by Karina Halle
“Here’s to…” Vicente says, lifting his drink to mine. “The kindness of strangers.”
We clink glasses and I take a sip, his amber eyes never leaving mine, seeming to drink me in. He reaches into my very core, colder and stronger than any spirit.
Speaking of which, the drink is hella good.
“You like it,” he says.
I nod. “I never thought I’d be able to tell the difference between vodkas.”
“Believe me, there’s a difference,” he says, taking a sip. His tongue gently licks the salted edge of his glass, the sight causing heat to build between my legs. Jesus, either this drink is going to my head right away or I’m in trouble. “Though price doesn’t always mean quality. Grey Goose is fine and all, but the one we’re having is five dollars a bottle cheaper.”
With his rich tones and that light hint of an accent, I could listen to him talk about alcohol all day. I could also watch that tongue of his all day too.
He seems to smirk a little, as if noticing my attention, and leans back. “A fascinating conversation or what?”
“No,” I say quickly, even though he doesn’t look all too bothered. “It is interesting. I’m lame, I don’t really know much about it.”
“My father taught me all of that,” he tells me. “He’s a big fan of sipping tequila. There’s sipping vodka too, you know. I’ve had this straight over ice before.”
I wrinkle my nose. “No, thank you. That would be way too intense.”
“But intense can be good. It can be very good.”
I’m not sure if it’s my overactive imagination or not, but his gaze seems to intensify as he says that. The delicate skin at the back of my neck starts to prickle. I’m both nervous and at ease all at once.
“Violet is a beautiful name, by the way,” he says, offering me an easy smile. “Are you named after anyone?”
I shrug, managing to break my eyes away from his, and start stirring the ice cubes around in the glass with my straw. “No. I asked my mom once why she named me that and she said she liked the color. Though I’ve actually never seen her wear it. I guess it’s better than being named after Violet Beauregard.”
“From Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?”
“Yup.”
“I prefer the Gene Wilder version,” he says.
“Me too,” I say excitedly. “Depp was too…pretty for the role. Too calculated, you know? Gene’s Willy Wonka was like a natural extension of himself.”
“So you know film as well as photography.”
“Films are just moving pictures,” I point out.
“True,” he says, running his hand along his sharp jawline, the dark stubble of his beard brushing against his fingers. “I had an aunt named Violetta.”
“Sounds so much prettier in Spanish,” I comment.
“Yes,” he says, looking away. I can almost feel his heart growing heavy. “Too bad I never had a chance to know her. She died before I was born.”
“Oh no,” I say softly. And, of course, because I’m a dick, the next word out of my mouth is, “How?”
“Car bomb,” he says matter-of-factly, not even trying to keep his voice down, which draws a look of concern from the bartender.
My eyebrows lift. “A car bomb?” I manage to keep my voice in a hush.
He nods. “It was a mistake. It wasn’t meant for her.”
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, even though I know my words aren’t enough. I can feel his pain, and my words can’t soften it.
“That’s okay,” he tells me, giving me a small smile. “Life can be rough down south. It’s one of the reasons my parents moved to America long before I was born.”
“You still have a bit of an accent though,” I point out.
He grins at me, letting out a sheepish laugh that I feel deep inside. “I know. I’ve tried to hide it but why pretend to be someone else other than Vicente Cortez, you know? Actually, my parents opened a business outside of Sacramento and that’s where I was born. When I was five, my parents sold part of it and we moved back to Mexico. My mother missed her family. Family, blood, is everything.”
I nod, even though the phrase makes me pause. Family, blood, should be everything, but in the case of my family, it’s not.
Lately I’m not even sure who my family is.
“Anyway,” he says, bringing me back out of my head. “I went to university in Mexico City, took a bullshit degree in business, which, at least got me to invest in a lot of the right stocks. But now I’m following my passion. I wanted to explore the city by the bay, close to where I was born. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a city so photogenic.” I’m about to open my mouth to agree when he adds, “And I’ve never seen a girl outshine it. Until I saw you today.”
My cheeks turn red and the back of my neck is hot. I nervously pull my hair off to the side, trying to cope with the compliment. “Oh, come on,” is all I can say.
“I’m serious,” he says, and he sounds serious, looks serious. “You must be the subject of everyone in your class.”
I let out an awkward laugh. “Yeah right. Are you kidding me?”
“I never joke about beauty,” he says solemnly. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
Holy shit. I feel that one in my bones. Warm, liquid honey that spreads to my heart.
“You act like you don’t hear that all the time,” he continues, his knee brushing against mine as he leans in closer. I stare into his eyes, counting the threads of mahogany and yellow streaking through the golden brown.
I swallow hard and immediately busy myself with the drink, sucking in more than I mean to. The horseradish and hot sauce burn my throat and chest.
Ah shit.
My face grows hotter, redder, until I can’t hold it back anymore and I start coughing uncontrollably.
Just fucking great.
He reaches over and pats me lightly on the back, ordering water from the bartender, and I can’t even enjoy his touch—both soft and hot—because I’m too busy dying.
Finally, I’m able to get my breathing under control. Thankfully it’s only then that he asks me if I’m all right. There’s nothing worse than trying to answer when your throat and lungs are on fire.
“I’m fine,” I tell him meekly, finishing the rest of the water.
He raises a brow as if to say, Are you?
“Really,” I tell him, hoping not to make a big deal out of this.
“I’m sorry my words have this reaction with you. I have to say, I kind of like it.”
I look at him as if he’s nuts. He might be.
He raises his palm as way of explanation. “You almost choking on your drink brought your intimidation factor down just a bit.”
“Intimidation factor?”
“You think it’s easy talking to the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen?”
A slow smile spreads across my face. I shake my head. “I don’t know. Something tells me most things are easy for you.”
“Is that so?”
I shrug. “Just a hunch.”
He watches me intently for a moment. “Maybe you’re right. Then again, things worth having often come easily.”
That’s not really how the saying goes, so my dirty mind wants to turn that last bit into innuendo. And as he’s licking the edge of his glass again, a devious glint in his eyes, I realize that’s one hundred percent what he meant.
Then, suddenly, he startles on his stool and pulls out his phone, quickly glancing at it. “Well, I hate to love you and leave you, Violet…”
“McQueen,” I say softly, strangely bereft and almost hurt that he’s going. “It’s Violet McQueen.”
“Violet McQueen,” he says. “Name fit for royalty.” He swings his long legs off the stool and stands up, picking up his camera bag from the back of his chair. “I have to run.”
I want to ask why. I want to know what he’s doing and if I can go too.
But I don’t. Because I don’t know him other than he�
�s a gorgeous man who bought me a drink. And it sounds like this is where this tale will end.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Thank you for the drink. I hope everything works out with your classes.” I give him a stiff smile.
Something softens in his eyes, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “The classes? Who knows. But everything will work out now that I know you.” I frown at that. “When are you done tomorrow?”
“Uh, I just have a morning class. It’s over at eleven.” My heart is picking up the pace, running away with the thought that this isn’t it.
“Perfect. I’ll meet you here tomorrow. We can have a drink, or not. We can have coffee, or not. But I want you ready to work.”
“Work?”
He pats his camera bag. “Photos. If I can’t learn from the school, I’ll learn from you.”
Is he kidding me? “But I…I don’t know anything, really. I mean—”
“Violet,” he says quickly, leaning in so he’s whispering in my ear, hot breath that eats me up inside. “You’re everything I want, I need, to know.”
My eyes flutter closed for that moment, entranced by his voice, his smell, his words.
Then he kisses me lightly, so lightly, on the cheekbone. Butterfly wings of a kiss.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
And then he’s gone. His presence is like a warm storm that’s passed over the land, leaving quiet and destruction in its wake.
I start to tip on the stool and my eyes open, one hand flying to the counter to steady myself. I look to find Vicente but he’s gone out of the bar.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.
What the hell just happened?
None of that could have been real. I mean, none of it.
I blink, trying to get my bearings, slowly facing the bar.
The bartender is looking at me in amusement.
“First date?” he asks as he grabs Vicente’s half-empty glass. He didn’t even finish his drink.
“I don’t know what that was,” I admit, rubbing my lips together, bewildered.
“He’s pretty smooth, gotta give him that. And he knows his vodka,” the bartender says. “Can’t say it’s not a way to my heart, if not yours.”
I let out a soft laugh. One minute I was grabbing my scarf and preparing to head home, the next I’m having a drink with some sexy ass Mexican man, the same man I’m supposed to teach photography to tomorrow. I mean, what the fuck is that? No kidding, the guy is fucking smooth. I don’t even know how he managed to get me to go along with that.
Because of those eyes, I remind myself, swallowing hard. And those lips. And that tongue. And because you’re a dirty little bird who hasn’t gotten laid in a long time.
I finish up the Bloody Mary, tipping the bartender even though I know Vicente already did, and start heading back home to try and make sense of it all.
I can’t keep the smile off my face.
Chapter Six
Vicente
It was a risk.
Everything.
But I was born to make them. Without risks, there is no progress. And I can’t forget the reason I’m here.
Ellie McQueen.
But I never thought I’d get to know someone like Violet.
It makes the most sense.
Go through the daughter to get to the mother.
I just have to figure out how to play the daughter just right.
I was able to get a feel for her by observing her in that café. And I was surprised by how close my predictions were.
There’s an acute softness about her, hiding underneath a thin plate of armor. With her dark hair and eyes, her boots, her leather jacket, down to her defensive stare, she only plays the part of being hard and untouchable. The reality, I believe, is much softer. Not just vulnerable, but volatile, too. A contradiction. Underneath the thickest shield runs liquid fine lava, burning hotter than the surface would ever let you believe.
I was half-kidding about joining the school. I do consider myself to be pretty good at photography, though it’s no passion of mine, and I would have been able to fake my way in if my money would have bought me late admission. I had to try and I had to let Violet know who she was dealing with.
She had to know I have money.
She had to know I was willing to do it all for the passion.
That money was worth the arts she held so dear.
And then I took another risk, and I left.
I didn’t know if she would follow me or not. I could have walked down that street all the way to Market, and I would have left our meeting in the school just like that. A huge risk considering I still wanted to get close to her mother. I’m not sure how accepting the McQueens are of coincidences. The Bernals sure aren’t.
Yet she ran after me. She needed to know more. And my leaving showed her I was the real deal, that I was only after the school and I wasn’t interested in her. I could tell from the moment she saw me, even though she liked what she saw, that she was on the defensive.
The drink was a nice touch. I honestly didn’t think she’d go for it. And I didn’t think she’d have a fake ID either, but I guess when your mother is a con artist, that sort of shit runs in the family.
Then again, I have to wonder how much she knows about her family. She could know it all. She could know nothing. She seemed generally surprised to hear that a car bomb had killed my aunt.
The very aunt she’s named after.
Violetta and her mother knew each other.
That’s something she doesn’t know.
Tomorrow I will figure out where she stands among the branches of her family tree.
What I do know is that I have to keep my head on straight for this to work.
I wasn’t lying when I told her she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
To stare at her from afar is one thing.
To see her up close is another.
I’ve never really felt possessive over a woman before. I’ve had my fun, I’ve moved on. But after just having a drink with Violet, watching her expressive dark eyes trying to take me in, to make sense of me, opening herself just enough, I was hit with this raw, hot need to make her mine. To have. To hold. To possess.
But possession is a by-product, not an objective.
I have to be smart for now.
I have work to do.
After I pretended I had to go and headed back to my hotel, I go online and book one of the best rooms in the city, a 1,500 square foot suite in the Intercontinental Mark Hopkins Hotel. Not the most lavish hotel to choose from but definitely the one with the nicest views.
At over $2,000 a night I have no choice but to pay for it with the unlimited credit card that my father gave me. It’s a risk to use it—it will signal to him where I am and if he’s following closely, I’m sure it will cause him to send someone out to get me—but it’s necessary.
Violet seems to impress easily. This is where I’ve got to play my cards right.
Let’s see what kind of hand I have.
The next day I quickly browse the local headlines. Nacho and Tio’s bodies were discovered by joggers the morning after I left them and the case still has no witnesses. There’s also no information on their identity, not that it would make much difference. As long as I’m not identified—and I won’t be—the homicide will disappear. Just a pair of paperless Mexicans swept under the rug.
I check in to the Intercontinental early, with just enough time to do a quick sweep of the room. Hardwood floors, velvet drapes, three rooms, and a fucking huge bathroom. The whole suite takes up a corner of the building and it’s right below the Top of the Mark restaurant. The views from the floor-to-ceiling windows are incredible. Even in the persistent fog, the sharp top of the Transamerica building piercing through the mist like a needle, the city beckons like a sorceress, a spell under your skin.
I head out into the grey and down the slope of Powell Street, the cable cars chiming their way up the hill, tourists hanging on with big smiles on
their faces. For a moment I’m envious of their joy, so simple and unfounded in nothing but novelty and freedom.
I push it aside, down, out, away, just as I did when I read about Tio and Nacho this morning, and stay on my path. Violet shines in my mind like a prize, a carefully wrapped gift under a tree.
Instead of going into the bar like last time, I hover around outside of it, lazily smoking a cigarette, waiting. The nicotine is an axe to my nerves, cleaving off the rough ends.
She’s a few minutes late when I see her and the other students exiting the building. She’s talking to one guy, smiling at whatever he’s saying, and though the exchange is brief, it causes my blood to pulse hot with jealousy.
Get a fucking grip, I think to myself, flicking the cigarette away.
She spots me just before she crosses the street, her face breaking into a cautious smile. She’s nervous, she’s shy. It reminds me to treat her with kid gloves, to never assume anything.
She’s got her black leather jacket on, a teal scarf, black jeans, and a blue plaid top that hangs down to mid-thigh. What a damn fucking shame, I think, because that means it’s covering her ass.
“Hi,” she says, stopping on the curb a few feet in front of me. A safe distance. But then she smiles again, showing the slightest gap between her two front teeth. Fucking adorable.
Her hair is loose and dark, like blackbirds taking flight as she swings it over her shoulders. Her cheeks are flushed pink. I like to think it’s because of the sight of me and not because she wore blush this morning. That said, if she wore blush this morning instead of other mornings, that could be because of me too. Her lips have a subtle red shine to them. Perhaps she’s trying to impress me as I am her, of course for very different reasons.
“Violet McQueen,” I say with a nod. “I was worried for a moment that you might stand me up.”
She laughs nervously, which means she thought about it. I’ll have to tread even more carefully.
“So where to?” I add so she doesn’t have to defend it. “It’s your city.”
“Um,” she says, toying with a few strands of hair, looking around her. “Well, what have you seen? I don’t have a car so I’m not sure how far I can take you.”