Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

I watch her swallow, take a moment. “Oh, you know. I’m too self-absorbed. Narcissistic. Pretentious. I live too much in my head, I’m too anti-social, too distant. I feel too much, care too much. My mother has always chided me for being too sensitive and then I was diagnosed with having hyper-sensitivity, so it turns out she was right. I am too sensitive. About everything. And there’s not a single thing I can do about it except know that when I experience reality, it’s not what everyone else experiences. For better or for worse.” She sighs. “Mainly for worse.”

I feel like this is something she doesn’t unload on many people. My instincts about her were right. She’s fragile but not weak, too much a part of the world and too much removed from it. A contradiction.

“I’m sorry,” she says, shooting me a glance. “I didn’t mean to blab away like that. I know you probably think I’m crazy now. Hell, I think I’m crazy half the time. I really wish I could just be like everyone else. To just…shut it all off.”

“You’re not crazy,” I tell her. “I’m just understanding you better.”

Her mouth quirks up into a dry smile. “I’m surprised you understand me at all. We’ve only just met.”

“True,” I tell her as I reach out and run my fingers along her jaw, tipping her chin up. “But I’m sure you of all people would know that sometimes you can connect with someone in ways you didn’t think you could. Or should.”

She barely nods, her eyes focused on mine, anticipation on her brow. I’m met with the overwhelming desire to protect and shield her which is extremely inconvenient, if not unwelcome, given the circumstances. One minute I need to fuck her, the next I need to protect her, and in the end, what I really need is to do the job I set out to do.

I abruptly drop my hand away from her chin and nod at the bridge. “Okay, so if you’re seeing something different, show me what it is.”

A flash of rejection moves across her brow but she quickly shakes it off and fishes her camera out of the bag. I ask her mundane questions as she sets up the shot, what’s her aperture, speed, things I know little about, and she answers with full confidence, like she’s teaching a class.

She spends about ten minutes getting all the photos she needs, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed as she works, completely immersed with no sign of being self-conscious. She’s in her zone. I’m not even there. I can watch her intensely, every little move and mannerism, and she doesn’t even notice.

When she’s done, she tells me to do the same, but I tell her I’m here to learn from her and that’s all. So we head back to the car and we snake up toward the bridge, parking at one of the lots.

“I’ve never walked across the bridge before,” she says as we sit in the car.

“Really?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been too afraid.”

“Fear of heights? Vertigo?”

“No…more like, I’ll fling myself off if given the chance.” She tries to look reassuring. “Don’t worry, I’m not suicidal. And I know I won’t do it. It’s just…I fear that I might.”

“Fear of losing control.”

“I guess. Fear of dying. Fear of those ten seconds as you fall, feeling everything too much for the last time. But you’ll hold on to me if anything happens…won’t you?”

I can only stare at her for a moment. So far she hasn’t ceased to fascinate me. “Of course I’ll hold you. The whole way.”

And even though I can’t remember the last time I held a girl’s hand—maybe my sister’s when we were young—when we get out of the car, I hold on to hers. Small, cold and slowly warming in my grasp.

It feels natural. Disturbingly so.

Heights don’t bother me in the slightest, but even then, the walk across the bridge is disorienting. Maybe it’s the amount of people who are walking, the long span of the bridge which is more up and down than you realize, the cars whizzing past, the fog that twists shapes and throws you off balance. Nevertheless, I stay between her and the tall fence that separates us from certain death.

We don’t say much to each other but her hand squeezes mine on and off. I can feel the waves of worry flow in and out of her, and at one point when a pedestrian bumps into her, my arm shoots around her waist, holding her tight. I don’t loosen, I don’t let go.

By the time we get to the other side and back, we’re both tired, her face ruddy from the cold mist, and I’m chilled to the bone. I’m not used to this weather. The steam of the tropics is much more preferable to the cold and damp.

“Where to next?” I ask her as we get in the car. Neither of us took a single picture on the bridge. We were too alive.

Her face seems to crumple before me. “I’m so sorry. I just realized that I should probably go home for dinner.” She pauses. “I’m just exhausted. I think I need to stay home and rest.”

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting her to agree to dinner anyway. It’s not like I even asked, I just demanded, and that doesn’t work out for me all the time.

Still, I ask, “Are you sure?”

She nods. “Yes, but how about tomorrow?” She says this quickly, as if I’ll change my mind. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be anywhere fancy or anything. I could cook you dinner, I make a mean spaghetti Bolognese, but my parents are…well, I mean I live with them so that might be kind of awkward.”

“I would love to meet your parents,” I tell her.

Her chin jerks inward. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Love to meet these interesting artists who raised such a talented daughter. But how about we save that for later this week? Tomorrow, I’ll take you out. Top of the Mark if you wish, or any place you choose.”

“No, that’s fine,” she says. “It would be fun to go somewhere nice. I’d love it.”

“All right. The least I can do is drive you home, then.”

Through all my research I’ve been unable to get the McQueen’s address, but I’m not surprised to find they live just a couple of blocks over from Sins & Needles in a narrow three-story row house that must cost well over a million dollars.

I glance at Violet as we pull up to the curb. How do you think your parents can afford this place? Through tattoos and fancy photographs?

She looks at the house anxiously as she opens the door. “Thanks for everything.”

I should follow her to the door, tell her I’m just looking out for her. I should insist on meeting her parents. I should drop the charade.

But I don’t drop anything. I’m becoming the charade.

I tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.

Then I drive off.





Chapter Seven





Javier





Sinaloa, Mexico