Wishing Well(3)

Returning her caustic smile with a look that you would expect a lover to give in bed, Vincent relaxed his shoulders, unaffected by her anger. “Will you be there when I take my last breath? Will you escort me into the afterlife? I would love to look at you through the viewing glass.”

Refusing to answer, Meadow dropped the subject of her sister’s diary, choosing instead to begin his story at the beginning. “Let’s go back to the night you met Penny. Why did you approach her on the street? What value did she have to a man like you?”

Seconds passed before, “If you will take a seat, I’ll talk. A conversation should be had between people at equal comfort. And you, at the moment, appear to ready to take off.”

Knowing he wouldn’t begin until she sat, Meadow grudgingly took her seat.

“Thank you,” Vincent said, his fingers braiding together over the surface of the table. “If we are to begin on the night I met your sister, then I can tell you that you won’t be pleased with why I decided to take her under my wing. Romance is lost in those details.”

Staring, Meadow crossed her arms over her chest, knowing fully that the body language wouldn’t be lost on Vincent. His eyes darted to her arms and back to her face, a small smile stretching his lips. Ignoring her behavior, he fanned his fingers out to the sides. “As is true with many stories, mine starts with a conversation with a friend, and I must confess that the only interest I had in Penny, the only reason I approached her on that lonely, rain drenched street, was because of a bet.”

Eyes widening, fury coursed through Meadow’s veins. “A bet! My sister is dead because of a bet?”

Puckering his lips, Vincent tsked. “Perhaps this interview should end. You seem to have a problem already.”

“No,” she answered quickly. “I want to know.”

His lips stretched wide. “Then I’ll begin as any good story should begin.”

Vincent settled into his seat, his shackles rattling.

“Once upon a time, there was a dirty girl on the streets and the man who would make her his...”





CHAPTER TWO


Vincent


I’ve never loved America. The country was missing something, a certain joie de vivre was absent, the history lacking, the soul having been torn from a body of people who rushed about from place to place, never stopping to experience the moments of their day. On every sidewalk I watched them bustle, refusing to slow down, not even to eat. With bagel in hand, or some other portable lunch that tasted like cardboard or week old starch, they hurried. Occasionally I’d call out Bonne Appétit , a Frenchman’s pointed admonishment of those who couldn’t even slow down long enough to take pleasure from food.

It was never like this in Paris, and often I found myself staring out cafe windows longing for the city where I was raised, hating my father for dragging me to a country of cement and steel, of dying and leaving me tethered to the business he’d created in a foreign state.

Yet, here I was, staring out another random window, reclining in my seat as my friend and business acquaintance rattled on about some deal he’d made that afternoon. The sun had long ago set, the sky lit not by stars but by glittering lights dotting the tall buildings of the city skyline. Inside, the cafe smelled of coffee and baked goods, and outside I knew the stench of dank alleys and smog awaited me, its path winding between cars and sweaty bodies. There was nothing of interest here, not on this street, not outside the walls of The Wishing Well, the only hotel I owned that I had designed to remind me of home.

“Are you listening to me, Vincent? I’ve finished with my story and have been reciting nonsense for the last five minutes. Yet, you’ve said nothing.”

Barron laughed, his blond hair swept back and styled professionally, his grey eyes sharp despite the humor behind them. Even while relaxed, the man was a shark any intelligent person would fear. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, his hands folded around his ceramic mug. “Has something happened I should know and use against you later?”

The corners of my lips curled. “I’m bored of this city. Bored of these hotels and of these people.”

Suspicion arched his brow. “Even all the women you enjoy. You can’t be bored of them.”

A sigh rolled over my lips. “Even them. They’re all the same. Their personalities leave much to be desired, their bodies plastic and far too perfect. Not one of them holds my interest for long, and once I walk away, they screech and cry, begging me to give it another chance only so that they can cry even more when I introduce my desires into the mix.” Throwing out my hand, I brushed my frustration aside. “I haven’t found a woman yet that can endure me.”

Flippantly, Barron suggested, “Then make one.”

My brow crooked. “Should I fashion her from clay? A golem I’ll bring to life through some extraordinary power? You’re insane.”

“And you give up too easily.”

Setting aside his words to consider later, I watched a woman walk down the sidewalk, her hands tucked into the pockets of a tattered hoodie, her head ducked down, her shoulders rolled forward. Even in the cold, she wore jeans with holes in the knees, rain coming down harder as the minutes passed. Rather than moving inside like the rest of the crowd, she continued on, her face peering up so I could see the dirt that smudged her cheek. She’d be pretty if not so filthy, her youth shining through the grime.