for it to pass. It doesn’t. The memories crash over me, fast and relentless, an avalanche I have no hope of outrunning.

I’ve spent years training myself to not see him. To not let his voice, his face, his fucking name crawl under my skin.

It should be impossible to ignore him when he’s everywhere. He’s on TV, billboards, magazines. That perfect face staring back at me. Nothing says “move on” quite like your most humiliating memory wrapped in six feet of shirtless arrogance and a Patek Philippe watch glinting on his wrist. He’s the sole reason I stay off social media. His name trends every other week, just to remind me of that fucked-up moment.