Chapter 3 Inquiries
"What?" She almost laughed, but stopped herself. She didn't want to provoke him.
"Can't stay here, can we? And you look like you could use something stronger than coffee anyway."
Read my mind…
"Yes." She cleared her throat. "As a matter of fact I do like jazz."
She was rewarded with the most beautiful smile. This time it reached his eyes and his whole face transformed. The fine lines around his eyes turned into wrinkles from a life of laughter. She couldn't believe what she saw. Suddenly, a good memory came back, and with it the long forgotten butterflies in her stomach.
-
She'd been nine and he'd been seventeen, one year older than her brother, and they'd both adored him. This was the second time he'd lived with the Parsons, two houses down from theirs.
First time around had been two years earlier. He had been more of a child then. They'd been building secret tree houses in the woods, playing hide and seek and carving messages into the trees. Vincent had shown them how to catch rabbits and, to her despair… how to kill them. They'd had one everlasting summer of fun before school had started that fall, and he'd gone back to his family again; at least that was what she'd known at the time. Later she'd learned it had been only him and his father. At fifteen his face had been full of acne and he'd been shy and a bit clumsy.
When he'd come back at seventeen, he'd been devastatingly handsome and had transformed into a man, a much darker version of his previous self; his appearance less playful, but more intense, and exciting. And Sarah had fallen hopelessly in love.
He'd been kind with her and given her sweets on occasions. Sometimes he would lift her up and tickle her, and she would get feelings she hadn't yet had the vocabulary to describe. Most of the time though, he and Simon would disappear and be gone for hours and hours. Sometimes they hadn't come back until the next morning.
She hadn't known what they'd been doing, but judging from her parents' reactions, it couldn't be good. And oh, how she wished she had been older and accepted as one of them.
One night, she'd awoken to the sound of their voices in the garden. In her pajamas, she'd climbed out her window, over the roof and down along the fire escape. The last few feet however, had no steps and she hadn't dared to jump. Vincent had discovered her, and instead of getting angry with her for sneaking up on them, he'd taken her in his arms and lifted her to the ground. She'd already been shivering from the cold night air, so he'd offered her his leather jacket, pilot style, and wrapped it tightly around her. Sarah had been sitting there in the night, with her legs pulled up underneath her, surrounded by the warm scent of Vincent. She'd tried to listen to what they were talking about, but the late night hour soon caught the better of her, and she'd fallen asleep, trustingly leaning against his shoulder.
A year later he'd turned eighteen, and had been gone, just as suddenly as he had appeared in their lives. She'd never seen him again.
Until tonight.
-
"I know a good place a few blocks from here. We can even walk there. But Sarah…" He turned serious again, "Don't pull any stunts. Don't try to get away, and don't attract anybody's attention. Not out in the street and not in the club. I'm sure you don't want innocent people's lives on your conscience."
Once more, her heart sank and turned into a lump of granite. Would this rollercoaster of pain never end? Just as she thought they were on friendly terms, he again transformed into the cold killer.
With her face blank, she nodded obediently. "I won't."
Vincent looked around the room, at the fallen chairs and table, the shattered glass and the coffee on the floor, then over at the holes in the kitchen door. "We need to clean this place up before we leave. Can't leave it like this. There will be people here tomorrow again, right?"
I'll be here tomorrow, to open it up. Or won't I, Vincent?
She blinked rapidly, trying not to show the tears that threatened to form in her eyes. "Yes," she said numbly.
"Start with this room. I'll take care of the door."
While Sarah mopped the floor and restored the order in the small café, Vincent unhinged the heavy door to the kitchen and placed it next to the front door. After they were done, he inspected their work. Sarah looked around too; apart from the missing kitchen door, there was no trace of the horror, the fighting, and the tears. It looked just like any other night after closing time.
Deceptively normal.
They left and Sarah locked up. Vincent carried the damaged door with him, and dumped it in a trash bin in a nearby alley.
It was bliss to be out in the fresh air. She couldn't get enough of the freedom. She didn't think she could ever set foot in the coffee shop again. The feeling only lasted for a couple of minutes though; then Vincent put his arm around her waist.
"Relax," he whispered in her ear. "Behave, and you'll be fine."
"Liar," she whispered to herself. She hadn't intended it to be heard, but he chuckled low at her response.
"You think I am, little Sarah?"
"I'm not little!"
He squeezed her waist harder. "No, you aren't, are you?"
His grip made her skin tingle and her breath hitch in her chest; she didn't want to feel that! She didn't want to remember the young Vincent, the man she'd had such a hopeless crush on when she was a mere child. This wasn't him! And she sure wasn't that girl any more! Still, he smelled the same, sounded the same, and she could even sense a hint of that dry humor of his.
Sarah licked her lips and tried to get a grip. Here she was, walking to some jazz club with a man she didn't know any longer… a man who had threatened her with a gun less than an hour ago. This is not good! Who is he and what does he want with me? Why did he come to kill me to begin with?
"Vincent-" She hesitated. "Why did you come to the coffee shop?"
"You know why."
She shook her head repeatedly. "No! I don't! I haven't done anything to you, or to anyone else. Why do you want me dead? Surely there must be a mistake?"
"Don't want you dead'"
"Who does then?" She had raised her voice in frustration.
"Keep your voice down, Sarah," Vincent replied coolly.
"Who does?" she moaned. She was losing it. They were out on the street, a boulevard, with people, trees, and cars. Still she felt trapped, as if she was still caught in that small kitchen space with him towering her.
"I never meet my clients and I never ask questions. Once the contract is on, it's unstoppable. Risk management."
"What?" she whined, "What are you, Vincent? What has become of you? Are you some kind of hitman?"
"You wanna call it that – sure. People pay me lots of money to get rid of their problems."
"Problems…" she whispered. "How did this happen? I remember you, you were so nice."
Vincent looked somewhat irritated. "I think your remembrance is colored by your emotions from that time."
Sarah felt like he had hit her. "What?!"
He looked at her with an unreadable expression on his face. His dark green eyes flashed. "As I recall, you blushed every time I got near, and you always seemed to be at my feet whenever I looked down."
She hated him at that moment. Hated how he, in a few words, had turned a beautiful memory into something filthy. Yanking, she tried to free herself from his grip, with the only result being that he held her tighter. His fingers dug deep and painfully in the skin of her waist. Their actions had made her blouse slide out of the lining of her skirt, and his fingers now burned into her bare skin.
"Don't!" he snarled, looking up and down the street. "We're almost there. Get yourself in order, you look like shit."
"Well, thank you very much," she sneered.
With unsteady hands, Sarah combed her fingers through her hair, and almost jumped out of her skin as Vincent tucked some strands of hair behind her ear. She gently rubbed underneath her eyes to remove possible residues of mascara and tucked her blouse back into the skirt.
When she was done, he looked her up and down, and then nodded approvingly.
Not until now had she bothered to think of where he had brought her. When she looked up, they stood in front of the "M.D". So, the bastard has good taste in clubs! She hadn't been here herself, but she had heard it was a real watering hole for jazz lovers. Great artists. All the East coast's greatest were supposed to have played there.
Vincent laid his hand on her lower back as they approached the doorman. She had a feeling the gesture was not only to be a gentleman, or appear to be one, it was a warning: I'm right here, don't mess up.
-
