Black Hearts

  And then I see her.

  She walks out the door talking to a friend with blonde and blue hair. But other than the color of her hair, I pay her no mind. Violet captures all my attention.

  She’s beautiful in a dramatic, romantic way. Her face could inspire gothic novels from long ago. If Helen of Troy’s face could launch a thousand ships, Violet McQueen’s face could launch a thousand stories, all filled with lust, heartache, and death.

  Her hair is long and dark, shiny like blackbird wings. Her skin is pale, soft, and free of makeup except on her eyes, where her lashes and lids are dark with mystery. She’s a little on the short side, slim in a black leather jacket and a tight, stretchy grey dress that drops down to her combat boots. Her thighs are superhero strong, and her ass is large, tight, and fucking unbelievable.

  She and her friend head across the street and I start to follow, watching as they head into another café.

  I want to see her up close.

  I cross the street, moving between students, businessmen, and vagrants, until I’m entering the bustling establishment. I immediately head to a table in the corner, grabbing a seat then scanning the room.

  Violet is at the counter, ordering a drink. While her friend is chattering loudly to the barista, seeming to command all the attention to her, Violet stays silent, offering a polite nod and a shy smile now and then. But she’s not really listening. She’s staring off into space and I can see the wheels turning in her head. Sometimes such a stark expression comes across her brow that I have to wonder what exactly she’s thinking of.

  They end up sitting at a table by the window, which is perfect—I can observe her without blatantly staring. There’s a steady stream of people and traffic on the other side of the glass that’s capturing everyone’s eyes, Violet included.

  You can learn almost anything about a person by watching them. It was one of the first things my father taught me. He is uncannily good at predicting people. For all his explosiveness and temper, there’s a feral calm about him, like a giant cat waiting with endless patience for the mouse to appear.

  Watching Violet for even ten minutes tells me many things.

  For starters, she gets distracted—her attention is everywhere except on her friend, and a few times she has lapsed into some deep thinking that has her brow furrowing like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.

  She fidgets. When she’s not picking at the cardboard sleeve of her coffee cup, she’s putting her hair back into a braid, then pulling it out a few minutes later.

  She gets uncomfortable easily. The café starts to fill up with more people and a loud group of guys sits down at the table next to them, which in turn causes her posture to become stiff, her lip to snarl, her chair to move further away.

  It’s not a lot but it’s enough to go on, enough information to let me adjust how to deal with her.

  The thing is, I’m here because I’m curious. Getting closer to Violet was never part of the plan. But now that I’m staring at her, I’m wondering what her skin feels like, if I could be able to hold her wandering attention and calm her agitated heart.

  I wonder what my father would say if he knew I was looking at her.

  I wonder what he would say if I brought her home and gave her to him.

  Would he respect me more?

  I push the thoughts out of my head. For now.

  When she leaves the café, I should watch her go and let her be. Focus on Ellie, her mother, my father’s once lover, the reason I came here.

  But when Violet and her friend get up to leave, I wait a few beats and then I get up too. I watch them part ways outside, giving each other quick hugs before they go in opposite directions.

  Violet is heading across the street, back to the school.

  Without thinking, I trail her through the crowds like the wake behind a ship, the rapidly moving mist wrapping around her legs like exhaust.

  She disappears back inside the photography building.

  I stand in the fog and wait.

  Chapter Five

  Violet

  Please, please let it be here, I think to myself as I hurry up the steps to the classroom. Luckily Anderson, my teacher, is still inside and at his desk, staring at his computer.

  I quickly knock on the door and gesture through the glass at my seat while he waves me in.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I tell him as I make my way over to the desk. “I left my scarf.”

  “No problem,” he says. “I was just wrapping stuff up.”

  I let out a huge sigh of relief when I spot it and quickly wrap it around my neck. It’s not like I have a shortage of scarves, but I always feel so horrible when I lose something. It seriously haunts me for days.

  “Getting cold out?” he says, squinting through his glasses at the windows. “Haven’t seen fog for a few days down here.”

  “Try living in Haight,” I tell him.

  “I live in Outer Sunset, so I know what you mean.”

  I really like my teacher, but this is the first time I’ve been alone with him and for some reason that makes me nervous. I don’t know why—he’s super approachable, friendly, and young too, in his early thirties, maybe. I guess it’s just kind of awkward and all I really want is to get out of here before I get sucked into small talk. Not that I have anywhere in particular to go.

  Fortunately, I’m able to get out of there and leave Anderson in peace. I head back out of the building and into the fog, which is thicker than gravy now, sticking to the tops of the houses.

  A shiver runs through me and I tuck the scarf in tighter as I zip up the top of my leather jacket.

  “Excuse me?”

  I jump slightly and whirl around to see a man leaning against the building, staring at me with a hesitant smile.

  Normally I don’t give strange men the time of day (maybe another reason why I’m single) but I’d seen this guy before, just earlier when I was in the café with Ginny. I could have sworn he was looking at me then but figured it was in my head.

  And what a damn fucking shame that would be, because now that I’m closer to him, he’s the type of guy a girl could have endless wet dreams about.

  Tall. At least six feet.

  Lean but packed with muscle, the kind that looks effortless, as if he’s got good genes and gets his rounded shoulders, wide chest, big biceps and forearms from manual labor. Even in his thermal Henley shirt—mustard yellow, a surprising color—his muscles are taut underneath the material.

  Then there’s his skin color. A gorgeous tawny gold, the perfect summer bronze that sets off his dark hair and the low set of arched brows that frame his face.

  God, I hope all of that took two seconds to observe and I haven’t been gawking at him like a fool. I immediately feel my cheeks start to go hot, my palms sweaty.

  This is not like me at all.

  I clear my throat. “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you. I just had a question. You’re in photography, right?” He nods his head to the door of the building. It’s then that I notice the sweet photography bag with him. It’s a brand I wanted to get, only I didn’t have the money. “Do you know if they’re still accepting students?”

  His shy smile gets wider and he straightens up off the wall.

  Those teeth. That face.

  I can’t place his age but he seems both young and wise at the same time, his eyes shining with years of experience and a strange naivety. They’re the color of amber—rich, glowing, and clear all at once. I feel like if I peered at him close enough I might see ancient life preserved inside of them.

  I blink a few times, remembering how to speak. “You mean Anderson’s class?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’m here scoping out the schools in the area.” His accent is American with a Hispanic lilt that makes me think he hasn’t lived here all his life. His voice is smooth and rich and seems to fill every part of me. “I know it’s late in the semester, but…it would mean everything if I could get in.”

  I have a million q
uestions for this guy, and yet when my mouth opens, I say, “I saw you earlier. In the coffee shop.”

  He looks momentarily startled before his brow smooths. “You’re very observant.”

  I shrug. “You have to be if you’re a photographer.”

  “Touché,” he says. “So, did you like what you saw?”

  My eyes widen. “What?”

  “When you were looking at me. Did you like what you saw?”

  Okay, a little bit forward. I normally would back off but there’s something keeping me in my place, preventing me from walking away, and it’s not that he’s giving me a smirk that’s just innocent enough to let him off the hook.

  It reminds me of an old lyric.

  Everyone told me love was blind. Then I saw your face and you blew my mind.

  Maybe not the deepest lyric but I’m certainly humming it now.

  “I’m just joking,” he says lightly.

  “Oh,” I say, wishing I didn’t sound so stupid. I fumble for the right words to say. Anything really. “I could introduce you.”

  He raises a brow, seeming as surprised as I am at this new development. “To your teacher. Are you sure?”

  “Why not?” I try and sound breezy but the moment I turn around and open the door to head back into the building, my eyes are wide and I’m mouthing, Oh my god, what are you doing? to myself.

  Suffice it to say, the climb up the stairs is pretty awkward and I curse myself for wearing my curve-hugging dress, knowing my ass is totally shoved in his face.

  I give the guy an anxious smile as I knock on Anderson’s door for the second time since class had finished.

  “Forget something else?” Anderson asks when I open the door.

  “Actually, no. This guy had a question for you about the program. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I step inside the room while the golden god of a guy saunters right over to Anderson, his hand outstretched. “Vicente. Vicente Cortez,” he says to him.

  I’m struck by how much I love that name. I’m also struck by the feeling that I should probably go on my way now since my job is done—I introduced Vicente to Anderson and that’s that. Yet I hover by the row of desks, watching them.

  “So sorry to just walk in like this,” Vicente continues, “this girl was kind enough to let me introduce myself.”

  “Not a problem,” Anderson says, pushing his glasses up on his nose and crossing his arms. “How can I help you?”

  “Well,” Vicente says, “I’m in San Francisco for a year or so and have been thinking about getting serious about my photography, and figured now is as great a time as any. Only I realize classes started earlier this month.”

  “They did.” Anderson briefly glances at me. “And I’m teaching second year students like Violet who have already done their first.”

  “Violet,” Vicente repeats, looking at me as he learns my name. The sound of it on his lips sends a cascade of warmth down my spine. I swallow hard, wishing he wasn’t having this kind of reaction on me.

  “We could maybe get you into the first year, but even so,” Anderson says, taking Vicente’s attention away from me, “I’m not sure if any students have dropped out to fit you in.”

  “And what about this year? Anyone drop out?” Vicente is just as bold with Anderson as he was with me.

  Anderson gives him a discerning look. “We did. Last week. Do you have any transfer papers from another school or…?”

  “Do the papers matter or does money matter?”

  Anderson lets out a nervous laugh. “I assure you they both do. This school has very high standards and, Mr. Cortez, though you might be very capable, I’m not sure this is going to work out. You must understand.”

  For some reason I expect Vicente to make a fuss and demand they take him, maybe toss a wad of cash on the desk, but of course he doesn’t. “I understand completely,” he says. “Thank you so much for your time. Have a good day.”

  He heads back toward the door and his eyes meet mine as he passes. “Thank you, Violet,” he says, and I have a hard time tearing my gaze from his. It’s like he’s trying to pass me information in a language I’m dying to read. I can feel the disappointment rolling off of him, which in turn makes me disappointed too.

  I watch as he strides past, getting a whiff of his scent, something like mint and rich tobacco, strangely soothing, and then he’s out the door.

  I look back at Anderson who gives me a shrug. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much I can do. I’ll mention it to the head of the department, just in case. There’s a lot to be said for planning ahead. You can’t throw money at everything and expect doors to open.”

  I’m barely listening to him. My feet have a mind of their own. Suddenly I’m out the door and flying down the stairs, my boots echoing in the stairwell, and bursting out onto the street.

  I look up and down the sidewalk until I spot Vicente already across the road and heading down Taylor. Damn, the guy moves fast.

  I run down and across the crosswalk, hitting the light just in time, and then I’m right behind him and slightly out of breath. This makes me realize I need to start kickboxing more regularly.

  “Vicente,” I call out, even though I’m seconds from slamming into his back.

  He turns around and I dig my boots into the sidewalk. His brows are raised, wondering what I’m doing.

  What am I doing? He asked me a question, I gave him the best answer I had, and that’s all it should have been. Yet I couldn’t let that be it.

  I barely know this guy and I think he’s already making me a bit mental. Well, more so than I already am.

  “Sorry about Anderson,” I tell him, looping my thumb under the strap of my camera bag. “It was worth a shot, right?”

  He nods, looking away, his golden eyes taking in the street. “It was.” He brings his gaze back to mine. “Thank you again. That was very kind of you. Some things just aren’t meant to be.”

  “Maybe because other things are waiting around the corner?” I ask lamely.

  He grins at me, white teeth against bronzed skin. I feel myself melt.

  “Or maybe good things are waiting right in front of me,” he says.

  Oh god. Forward again. But instead of it scaring me, I embrace it. I hold my ground. I refuse to feel awkward.

  “Maybe,” I tell him, wishing I had the nerve to say more.

  Something in his eyes change. They become more focused, but with fire. Like there’s some sort of tiger deep inside, starting to roar.

  It scares me. It excites me.

  And I’m still not moving.

  “Did you want to get a cup of coffee?” he asks. “I know you just had one and might not want another…”

  I can’t help but grin. He’s asking me out. Even if it’s just for coffee, that’s still something. “I drink decaf so it’s never a problem,” I admit.

  “Unless you want a real drink?” he says, his eyes going to the bar across the street. “Are you twenty-one?”

  “No, but my fake ID says I am.”

  His mouth quirks up into a sly smile. He’s got beautiful lips. I wonder what he tastes like.

  “I like you already,” he says.

  A thrill shoots through me, hot and fast, and I try to keep my smile under control.

  “Is that a good place?” he asks, gesturing to the bar. “I’m afraid I don’t know the city well yet.”

  I wish I knew most of the bars downtown, but I tend to stick to my neighborhood. Still, I know this bar is pretty casual.

  Considering it’s the afternoon, there’s a surprising amount of people inside, but then I realize it’s part of the hotel above it. I’m not a fan of crowds, but the noise level is pretty low and the music is mellow jazz. We manage to get two seats at the end of the bar, which is both distancing in the fact that you share your conversation with the bartender, plus it’s not as easy to look into each other’s eyes, and also intimate because you have to sit right beside the person.

  I’m not sure what
I like better, but Vicente’s fresh yet smoky scent is making the distance between us feel even closer. It doesn’t help that when I take my seat, my knee rubs against his.

  “What will you have?” he asks. “Order one drink, order several. Get the most expensive thing you can think of. It’s on me.”

  Hmmm. Maybe he wasn’t joking when he mentioned money to Anderson. I know my program isn’t cheap, I’m just really lucky my parents are able to pay for it.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  He nods. “What would you like?”

  Well, considering it’s two in the afternoon… “A Bloody Mary.” I pause. “With Grey Goose.” I might be pressing my luck, but hey, he said he was buying. I usually have it with the cheapest vodka there is (Smirnoff, which I hate, but that’s student life).

  “Do you like Grey Goose or are you just picking that because it’s expensive?” he asks thoughtfully. “No offense, of course. I just think there are better vodkas.”

  Normally I can’t help but take offense, but I can tell he’s just being honest.

  “You pick,” I tell him. “I trust you.”

  He bites his lip at that, as if my trust was what he wanted all along. I don’t even know why I said that, it’s not like I know a thing about this guy. Other than his name and a yearning for photography, he’s a stranger.

  Tiny warning bells go off in the back of my head, reminding me of exactly this. He’s a stranger. Just because he’s got a pretty face and his forearms are laced with muscle doesn’t mean I should let my guard down. I mean, the fact that I’m here at a bar with him is already pretty fucked up in the world of Violet McQueen, who never lets her guard down with anyone.

  So while Vicente orders us two Bloody Marys with some foreign sounding vodka I’ve never heard of, I watch the process closely to make sure that the bartender doesn’t slip anything in there (I’m not sure how or why, unless this was all carefully orchestrated, but of course that’s my paranoia talking) and then keep my drink to myself the moment the bartender slides it into my hand.