Page 18 of Violet

It would probably flop.

As the sky darkens and the lights outside come on, a girl darts between cars, narrowly missing being squashed.

I don’t know why, but she piques my interest. Maybeit’s the fluid and graceful way she runs, the gym bag bouncing on a tight ass in tracksuit pants cut off at the ankle, and thick-soled sneakers that she somehow moves in like they’re heels.

She’s got a hoodie on, so I can’t see her face. And she disappears down an alley, one that has a mix of buildings, mostly industrial, and a highly illegal brothel for the discerning mated man who requires discretion.

Is she…?

I find myself having another drink as I wait to see if she comes out, and then a third.

Fuck. A hooker.

I don’t blame a girl for making a living, but…she’d moved like she came from society.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll visit and see.

Not to fuck her, obviously, but to see if she’s a whore?—

What the hell am I thinking?

The soon-to-be disgraced and rakish heart-breaker Asher St. James caught in a brothel?

No fucking thank you.

Of course, Clea decides to text me at that exact moment, and I read the update‚ which is all about Felicity’s movements this week. I really don’t care, as long as none of my real secrets come out.

I send Clea a thumbs up emoji, then slide my phone into my jeans pocket and grab my light overcoat. It might be entering summer on Sabine, but summer nights on the upper side are cooler—and I want to go visit the beach like I used to.

“Stephan, you ass,” I mutter as I drop a twenty on the table for a tip.

I take the long way, following the boardwalk as it weaves wide around the beachfront to where it meets the parks, and then up further to where the boathouses are.

I find an empty one and sit on the bench in there and watch the water.

“Hey,” I say to the dark-blue water, clearer than the murk that flows closer to the shore. “I’d say long time, but it hasn’t been.”

I chuckle, then stop.

Footsteps.

I breathe in deep, trying to discover who it is. My nose is hit with a void of scent, the kind only possible by a fairly strong scent-blocking perfume. Omega. Has to be. Any other type doesn’t need to work so hard to mask their personal scent. And how do I know it’s a female? The light, dainty footfalls give her away.

Then, I get a sudden burst of something as the footsteps come close. Faint gardens…no, a flower of some sort. Just a tinge on the breeze?—

A shadow falls across the boards, courtesy of the rising moon and the setting sun. And she appears, just as the promenade lights come on.

Long dark hair in a ponytail, damp, and her cheeks are pink. She’s pretty—very, very pretty. Naturally so. Without any makeup or artificial enhancements that I’m used to the women having in Emporia. I can’t tell the color of her eyes, but I read the shock, and I wait for recognition of who I am to flare in her eyes.

It doesn’t.

“Sorry,” she says, “I thought I was alone.” She looks at me uncertainly. “I’ll go.”

“You can stay. I don’t bite.”

The girl hesitates, then runs a hand over her hair, opens her bag, and pulls on a hoodie.

It’s the girl from the Lower Side. I knew it the moment she stepped into the light. My heart lurches. Probably because she’s unexpected.

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