Revenge Bound Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 1: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 2: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 3: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 4: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 5: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 6: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 7: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 8: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 9: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 10: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 11: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 12: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 13: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 14: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 15: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 16: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 17: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 18: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 19: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 20: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 21: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 22: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 23: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 24: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 25: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 26: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 27: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 28: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 29: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 30: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 31: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 32: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 33: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 34: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 35: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 36: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 37: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 38: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 39: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 40: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 41: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 42: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 43: JAYCE

  CHAPTER 44: VIOLET

  CHAPTER 45: JAYCE

  EPILOGUE: VIOLET

  Author's Note

  Coming Soon

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  REVENGE BOUND

  A Tattoo Thief novel

  By Heidi Joy Tretheway

  REVENGE BOUND is a standalone, full-length companion novel in the Tattoo Thief series. Each book in the series features a love story about a different member of the rock band Tattoo Thief. The books can be read out of order. They contain steamy scenes and strong language intended for mature readers.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Text copyright © Heidi Joy Tretheway

  All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Publisher: Heidi Joy Tretheway | www.heidijoytretheway.com

  Editor: Jim Thomsen

  Copy editor: Cynthia L. Moyer

  Proofreader: Amy Duryea

  Cover design: Heidi Joy Tretheway

  Cover photo: Artem Furman

  For my parents: encouragers, cheerleaders, believers.

  Even when I write naughty books.

  PROLOGUE: VIOLET

  The Internet is full of naked pictures of pretty girls. Curvy girls splayed on beds. Busty girls gripping their breasts in ecstasy. Blondes getting pounded, pistoned, defiled. Brunettes taking the money shot, the deep throat, the back door.

  Any Google search will find you these images. And one of them might be me.

  I’m the redhead. The one with her back arched, her eyes wide, her mouth open with desire. The one with her legs spread and her arms tied tight above her head.

  I’m the one shot with her own camera and uploaded for the world to see.

  And now I’m the one with the secret.

  CHAPTER 1: VIOLET

  I’ve never been so thankful for the oily smell of Chinese food and the subtle whiff of socks.

  “I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow?” Neil lounges in our living room with his feet up and a half-empty takeout container beside him.

  “I missed you, too.” I muster a little sarcasm for my roommate and drop my overfull camera gear bag at the entry beside my suitcase. My eyelids are leaden with exhaustion. “I waited at the gate forever to get on standby.”

  “You look like shit. Long flight?”

  I snort. “Don’t sugar-coat it, Neil. Tell me what you really think.” My phone pings and another text shatters me.

  When I fuck you, I’m gonna pull that pretty red hair of yours until you scream.

  My breath hitches and my shoulders begin to shake. I can’t keep ignoring these texts. My legs refuse to take two steps into the living room and I collapse, gulping for air.

  “Violet! I’m sorry!” Neil springs off the couch and reaches for me but I recoil.

  I pull my knees to my chest and my phone slips through my fingers and lands with a clunk on the floor. “Don’t touch me. Don’t even touch me.” I want to curl into a ball and sleep until I can wake from this nightmare.

  Neil takes a step back. “What happened to you?” He picks up my phone and glances at the screen, his jaw hardening when he sees the message.

  “Is this from Brady?” he demands. “That asshole. I thought you dumped him before you went to Europe.”

  I try to control my breath against sobbing hiccups. I thought I was all cried out, but turning on my phone after the long flight slammed me back into the reality of the past several days.

  Each text is more poisonous than the last.

  “We did break up. But I’ve been getting these texts.”

  Neil waits for me to explain. When I don’t, he nudges me. “From who?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. It’s not Brady’s number.”

  Neil sits quietly at my side, then reaches a tentative hand to my shoulder. When I don’t flinch, he cups my elbow and pulls me up off the floor and to the couch.

  He goes to our kitchen and pours a few fingers of gin for each of us. I hear the refrigerator door open and close and I know he’s adding olives, making his martini dirty and mine muddy, just the way I like it.

  He places a drink in my hand and clinks my glass, even though I’m too numb to make the gesture. “I’m glad you’re home, Vi.”

  I take a sip and my shoulders convulse, a sob shaking my chest. I hear another ping and Neil leaps for my phone, tilting the screen away from me as he reads it.

  He shakes his head.

  “Another one?” I ask.

  “Yeah. But this one’s from a different number.”

  I let out a faltering breath.

  “How many have you gotten so far?”

  “Twenty. Thirty. I lost count.” My cheeks are hot with embarrassment but I trust Neil. After what happened with Brady, he’s the only one I trust.

  “How do they have your number?”

  I shrug, totally at a loss. I wanted to believe it’s a wrong number, but the text about my red hair says otherwise.

  I finally gather the strength to go to my room and unpack. Neil lurks in my doorway.

  “Vi? I was planning to go out tonight, but the girl who stayed in your room, Stella, she’s supposed to come by and pick up her stuff. Are you going to be OK here without me?”

  I nod and he hangs at my door for a moment longer. He enters my room and picks up my phone from the top of my dresser. “Shut this off and get some sleep, Violet.”

  I promise him I will.

  ***

  I drag my rear out of bed to answer the knock at my door. I didn’t mean to fall asleep—I need a shower, some non-airline food in my stomach and a change of clothes.

  “Hi! I’m Stella. I brought you this.” A too-chipper pixie with a cherry-brown bob thrusts a wine bottle into my hands.

>   “Thank you?” I squint and my fuzzy brain threads this girl’s name together with why she’s here. When I left on my trip, Neil said a reporter at his newspaper needed a place to stay for a while. Of course I had to let her have my room; Neil’s always taking in strays. That’s how I ended up being his roommate.

  I open the door wider for Stella, who is followed by a curvy brunette and a well-muscled guy. “Is Neil here?” Stella asks.

  “He went out for a drink with some friends.” I watch the guy hoist Stella’s stuff and as he turns, he’s weirdly familiar. “Wait. Are you an actor?”

  “Uh, no.” The guy shrugs and lugs Stella’s stuff toward the door.

  “I recognize you. Are you one of Neil’s friends?”

  “Never met the guy. Sorry.”

  “Huh. You just look really familiar.” I sway and grab the back of a chair for balance. The time change and long hours waiting in Charles De Gaulle Airport drained every ounce of my energy, but the more texts I got, the more I just wanted to come home and hide.

  Now that I’m here, I feel better. Barely.

  “Hey, you’re probably tired. We’ll just grab this stuff and get out of your way, OK?” Stella points to a pile of bags and boxes in the living room.

  I nod and watch them shuttle the bags out.

  Stella returns for the last few things. “What’s your number?”

  “For what?” I blurt. Right now, my phone is my enemy.

  “For your phone? I’m going to text you my phone number in case you find something in your room that Neil forgot to pack for me. Can you text me and I’ll come get it?”

  “Oh. Sure.” At least that’s one message that won’t be from an unknown letch.

  “Thanks. And welcome back.”

  CHAPTER 2: JAYCE

  There are some temptations too good to resist.

  Boobs on a platter, for instance. Give me a handful—or more—in a push-up bra and I’m a happy man. I’ll have some of that tonight, and maybe the next night if she’s hot and willing.

  They almost always are.

  Hot stage lights fade and I bow and wave to the audience with my band mates. Tyler, Gavin, Dave and I hold our positions as the curtains close and the backstage lights come up.

  “Fuck yeah!” Gavin high-fives Dave triumphantly. “Tattoo Thief’s back!” He runs down a corridor and I know exactly who’s waiting for him—his new girlfriend, Beryl.

  Tonight my band played hard. It was a last-minute gig and we’re pretty rusty. Gavin, our lead singer, is the “King of Wing,” coming in cold after more than two months traveling the world and never answering one of my fucking emails.

  Who freezes out their friends like that?

  Temptation, in the form of two busty blondes, squeals from the wings. The girls watch me wipe down my guitar and pack it away in its case.

  I had to fight hard to back Gavin tonight. We did it acoustic, so we didn’t have big sound or the energy of a massive crowd as cover, just a few hundred fans at the Rockwood Music Hall. Thank God we didn’t make too many mistakes. It’s the smallest show we’ve played in more than a year, but this first step back into performing is why Dave urged us to take the booking.

  And with almost no practice, Gavin agreed. A small part of me wishes we had sucked tonight. Maybe that would make Gavin pull his head out of his ass and take the band seriously again.

  But tonight, I’ll cut him some slack. He’s back, he’s happy and healthy. He’s got a girl.

  Don’t think I’m jealous. I’ve got dozens. I could call pretty much any number in my phone and I’d be hitting that tonight.

  I’m high from the adrenaline as I stride toward the green room after our show. Shelly and Teal’s heels clomp behind me and I could have either of them tonight. Maybe both, if they’re down with it.

  I fucking love being a rock star.

  ***

  Change of plans. I tell Shelly and Teal to go home. I call them a limo to ease their disappointment and tell them I’m going to help Tyler.

  He’s helped me more times than I can count, so I’ve got to help him haul the shit in his loft around so a girl he’s been whining about for the last week can stay with him.

  That could be interesting. Stella’s a firecracker. I wanted to hate her for posting Gavin’s song on the Internet without permission, but I also think she could be good for Tyler. I watched them together when she came to apologize, and she was the first girl I’ve seen who didn’t look at him like prey, like he was fresh meat to be devoured.

  Tyler’s a gentle soul, but I know how to handle girls—keep it fun, keep it casual, and always keep it no strings attached. I put it out there from the beginning, and the girls who are into that stick around. The girls who want more go find some poor sucker who will give it to them.

  I won’t. I’ve seen too many guys burned by clingy girls who want more, including Tyler.

  Shelly and Teal follow me out to the limo and they pout, giggle, and smear lipstick on me.

  I wink. “I’m not wiping it off, I’m rubbing it in,” I lie, and shut the door behind them.

  I turn back to the stage side door where a guy in a button-down shirt is smoking. “Nice set.”

  I slow my stride. “Thanks, man.”

  “So, what’s next for you, Jayce?” The man’s tone is casual, aloof, as if he doesn’t really care how I answer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “From what I can tell, you put your guitar in storage while Gavin was gone. Don’t tell me that doesn’t make a musician like you itch just a little bit.”

  I take a step toward the guy, trying to get a read on his expression beneath the slanting streetlight. “We’re back now. That’s what matters.”

  The man takes a long drag on his cigarette. “No, what matters is taking it to the next level. You’ve got a lead singer who flaked out on you, and then released a song without you. I smell a solo career for him, and maybe it’s time you think about one, too.”

  The way the man lays out the facts gets my hackles up, so I deflect. “The only thing I smell is smoke.”

  The man dips into his back pocket and extracts a red embossed card from his billfold. “You’re going to want to give me a call.”

  My hand moves automatically and I take the card. He nods, flicks his cigarette into the gutter, and walks away.

  CHAPTER 3: VIOLET

  The halls that usually stream with rowdy, pubescent junior high school kids are eerily quiet as I walk to the principal’s office. My footsteps echo off bright green lockers and I hesitate at the frosted glass door.

  It’s summer break. I shouldn’t be here.

  “Come in, Violet.”

  He must have heard my footsteps, so I enter. Principal Dash sits behind a gray industrial desk, his thin, pasty face lit by a computer monitor.

  “Sit down.”

  I obey, wondering again why he called me, less than twelve hours after I got back from my trip, for “an urgent matter we must discuss in person.”

  “Do you know why you’re here?” He cocks an eyebrow and inspects my chest as if I have a stain on my blouse.

  I glance down, my dark red hair sliding forward on my shoulders, but there’s nothing. “No—I, ah, is this about the teaching assignments?”

  My heart flutters with hope—is it possible the school got funding for a full-time art teacher? That’s what I studied to be, but in my first year out of college, the pickings were slim. I was lucky to get a part-time assignment teaching art. The other half of my time is spent teaching sex ed to seventh- and eighth-graders.

  I learned long ago how to roll a condom over a banana without snickering.

  Mr. Dash frowns. “Yes and no. I’m sure you realize that teaching is not a lifestyle choice that’s for everyone. We expect our teachers to live by a certain standard, even when they’re out of the classroom.”

  I nod my head vigorously. I’m carefully neutral on Facebook, nonexistent on Twitter. I don’t want a thirteen-year-old student to co
me across some half-drunk pictures of me at a bachelorette party and forward them to every other kid’s phone.

  His frown deepens. “That’s why it pains me to see certain … images of you online.”

  Images? My heartbeat quickens. “What do you mean?”

  “I realize you have a life outside of work, but what you’re making public is not appropriate for our students. We have enough controversy over our sex ed curriculum. If more parents find out about these pictures, we’ll have all-out war.” He rotates the monitor to face me and my jaw goes slack in horror.

  It’s undeniably me: my flame-red hair tumbling across my breasts, my nipples peaked and lips parted, my hands bound tightly above my head.

  An erotic and terrifying moment that my boss somehow found online. I want to die.

  Dying would be sweet release compared to the toxic flood of acid through my veins. This is worse than the texts, far worse, and I open and close my mouth but no words come.

  I have no excuse, no explanation, no way to make this photo anything less than what it is—career suicide.

  Mr. Dash’s lips thin and he shakes his head, scrolling down the web page to reveal two more images, each more damning than the last. “I’m sure you understand why I’ll need to change the teaching assignments for the coming year. You won’t be teaching.”

  “Not sex ed?” I whisper, my eyes clouded with tears as I cling to the thin hope that I might salvage the part of my career that I care about.

  “Not at this school,” Mr. Dash says. “I’ll do you a favor and I won’t write this up as the reason for termination. But I can’t give you a recommendation, either. This—” he waves his hand at the monitor “—is totally irresponsible. Considering your background, it’s not something I ever expected from you.”

  Mr. Dash’s disdain pinches his face, and I shrivel in my chair with shame as tears stain my blouse. “How did you … how did you find these?” I’m desperate to figure out how these got online, but deep in my gut, I know.