Page 9 of Unleashed By Eden

He doesn’t look convinced. “It’s messed up, Vi. They shouldn’t get away with treating you like that. I think we should talk to a teacher or something.”

I look down at my hands, my fingers still trembling, and pick at the flaking purple nail polish. “I just want to forget it. It’s . . . it’s not worth starting trouble.”

Liam’s stare lingers, hard and unblinking. “You are worth it.”

He leaves without another word, and I sink back onto my bed, still in my wet clothes, closing my eyes as exhaustion finally overtakes me. The image of Carter’s fist connecting with Jase’s nose drifts into my mind.

Boy, was that satisfying.

Chapter four

Carter

The black Range Rover rolls to a stop in the underground car park. The door swings open and I step out, sunglasses in place. I don’t need them in here, but it’s habit now, a shield; I’d feel exposed without them. The bouncer pushes on the club door, a rush of bass spilling out. I lift my chin in thanks and step inside. James, Dameon, and Zac follow close behind, along with my security.

“Mr. Ashford. It’s a pleasure . . . uh . . . to meet you and um . . . an absolute honor to have you here for the launch.” A woman in corporate getup grips her clipboard tight to her chest. She blushes as she stumbles over her words.

I make her nervous. No, my fame makes her nervous. I wish people would chill the fuck out. It gets old real quick when people can’t form full sentences around you. If they’d seen me twenty years ago—a half-starved kid from bum-fuck-nowhere—they wouldn’t be getting their panties in a twist over me.

“Just doing my part to spread the word about another brand of alcohol the world so obviously needs.”

James snorts behind me, and the woman’s eyes go wide.

I clear my throat and plaster on my game face. “Happy to be here.” I force authenticity into my voice with a bright smile and hand on my heart.

“Ah . . . wonderful! Please follow me, I’ll show you to the VIP section.”

Jesus, Carter. Maybe don’t start the night being a dick.

“She’s just doing her job, you know. You don’t need to be an asshole about it,” Dameon says under his breath, wiping his lips to smother his grin.

“It slipped out.” I shrug. “An hour max and we’re out of here,” I warn.

We follow her deep into the club.

The number of launch parties I’m required to attend is crazy. Being the frontman, I get all the promo jobs, while the rest of the band get free passes. Bullshit if you ask me. When we had our first number one, I lived for these parties: free alcohol, and more pussy than I could ever want. Plus, an abundance of people sucking up to you. You can get any drug you want and pretty much anything you ask for, no matter how outrageous it may be. One time, I asked for an ice sculpture of me dressed as Marcus Aurelius from Gladiator, and two hours later, there it was, dripping all over the carpet.

Now, though, this is the part I hate the most. The constant parties, the interviews, the endless pressure to be on all the damn time—it wears me down. The only place I ever feel remotely alive anymore is onstage in front of thousands of screaming fans. There’s something about stepping into the spotlight—the roar of the crowd, the way the music pulses through my veins like a second heartbeat. The crowd answers with one of its own, a living creature that rises and falls, breathing in sync with me. For those three hours, nothing else matters. The never-ending noise of being Carter Ashford is silenced. But once the stadium lights turn back on, the emptiness comes rushing back.

The VIP section is already pumping when we enter. We’re ushered into a secluded booth, and a waitress is already there with a bottle of vodka and shot glasses. I pick up the bottle and read the label.

Nova Vodka.

I crack the bottle open and take a whiff.

The strong scent makes me flinch, dragging up the memory of Mom’s breath. This is exactly why I don’t touch vodka. Ever. Even expensive ones like this. It smells the same as every other vodka on the market. The only difference is the hefty price tag.

Zac picks up a shot glass. “Are they expecting us to shot this shit?”

“Fucked if I know. Sweetheart, could you get us a bottle of the Macallan 18?” I ask the waitress.

“Of course.” Red tints her cheeks before she turns away, the bottom of her ass peeking out from under her minuscule skirt.

“How’s your pretty little sub going?” I ask Dameon.

“Good. Better than good. Best decision I ever made, offering her a contract. Beats doing Le Jardin every week. Speaking of, how was it the other night?”

“Didn’t happen. One of the goddesses called in sick and I had the unlucky number,” I respond, scanning the club.