I nodded once. She’d hate it. Hate me. But that was fine. That was good. That was how it was meant to be.
VIOLET
I was walking around angry.
Although angry seemed too light of a word for how I felt. Too thin. Too pedestrian. You’re angry that you missed your flight. Angry that a friend of yours told a secret she promised to keep. Angry that they killed off your favorite character in that show you’re binging.
Anger is a fleeting emotion that burns hot and quick. It promises to be temporary. But this …thingwas not temporary. It was living, pulsating inside me. Leeched onto my insides like a parasite. Except, as much as I wanted to tell myself this anger was something foreign, the worst part was, it was me.
An ugly, unknown, impatient, intolerant, toxic part of me. The part that had resulted in a constant, painful ache on the left side of my head from grinding her teeth so hard in my sleep. I could barely eat due to the agony that came with the simple motion of chewing. The part of me that laid awake at night, staring at the images of whatever show I was using to try to lull me into unconsciousness, my body fighting sleep until the early hours. Then my mind battled wakefulness when I did manage to lapse into a thin slumber full of turmoil and too graphic dreams.
It seemed so fucking stupid to be walking around a college campus of people who were my age, laughing, walking in groups, already friends. I felt very alone. More alone than I ever had in France, an unfamiliar city in a country where I didn’t know a soul. But maybe that’s why I felt so alone here. There were many people who cared about me, but few who truly knew what was going on in my life. And the one person who knew everything had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with me.
I’d walked aimlessly around the campus, trying to find the feeling I was supposed to have here. Then I’d followed directions off campus and down tree lined streets, barely paying attention, turning only when the robotic voice on my phone told me to, stopping when it said I’d arrived.
“You Violet?” a masculine voice asked me as I lingered in front of the charming Victorian that would serve as my home for the next year. We had the option to extend the lease through our undergrad studies, if we chose. But I didn’t know the girls I’d be living with. I didn’t even know if I wanted to be here to finish my degree. Except I had nowhere else to go. Garnett was too dangerous now. Full of pain. I didn’t fit in there. This was it. The place I was meant to be.
I jerked, turning around to see four motorcycles parked on the curb as well as a moving truck. I had not heard any of them pull up.
The man was older with a long, gray beard, faded tattoos and a beer belly. But he still had the certain …je ne sais quoieveryone wearing a Sons of Templar cut seemed to have.
The men behind him were younger, one wearing a ‘Prospect’ cut, who looked closest to my age, lanky and moody. The other two were a little older, both with muscles, tattoos and strong jawlines.
There were a bunch of sorority girls across the street gaping at them. I wasn’t sure if it was in disapproval or appreciation. I didn’t much care.
“I am Violet,” I said to him, holding out a hand.
“Bill,” he replied gruffy, shaking my hand.
I raised my brow at the name. Most of the men I’d met had badass nicknames or just badass names that they were born with. I’d not yet met a biker named Bill.
He grinned at my brow quirk. “I know, I know,” he muttered good naturedly. “It’s the name my Momma gave me, so it’s the name I’m gonna keep.”
I smiled at him. “As you should.”
“Your shit in there?” he tilted his head toward the moving truck.
I nodded. “I really appreciate you guys coming out to do this. I figure it’s not in the usual job description.”
“No such thing as a job description when you wear this cut,” he smiled widely, his handlebar mustache curling toward his cobalt eyes. “We were in the area, don’t mind helpin’ out. Plus, it’s always fun scaring the piss out of Ivy Leaguers,” he winked. “Come on boys,” he turned, whistling at the other men.
Each of them got off their bikers, one of the middle-aged bikers lifting his sunglasses to give me a meaningful look that rightly should’ve done something.
But it didn’t.
Nonetheless, I smiled slyly.
“Holy fuck!” a female voice commented from beside me.
I turned to regard the owner of the voice.
A petite, dark haired girl stood beside me in bright purple platforms that gave her an extra six inches. Her skirt was also purple, tight and short, a sheer purple shirt haphazardly buttoned, showing a black bra underneath. She had on multiple gold necklaces. All of them looked expensive, as did the purse in the crook of her arm. It was silk and had Saint Laurent printed all over it.
She pushed white vintage sunglasses to the top of her dark brown hair which had butterfly clips throughout it.
Her eyes were expertly rimmed with liner, long lashes framing her burnt copper gaze. Her skin was porcelain and flawless, her nose larger than the rest of her delicate features but only made her more uniquely attractive.
I was instantly jealous of how put together she seemed. How confident.