Page 51 of Brutal Obsession

Vi

I’m busy later.

That’s not acceptable.

Me

Make time.

I’ll make it worth your while.

I drop my phone on the bed and finish getting dressed. A button-down shirt that my dad expects, the silver chain he got me when I turned twenty. Black slacks and dress shoes—it’s an outfit I’d wear to go to a game. They always demand a certain way of presenting ourselves. The professional vibe.

You never know when a recruiter is watching.

Vi

Fine. If you can find me, you can see me.

I perk up at the text. Immediately, blood rushes to my cock. It stiffens against my zipper. There’s a certain thrill that comes with a hunt. And that’s exactly what this feels like: she’s the prey and I’m the predator, forever trying to get her ensnared.

Eventually, she won’t be able to run from me.

The urge to track her down right now is strong. I force myself to remain in my room, to lie back and go still. It’s an exercise in patience that I usually don’t excel in. The quiet is too much of a reminder of my childhood.

As a compromise, I open my Instagram and search her name. It doesn’t take too long to find her account. There’s one photo of her standing in front of the Beacon Hill hospital, her left leg encased in a black walking boot. Her dress hangs over it, stopping at her knees. A woman who looks startlingly similar to her, with more creases around her eyes and mouth. There’s a garish smear of red across her lips, and her hair seems more expensive than Violet’s wardrobe.

For the first time, it occurs to me that she might be poor. Even though her mom tends to be made of flashy things—or maybe she does that in spite of their financial situation. Because Violet drove a shitty car, and she’s lived in the same apartment with a roommate for years, and she never seems to wear anything new or crazy.

Maybe she’s chosen this lifestyle because there were no other options. Because of a selfish mother?

Whatever it is, I want to know every little thing about her.

The thought irritates me.

I keep scrolling.

There’s a video of her and Willow at a dance team competition. I pull the screen closer, searching for her in the throng of girls. They all wear the same thing: royal-blue tank tops, black booty shorts, blue-and-white knee-high socks under white sneakers. Their hair is all in high ponytails, slicked back and tied with blue-and-white ribbons.

It doesn’t take me too long to find her—she’s front and center, after all. The girls move around her, letting her take the lead. My mouth waters. She flips and twirls, then scoots backward to let other girls take the spotlight.

I scroll to the next one. A professional photo of her in a ballet leotard, mid-leap. The sort of image that could easily be in a magazine. Her muscles all stand in perfect relief, her limbs extended so it looks like she’s floating. Her expression is peaceful.

No sign of the physical strain that must take.

Not even her eyes show it. I zoom in to make sure, studying her relaxed lips, her jawline.

My erection comes roaring back. What is it about Violet Reece that makes me so fucking hard? Paris certainly didn’t get that response from me, and her mouth was on my cock. No other girl at CPU has so much as put a dent in my fixation on Violet.

If only I’d known about her sooner.

She was in my hometown. We might’ve even crossed paths.

I keep scrolling, trying to figure out where she went. I would’ve noticed a girl like her, wouldn’t I?

I didn’t, though. That’s the thing. But now that I have, I can’t get her out of my fucking mind. The slope of her nose and curve of her cheeks, her blue eyes, her blonde hair. She has curves now, more than when she danced. Her hips are padded, her belly soft. It’s fucking attractive.

The next few are photo dumps of her and her friends over the school year. Her and Willow with their cheeks pressed together, grinning at the camera. Her and Jack, his arm looped over her shoulder. I swipe past that one angrily.

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