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.