Page 16 of Kiss & Collide (Racing Hearts #2)

V iolet dropped into a chair at a small table for two in the corner by the window, and crossed her arms. Ian sat down across from her, all splayed limbs and easy confidence.

God, she’d forgotten this … the magnetism he radiated without trying. He could own a room just walking in the door. It was his own personal magic.

A server stopped by their table, her eyes roaming eagerly over Ian. “Can I get you something?”

“Whiskey on the rocks,” Ian said, smiling up at her. “And vodka tonic for my friend. Is it still vodka tonics for you, Vi?”

“It’s whatever gets me drunk the fastest,” she muttered.

“I’ll get that right out to you,” the waitress purred, never casting a single glance in Violet’s direction. Oh, she remembered this part, too. The problem with being in the presence of the glowing bright sun was that he threw everyone around him into the shadows.

“You look good, Sunshine.” Ian’s eyes roamed over her. “Different. You’ve gone lux.”

God, that fucking name. It had been his term of endearment for her, their own little inside joke.

Sunshine , because that was the literal opposite of who she was.

His teasing her with that nickname used to make her feel seen , like she’d found someone who appreciated her enough to crack jokes about it.

But it had never meant what she’d thought it had. None of it had.

She smoothed the hem of her blood-red satin sheath dress as she crossed her legs.

Back when she’d been … when she’d known Ian, she’d been all shredded jeans and leather jackets, a tough little rocker girl.

She’d kept that look when she started working at Lennox, and Simone, bless her, had never said a word about it, as long as she cleaned herself up for press events.

She hated stuffing herself into conservative black skirt suits and pearls, but when she got this job at Pinnacle, she’d upgraded her wardrobe and found her own way to do it.

She still wore suits for press events, but less Calvin Klein, and more Vivienne Westwood.

“I have a real job now.”

“So Astrid says. Formula One. That’s … different.”

“I’ve always loved racing. You know that.”

Ian’s eyebrows lifted. “I remember. Never my thing.”

And typical of Ian, if it didn’t center around him, he had no interest. She’d followed racing on her own when they’d been together.

Music had always been her first love, but when she and Ian ended, her life in music had, too.

She’d turned to racing desperate to give herself something new to focus on, something that had nothing to do with Ian and his world.

And she’d built a new life for herself here, one only she controlled.

The waitress returned, depositing drinks in front of them.

“Do you need anything else?” she asked Ian.

“We’re brilliant, thanks,” Violet answered for him.

When the waitress had gone, Violet took a deep swig of her drink. “So why’s Astrid keeping tabs on me?”

“I think she misses you.”

Violet scoffed. “Bullshit. She hates me.” Astrid was Ian’s bandmate and sister.

“Maybe she knows I miss you.” He looked up at her with those ice-blue eyes that used to give her butterflies.

She’d spent a lot of sleepless nights longing to hear those words from him.

“Bullshit,” she snapped again, but deep inside, her stomach turned over in slow motion.

Not exactly butterflies, but unsettling just the same.

She’d thought she was all done, immune to Ian and immune to all those old feelings.

It was embarrassing, realizing he still had this effect on her, even after everything.

“It’s true, Sunshine.”

“How’s … what’s her name? Emma.”

“Emily.”

“Right.”

Ian shrugged. “Long gone. That was nothing.”

Nothing. She gritted her teeth to keep her reaction from showing on her face. He broke her heart over some girl he now dismissed as “nothing.” Was that supposed to make it better or worse?

Ian sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and fixing her with a pleading stare. “Look, do you want to hear me say I fucked up, Violet? Because I fucked up. I know that now.”

“Oh, for god’s sake. Please don’t tell me you’ve been pining for me. We both know better.” She would bet there had been a lengthy line of girls filling his bed in her absence.

“But you were the best part of me. The truest part of me.”

Violet picked at the red polish flaking off one nail. “Did Astrid write that for you?”

“Come on, Sunshine. You can’t tell me we weren’t good together.”

She sat in silence, staring at the ice slowly melting in her drink.

Good together? Meeting Ian had felt like unlocking a door to a whole new world, a world where she finally fit in, where she mattered.

She’d willingly built her life around him—his music and his magic—because when she was with him, it felt like she was a part of the magic, too.

But he’d thrown it away for “nothing.” That’s when she’d discovered her place in that world was conditional.

Always on his terms.

So she’d quit being devastated. She’d also quit giving men enough room to devastate her. She built her life around herself now, and if she made magic, it was hers to keep.

She watched the ice cubes swirl in her glass to avoid meeting Ian’s eyes. “I can’t believe you don’t remember this about me, Ian.”

“What?”

She tossed back the rest of her drink and stood up. “I don’t believe in looking back.”

Ian shot to his feet and reached for her, but she jerked back, out of his reach. It had been a long time, but she wasn’t about to let him touch her. She didn’t want to test herself that way, not after everything she’d gone through.

“I’m not giving up, Violet. I know what matters now, and it’s you.”

She laughed without humor. “Ian, knock yourself out. I’m going to bed. And tomorrow I’m going to Hungary. Have a nice night.”

As she made her way out of the bar, he called out behind her. “You’ll see me again, Violet.”

With a sinking sensation, she knew she probably would. This—the grand gesture, the abject groveling—appealed to Ian’s sense of drama. Fucking fine. Let him follow her around prostrating himself at her feet. It might do him good.

Because he still didn’t understand the damage he’d done.

It wasn’t about some idiot groupie who sucked his dick and made him feel like a hero. It was more than that.

She made him. Ian and Astrid and their stupid band would still be playing crap gigs in the shittiest bars in Essex if not for her. She’d put them on the path to greatness. And if they hadn’t quite made it there yet? Well, she wasn’t around anymore, was she?

Turned out there was exactly one magical ingredient in Revenant Saints, and it wasn’t their golden god lead singer. It was her .