I can imagine the carnage back at home. I feel bad—briefly—for my mother, who must be locking herself in her room to avoid my father’s rage. I’m not sure if he’ll be worried that something happened to me or livid that something happened to my bodyguards.
But I can’t dwell on it. I made my choice a while ago and knew it wouldn’t be easy. I spend the day getting my supplies.
When Monday rolls around, I’m restless. The bad kind, where your mind and limbs have their own agenda. It leads to impulsive decisions, running with anything but logic.
I want to see Violet. I know Ellie is number one on my list, but Violet seems safer somehow, and my curiosity over her is killing me, especially over the way Lloyd was acting.
But the first stop is the bank. I open up a savings account under Vicente Cortez, and deposit nine grand in cash, the safe and legal limit.
Afterward, I head back to the hotel to gather my photography bag, then head up the hills to find the daughter, cigarettes a constant fixture in my hand.
The Academy of Art University is spread out among several blocks at the top of Sutter, and through some digging, I manage to find the photography building.
This is where my restlessness will get me in trouble. If I had put any thought into it, I would have checked this place out before I got here. I would have scoped out the classes to see how easy it is to slip in. I would have figured out how to transfer in as a late student.
Now it’s too late. The building is small and there’s no place for me to blend in. When I make my way inside, down corridors of studios draped in sheets and surrounded by lights, I see a classroom with only about forty people, all staring at their computers as their teacher stands at the front, demonstrating something. My eyes take in the backs of their heads but there’s no time to figure out which one is Violet.
So much for that. I’ll have to think of something new.
I quickly leave the building and grab a seat outside at a café across the street. I sit and watch. I wait. I sneak a cigarette until the couple next to me looks ready to tell the management.
Forty minutes later, fog has rolled in like a silver snake and students are starting to leave the building. I observe each one carefully, searching for the elusive Violet.
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?