A/N: First of all, we would just like to say thank you so much to everyone who reads this fic, and reviews it, and messages us about it. You've all been so wonderful to us.
We're finally nearing the end! Two more chapters and then we'll be closing the book on this Tate and Violet.
Thank you for reading and enjoy!
Like a bucket of ice down his back, Violet's word drag him from sleep's embrace. His heavy lids snap open and his entire body tenses into fear-frozen alertness.
He stares at her with too wide eyes, bewildered, propping up onto one elbow to get a better look at the girl curled in his sheets that might have broken everything.
When he speaks, his voice is calm and measured in the sharp silence, but his pulse is climbing.
"What?"
"You heard me," she coos without missing a beat, rolling up onto her side, both hands folded together under her cheek, the picture of innocence. Her big doe eyes are watching him with an open curiosity.
Time stops.
There's an explosion somewhere deep in the back of his skull, he thinks the force of it might even jostle his head forwards; he can't feel much of anything right now. He just waits. For her to say something. To crack a smile, anything.
When she doesn't, when he realizes that this is actually happening and not some cruel nightmare, a hundred different emotions wrestle for place in the colosseum of his chest cavity, hurt and anger among them in numbers.
He watches her, but he doesn't see.
She knew? This whole time, she knew?
His arm recoils from her belly like he's been burned and before he can help it, his hands have curled into white-knuckled fists, the bones look to be in danger of bursting free of his skin. It doesn't take much time at all for his bitten nails to have torn into the crease of his palm.
"What?" His mouth is moving again, forming the same useless question, but he's no longer a part of this scene. He's somewhere inside his own mind right now, too busy watching his blueprints for happiness combust. He's trying to expel his feelings for Violet all at once as though they were a poison he might be able to sweat out if only he tried. And they were, weren't they? In the end.
This had all been a game to her; Violet just wanted to see if she could flirt her way into fucking the hollywood star next door. Her friends probably knew what was going on. Jesus, maybe she had gone to the media, or was at least planning on it.
Tate's so wrapped up in nursing a mental breakdown over ten tiny words that he doesn't notice Violet's moved and is straddling him until her little hands are violently smacking him in the chest.
"What the fuck?" she's yelling, and at first he can only see her mouth moving, can't hear anything outside of the deafening ring in his ears, but then, when she starts yanking at his shoulders, trying desperately to wretch him up into a sitting position, his haze marginally clears.
She sounds angry, but frantic too, her eyes wide, pupils tiny pricks of black against soft brown, and it's then that he realizes he's having trouble breathing. His asthma must have kicked in sometime during the breakdown, there's an invisible weight on his chest and each breath he takes has been mangled into a gasp for air.
"Hey! I was joking, okay? Just joking," she cries out, both arms flapping wildly at her sides, but is momentarily placated when he sits up against the headboard and blinks her into focus.
Her hands don't leave his chest, but she ceases with the crazed beating, lets them lie in open curves over the thump of his heart. They hold one another's stare for a long moment, then, swallowing down whatever cruel thing had been there at the tip of her tongue, Violet sighs, a long and tired sound, and wets her lips.
"I mean, of course I know who you are. I don't live under a rock!" Tate's fear spikes. "I've seen you on some magazine covers and on tv once or twice, my mom watches your show, but I don't give a shit that you're rich and famous."
He feels the spasms in his lungs cease and with a stuttered sigh, air move freely down his windpipe. "You don't?" He breathes with only a little stagger, trying to settle his racing heart, trying to tamp down the chaos in his mind.
"Of course I don't," she bristles, clearly offended, but with the wind out of her sails now. He can still see the hurt there in her eyes. "Christ, If I was just a starfucker I would have tried to get you to make a sextape, or at least," she tosses her hands in the air once more, "I don't know, take some pictures to sell to the tabloids or something."
Initially skeptical, he watches her face wearily, but when all she offers him is a raised brow, he wheezes out a laugh. "Sorry," he says awkwardly. "It's just..."
"Sore subject?"
"You could say that," he says, shrugging, coughing slightly and then shifting down the headboard to lie flat against the mattress once more. Violet heaves a dramatic sigh and flops over his torso, resting her chin on his sternum and giving him her best 'I'm listening' face. "In this business it feels like everybody wants something - tickets to parties, getting their picture into a magazine, meeting big-time actors, or even just straight up cash. You never really know who you can trust."
Her brow wrinkles. "So why do it?" she asks. "If you hate it, quit. Get a different job."
He explains to her how all of it - the bullshit, the in-crowd, the paparazzi, the fame - is all part of the deal of being an actor... and he really, really loves being an actor. He tells her how his first role led to the parties which lead to introductions to producers which lead to "dating" an actress for six months because he needed to get his name out there and she wasn't ready to come out as a lesbian yet. It was all sucking Hollywood's dick and paying his dues but this job, this next job, could get him serious Oscar buzz and, if he was lucky, fuck you money.
"Fuck you money?" she repeats with a head tilt that makes him want to kiss her pout.
"Yeah," he laughs. "It means that you've got enough Hollywood currency - money in the bank, A-list status - that if you don't want to do a project you can say "Fuck you" and walk away. It's the freedom to say no to shitty rom-coms and pick only the projects you really want."
"And if you get fuck you money, what projects would you like to do?" she asks, interested.
He shrugs. "I don't know," he mumbles, somewhat bashfully. "Indies, maybe. Films, not just movies, you know? Ones that make you think, that make you actually feel something." He brightens. "Plus, it would mean I could stop making the rounds at parties and shit, going to Vodka launches and club openings. That alone would be worth it."
Violet nods seriously. "I hate all that fake bullshit," she says disdainfully. "All this fucking town cares about is appearances and being seen, even if you're not famous. Makes me miss the East coast."
When it seems like he's through talking, she nuzzles into his chest and changes the subject. "Tell me about you," she urges gently. "I told you my life story at the bar. It's your turn."
He smiles and presses a kiss into her hair. "Not much to tell that you can't read in Us Weekly or on Wikipedia."
"Bullshit," she chides. "I want to know about you. Like growing up with Constance. What the fuck was that like? She's a trip."
For the better part of an hour he tells her about his life, the condensed, slightly edited version anyway - she doesn't need to know that he suspects his mother of killing his father or how he came close to mowing down half his gym class in eleventh grade.
He tells her about growing up inside the house where she now lives, about how he spent most of his time alone in the basement, about how he used to (and still maybe does) think there were ghosts down there. They figure out together that she's living in his old room. She asks where he caught the acting bug and looks appropriately sour when he tells her it was more or less forced upon him by his mother. She gets the sparknotes version of how Constance is a truly terrible bitch, his explanation for why he didn't visit home often. Coaxed, he laughs his way through his first sexual experiences and only has to pinch at her sides a few times when she begins cackling too loudly.
She demands story after story, has a follow-up question for each answer, and only when Violet phone buzzes to life on his bedside table are they pulled out of their reverie. Huffing irritably, she bends over to retrieve it, her face glowing with the light from the screen.
"You're lucky," she grins. "That was the guy I was with earlier. He wants to know who the 'fucking asshole that broke his nose' was. Apparently he didn't recognize you."
Relief washes over Tate in crisp waves. "Thank fucking Christ," he groans, rubbing his eyes wearily. "That's the last thing I need right now."
"Then you probably shouldn't have beat the shit out of him," she scolds. "I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself."
Indignation rises in his throat like bile. "I hated watching him touch you," he growls, hugging her tightly against his chest. "I wasn't joking earlier. You're mine."
She pulls away slightly to look up and into his eyes, her face turned somber. "Tate... we can't be together. You've got to know that, right?"
He closes his eyes, preparing himself, jaw clenched.
"How old are you, really?" he asks slowly, afraid of the answer, but knowing already in some capacity.
"Seventeen. But I'll be eighteen in three months, right before I graduate."
He exhales slowly, a steady column of air. It's a blow, hearing her say it out loud, but nothing fatal "That's not so bad," he says, relieved. He opens his eyes to find her own downcast as she worries the sheet covering them in her hands, teeth caught onto her lower lip. In that moment her balls and bravado have been stripped away. She's the same shy, nervous girl she was when she pressed her soaking panties into his palm. It makes his heart swell and his cock throb.
"What?" he asks, cupping her chin in his hand, begging for her eyes.
"Wait for me?" she mumbles, looking anywhere but where he wants. "I mean, after I graduate, I'll be legal and everything, if you want to really try this-"
He cuts her off by capturing her lips in a firm kiss, pouring every emotion he's felt over the last few days and is feeling now into the press and slide of their mouths. "You just better wait for me," he says breathlessly, once he can bear to put a fingerbreadth of space between them. "If I see some other guy touching you again, I'll fucking kill him this time. I'm serious, Violet."
He face breaks into a brilliant smile, like he hadn't just promised murder. "Really?"
"Definitely," he reassures her, rising up and rolling to blanket her lithe little body, careful to keep from crushing her. "It's three months, not three years. I think I can handle three months of celibacy. With any luck I'll be busy on set in Europe anyway."
Her eyes slide closed and she gives him a slow, teasing smile. "Well then I better give you something to remember me by," she purrs, arching to meet him and wrapping her hand around his the base of his freshly interested dick.
"Violet," he groans, thrusting into the circle of her fingers, their conversation forgotten.
"Yes?" she grins, her eyes wide and innocent as she strokes him to full hardness.
"You have no idea what you fucking do to me," he sighs, voice a low rasp, reaching between them to seize her hands and lift them up over her head. He holds them there between his thumb and curled fingers and uses his other hand to quickly line up their bodies, feeling her slick for him all over again, wanting.
"Oh I think I do," she pants cheekily, arching up into the space between them and working her hips in a slow circle. "But you could always show me."
Unable to stifle a shudder that ripples up his staircased spine, he groans somewhere deep in his throat and buries his cock in her throbbing heat in one harsh thrust, losing himself inside her once again.
The sky outside his window is shifting from an inky midnight to a deep purple, heralding the dawn when Violet releases a petulant sigh.
"I better go," she says ruefully, disentangling their legs and drawing out of Tate's hold. "I don't want either one of our respective parental units to wake up and find out where I am."
His skin aches at the loss of contact, her warmth ripped from him. "When will I see you again?" he asks, lurching up to lean back against his headboard and watch her dress.
"I thought I'd come to the funeral," she says, tugging up and fastening her shorts. "Maybe after it's over we can talk? Figure out how we're going to do this?"
"Okay," he agrees with a nod. "We've got people coming over after - Constance wants to have a reception or some shit - which should make it pretty easy to sneak away. She'll monopolize all the attention, nobody will even notice I'm gone."
"Good."
She slips her tank top over her head and smoothing it down, leans forward to brush her lips over Tate's for one last taste. He cranes his neck for more when she draws back, twin smiles creeping onto both their faces, still giddy from the night's events.
"Get some rest," she murmurs, fingers trailing down his bare chest, playfully circling one nipple. "Tonight's your last night here, and I plan on making sure you don't spend one minute of it sleeping."
He wraps his arms around her, loathe to let her go despite the knowledge that he must, and pulls her back into his lap for one last kiss, a kiss that will get them through the next twelve hours. "Tate," she moans, pulling herself away. "If I don't leave now, I never will, and then we'll both really be screwed."
Groaning, he relents and releases her. "I don't want to fucking do this," he says darkly, glancing over at the black shirt and tie hanging from his closet door. "I'd much rather spend the day in here, with you."
She looks at him and senses his dread for the emotional event, sees the need for reassurance in his eyes. Her gaze sweeps over the room and settles on a marker abandoned in an empty can on his old desk. She snatches it up and crosses the room back to where he's lying still, grabbing for his hand and forcing open his palm.
"I wish I could sit with you and hold your hand, but we both know I can't," she says, biting the cap off the sharpie and pressing the point into his skin, speaking with her mouth full. "But every time you need me, just look at this. Pretend I'm there."
He looks down at his hand to see a crude heart drawn over the lines in his palm, the bottom formed into an exaggerated V with a tiny H in the center.
He feels a lump rise in his throat at the sight.
"Thanks," he says hoarsely, lips turned up at the corners despite himself. She just grins in reply and presses a quick kiss to his palm before darting across the room for the door.
"Violet," he blurts as her hand closes around the handle; she spins around to look at him, expectant.
He bites his lip to keep the "I love you" already formed clearly in his mind from spilling over. It's too soon. Fuck, he's crazy.
"I'll miss you," he says instead, leaning back against the pillow.
Pressing her forehead against the edge of the door and peeking shyly at him through her bangs, she feeds him a soft, "You too," and with one last longing glance disappears out into the hall, leaving him alone to ponder just how he's going to make it through the next three months without her.
Addie's funeral was precisely the reason that Tate had tucked the vial of coke into his duffel bag (well, that and having to suffer Constance for a long weekend). He had planned on spending the entire morbid affair stoned out of his mind. In the past, large amounts of drugs had been the only way Tate could deal with anything of an emotional nature. Problems with Constance? Get fucked up. Didn't get the callback? Get fucked up. Trouble with a girlfriend? You guessed it. After a hit, nothing seemed quite so dire. The funeral of his only sister would have been the type of occasion that necessitated narcotics, however, when it was time to leave for the funeral parlour, Tate had taken one glance at the Sharpied tattoo on his palm and promptly dropped the rest of his grade A coke right into the toilet.
Violet makes him want to feel things again. She makes him want to experience life, the good and the bad. She makes him want to stop burying his emotions under layers of anger, cocaine, and Jack Daniels.
In short, she makes him want to be a better man.
And he couldn't be more grateful.
As he sits next to his mother, trying to ignore her phony sobs, he alternates between staring solemnly at his sister's closed coffin and stealing glances down at the heart drawn into his skin, curling his fingers inward as though he could feel her small hand in his, warm and soft against his calluses. Violet's here, he saw her come in earlier with both parents and knows that she's sitting a few rows back on his left. He'd like nothing more than to drag her into the very back and disappear against her side for some comfort but it's impossible, he can't, and for now, simply knowing that she's there is enough.
The pastor wraps up an overly flowery sermon with some predictable bible verse and motions for Addie's family to stand. Reality sinking in, that his baby sister's funeral is over and that she's never going to climb up out of that box, Tate's eyes fill with tears that he furiously tries to blink away. They stick to his lower lashes and cloud his vision but they do not fall. He had already taken a private moment with his sister prior to the funeral, but this would be the last time he would ever be in the same room with Addie. His heart breaks for her, his funny, kind, beautiful sister.
She would always be a pretty girl to him.
Walking down the aisle, allowing Constance to thread her arm through his, but only just barely, he catches Violet's eye. She gives him a small smile and it takes every ounce of strength he has left not to crawl over his gay hairdresser, Chad, and his brooding partner, Patrick, and carry Violet out to his car and this entire filthy fucking city.
The second he tastes fresh air, the sun bright and overbearing, he's digging into his pocket for a cigarette. Soon, he's got one sandwiched between his teeth and is frantically patting down his pants in search of his lighter when a Zippo suddenly flares to life not six inches from his face.
He leans forward to catch the flame and, pulling the nicotine into his lungs, looks around for the source.
"Moira," he says, surprised, shading his eyes with his spare hand. "I didn't think you'd be here."
"Well, we've got business," she says in a voice that should sound far more dangerous. "You didn't call."
He's dealt with his agent long enough to know the signs. She's bouncing forward on the balls of her feet and chewing her lower lip like it's her last meal. Whatever she has to say, it's good news.
He turns his head to exhale and notices Violet waiting for her parents a few feet away just out front, eyes wide and gaze fixed. "My agent," he mouths to her, winking, nudging the air in Moira's direction with his cigarette. She grins and visibly relaxes as Tate turns back to the firey redhead.
"Out with it," he says after another drag, keeping hope from blooming in his chest just yet. Smoke leaves his nostrils in twin spires. "If it's something that has you all the way out here, it must be major."
"Oh, it's major," she confirms, unable to hold back a toothy grin that gleams like dollar signs. Tate's breath hitches. "This past weekend the director of that World War II flick Follow Me Home wandered into his screening room while his daughter and her friends were having a viewing party." Tate gestures irritably for her to get on with it. She just shoots him a glare.
"Tate, they were watching your show."
"Fuck," He groans, dragging a hand down over his stubbled cheeks. "Well, there goes that part."
"Not quite," Moira says, absolutely bubbling. "The girls loved you. And the more the director watched, the more he saw that there's more to you than a pretty face" She takes a deep breath, eyes glinting with savage triumph, and reaches out to pinch at his cheek. "He offered you the part, Tate. He doesn't even need an to audition."
"Bullshit," he hisses, teeth pressed into the filter of his cigarette, grinding it in half. But deep down he knows Moira's not the type to joke about work-related shit.
"This is it, Tate," she says seriously, gripping him by the arms and jostling him slightly to drive the point home. "You're going to be a huge fucking star, baby."
Tate barks out something between a sob a laugh and pulls Moira into a massive hug, still shaking with disbelief. Over her shoulder, he can see Violet's face. She's overjoyed for him, her lips curving up a beautiful smile, white teeth peeking through. "We'll celebrate tonight," she mouths to him with a little wiggle, and the promise of all the sexual depravity to come makes his cock twitch against his thigh.
"So," Moira starts, regaining her composure after Tate releases her, smoothing out her skirt, "Here's the catch. We have to leave now."
Tate's brow wrinkles in confusion. "Now?"
"Now," she repeats with a nod. "He wants to make sure he can start filming at the beginning of Spring in Ansouis. Rehearsals start tomorrow, in New York, and in a week you'll be flying to the south of France. I booked your flight to New York, your plane leaves in two hours, so if you want to get through security we have to leave right now. I'll give you a minute to say goodbye to your mother."
"I don't give a fuck about my mother," Tate waves her off, his head still swimming. It feels like the ground under his feet has shifted, as though gravity itself was affected by this news. "Moira, I don't have any clothes, I have to pack - " his voice drops, "and I have the trial, remember?"
Her eyes flash triumphantly despite his sour expression. "That's the best part, Tate. The director's so ga-ga over you that the studio fronted the cash to settle with the pap that's suing you. He's even going to sign a gag order. The whole thing is going to go away, all of it, out of the papers. It's beautiful." She chuckles. "Gotta love Hollywood, right?"
He's relieved that he doesn't have to go through the mess and bad PR of a trial but it's only a petty concern, a means of distraction. The real reason he can't leave in two hours is standing behind Moira, looking like her heart is going to burst free of her chest and right into the sewer.
"Moira, I can't leave right now," he whines pitifully, grappling for a plausible reason that might stall their departure. "I just left my sister's funeral, for Christ's sake!"
Her eyes narrow. "Now you isten to me, Tate Langdon," she sneers, a finger edging into the center of his chest, sharp nail pressed right against his sternum. "You have waited your entire fucking career for a break like this. This is it, your last fucking chance, you got that? If you screw this up, I quit - but don't worry about that. Because if you don't take this job you'll have flushed any chance at becoming a real actor right down the fucking toilet. You'll be lucky to book a fucking used car commercial!"
Scowling at her sudden venom, Tate just pushes his hair out of his eyes and lifts up his hands in surrender. "Jesus," he says wearily. "Calm down." Over Moira's shoulder, Violet's waving to catch his attention, a stolen cigarette in her spare hand - clever girl. "You have to go," she mouths, giving him a broken smile.
He sighs, feels something somewhere within his ribcage grow painfully heavy with the knowledge of what this means. "Fine," he concedes with a grimace, squinting the sun and Violet's frown out of his eyes. "Can I have a minute? Say goodbye to my family?"
He doesn't really give a shit about his family, but if he can sneak back into the funeral parlour he can at least have a minute to tell Violet goodbye properly, with a kiss and a promise and all that. He needs that last minute with her, something he can hold close to his heart in the time they're apart
He's mentally patting himself on the back for his ingenuity when he hears the telling sound of his mother's heels coming to fuck up his plan
"Say goodbye?" she purrs, stepping up behind him, long fingers curling possessively over his shoulder. "Why? Where are you going, Tate? We've still got the reception. I promised a few people I'd introduce you."
"Tate's been offered a role in a major motion picture, Mrs. Langdon," Moira says disdainfully, making Tate smile in spite of everything. Moira hatred of Constance nearly equals Tate's, in large part because of an incident at an after party early in his career that ended with Constance "accidentally" squirting lemon juice in Moira's right eye when she'd banned the mad woman from a meeting with one of her biggest clients. She was blind in that eye for a week, it never did heal quite right.
"Oh my stars!" Constance squeals, smothering Tate in a forced embrace, her voice carrying over the entire parking lot. "I'm so proud of you!"
She showers him in kisses and congratulations, and if it were any other son and mother, it might be endearing, but this is a selfish act. Already Constance is figuring what news like this gets her; bragging rights, sympathy, maybe a little cash.
When the show's over and she's released Tate, but is still reverently rubbing the wrinkles out of his jacket, Moira catches the empty stare in her client's eyes and clears her throat.
"Alright, I'm sorry but we really must be going."
Tate silently thanks her and catches a wink when Constance looks out into the crowd to see who's heard their news.
Constance tuts, but after placing one last kiss upon Tate's wincing cheek, she relents. "Okay, I love you. Don't forget to call me with all the details!" she shouts, fading back towards the circle of her bridge club. "My big movie star!"
Tate can't help sticking out his tongue like an unruly child and mock-gagging himself, drawing a cruel giggle from Moira, who is already ushering him towards the car.
"We're going to be late, hurry up, hurry up," she's rushing, waving him towards her company car in the parking lot. Tate blindly follows her before he remembers a pair of soft brown eyes.
"Violet!" he hisses to himself, head whipping back in the direction of the parlour. Frantically, he scans the crowd even as Moira pushes at the top of his head, urging him to fold down into the passenger seat.
Just before he drops down he spots her, threading out front of family and friends to where he can see her better.
Even though her parents are nearby and his mother isn't more than a few feet off, she's waving wildly and giving him her biggest smile, high up on her tippy-toes.
His heart goes wild in his chest, jumps against the front of his ribs, tapping out her name in morse code and, using the car door for leverage, he pushes to his feet. He didn't think it possible but her grin grows, dazzling and genuine and nothing at all like the mean smirk she lets sit across her lips when he's not around.
"I'll wait," he mouths slowly, with his heart in his throat and the beat of it loud between his ears. "I'll wait."
He's got her face burned into the insides of his eyelids the entire ride to the airport and his ink-stained palm pressed close against his chest where she belongs.