Violets & Violence (2 page)

The speakers came to life with the beating of a drum, but before the highly anticipated finale, the sheet fell limply over the two men on the ground.

The drumroll ceased.

Silence.

Violet had just disappeared.

Holy shit.

The men on the floor stood up, placed the plywood at their feet and, together with the four “side” volunteers, looked around the stage for Violet when—

Someone screamed a couple of rows behind me. It was the type of scream that scares people. Everyone turned around as the screaming woman ran away from her seat like it might be on fire, her husband laughing next to her. A few others around them gasped, screamed or laughed, all of them dealing with the “fear” in different ways, until Violet appeared from the floor like she had been folded underneath that theater chair the entire time. She stood up on the seat, throwing her arms out and taking a bow in the dead-silent Fisher Theater.

She threw her arms out. “This is where you all start breathing again and make some noise!” she shouted with that beautiful smile.

The theater cheered, the applause and whistles so loud it seemed Violet had singlehandedly won the World Cup, Super Bowl, World Series, whatever.

And she had.

In that moment, Violet had proved to me—and all of Detroit, it seemed—that the only thing she had ever known was how to win.

My favorite color: violet. My favorite flower: violet. My favorite girl: Violet.

While straddling me in the back seat of my Range Rover, Violet pressed her lips against mine. Hard. She liked everything that way,

including my dick, which was most definitely hard. So much so that it threatened to rip through the crotch of my 501 jeans just to get at her. She moaned as I opened my mouth, allowing her tongue to cut into mine.

“I want to fuck you right here,” she panted, pulling back and ripping open my button down shirt. As she unzipped my pants and started on my belt, I glanced out the windshield and noticed a couple, likely from the show, walking through the parking garage toward us. A Cadillac was parked next to us on the passenger side, a Chevy Impala three spots down on the driver’s side.

“Hold up,” I said, but she kept reaching and probing and working, so I grabbed her face, my hands finding her sharp-edged jawline and forcing her big greyish-green eyes to look at mine. Her pupils narrowed as she focused on my face, and part of me wondered if my pause had killed the mood. Her muscles slackened a bit as she relaxed.

“What is it?” Even her tone had changed, lost its eagerness and fire.

The approaching couple walked up to the Cadillac, right next door. Neither even looked at my Range Rover with black-tinted glass; they simply got into their car and drove away, leaving the space between us and the garage’s concrete wall vacant.

“Shit,” I said, looking down at my fading bulge.

Violet sighed as well and rolled away from me, pulling her skirt down over her silk-smooth thighs but not far enough to hide that mole on the inside of her knee, the one that seemed to arouse her whenever I melted my lips over it. It was one of the few ways I could identify Violet without seeing her face.

“I’m happy I’m home,” I said. “How was tonight’s show?”

“You’ll watch it tonight.”

“Always.” I cleared my throat, the bulge completely eroded now. Not even thirty years old and already I couldn’t maintain a chubby without having my girl in my lap, rubbing her wet pussy against my crotch. I didn’t even want to think about the complications I would face at forty.

“Let’s go home,” she said. “It’s late, I’m hungry and I haven’t been fucked in a week.”

She opened the rear passenger door, and I climbed out the other side. I didn’t head to the driver’s door, though. I crept around the back of the Range Rover, squeezing between the parking garage’s unforgiving wall and the Rover’s rear bumper, and snuck up behind Violet as she pulled open her passenger door. I reached around her abdomen, and my hand dove straight between her legs, pulling her skirt up as my fingers crawled deep between her legs, past her lace panties, and found her button. I pressed down with just the right amount of pressure, drawing small circles, slow and long at first, then deeper and shorter as she let out her
fuck-me
moan.

Her legs inched open for me, so I slipped my finger inside her, one simple stroke to see just how wet I had made her. Her juices coated my finger, so I added another and fucked her with my hand. After a few rapid strokes, she latched onto the door with one hand, the Rover’s frame with the other, and angled her ass out toward me.

My bulge came back to life, begging for release, so I reached down and tugged my cock free from my briefs, unbuckled my belt with my free hand while Violet hammered her pussy against my palm, right here in the quiet and mostly empty parking garage. At last, I needed my hand back and once I withdrew it from her depth, I could hear her pouting from the way her breathing changed.

I sucked her juices off my fingers, then dropped my pants, raised her skirt just a little more, and slid my dick deep inside her from behind, the crotch of her panties wet and chaffing. I didn’t care that the friction would rub my shaft raw; I craved her, every last inch, sound and breath.

“Oh, god,” she panted. “Oh, god, I’m going…I’m going…to…come.”

She dropped her head forward, her legs trembling, but she kept moving her hips, rolling her pussy along my shaft as her muscles contracted around my cock. And that was when I noticed the couple in the distance, looking for their car. I made a silent bet with myself that they belonged to the Chevy Impala, but I kept fucking her, my thrusts deeper and stiffer as her orgasm tightened her cunt and pushed me right over that edge.

“In my mouth,” she moaned, a little too loud. The approaching couple—too far to see anything behind the passenger door’s tinted glass—stopped and listened. She moaned again, but it was too late.

I grunted, gripped her hips, hard, and pulled her against me while pushing myself as deep inside her as I could get. I heard a sucking sound, she moaned, and I grunted again.

“Fuck,” I swore. Another thrust. “Fuck.” Another final thrust and my hands fell away from her hips.

I noticed the couple getting closer.

Violet raised her attention. “Shit,” she whispered. “I said my mouth, Luke.”

“I love you,” I whispered back, reaching down to pull my pants up, then trying for a kiss. She allowed a brief peck on the lips, reached down between her legs to see just how messy she was, and then, before climbing inside the Rover, placed her glistening fingertips in her mouth for me to watch her taste me with her tongue.

The message was unmistakable: Violet
always
got her way.

“Now get in the car so I can get home and get clean.”

When she closed the door, the approaching couple stopped, surprised to see me there. I gave a quick wave and walked around the front of the Rover to the driver’s side.

At the end of Lynden Park Court in a neighborhood lush with trees and quiet, narrow streets, Violet’s Grosse Point Farms home overlooked Lake St. Clair. It had a gate that operated like a garage door. As I approached, I hit a button on the rearview mirror and the iron gates spread open. The half-moon driveway pulled around the front of the two-story house then veered around the far end to a triple car garage. I stopped before getting too close—I could still catch a glimpse of the lake before the sun completely disappeared—and killed the engine; Violet was hurrying toward the side entrance before I could even unbuckle my seatbelt.

“I’m soaked,” she explained, waving toward her crotch. I shook my head with fake empathy, grabbed my luggage from the back of the Rover and started toward the house.

And then I stopped.

I closed my eyes and listened, hearing the wind pushing through the leaves. But I also felt it rolling through my soul. I felt the sun slipping over the western horizon, the same sun that I had kissed good morning earlier today, in London, before sending it to this end of the world so it might wake up with Violet and watch over her throughout the day. And now, in the early dusk silence, I was sending it back to the other end of the world, like a game of tennis, except this ball was one of poetic fire.

Snapping out of my thoughts, I continued into the house and followed the lights. Despite her upbringing, Violet had no consideration for utilities and their cost. Or the cost of anything, for that matter. Her greed seemed to blind her as she just didn’t understand or seem to care about anything attached to a dollar figure, which was essentially everything and everyone.

“I’m surprised you bother turning them off at all,” I said, entering the kitchen as Violet reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of water. Yet another cost.

“It’s money,” she said flippantly, and then took a long gulp. “It’s perishable.”

I rolled my eyes and continued to the master bedroom at the other end of this level, past the big staircase to the second level, main foyer, the luxury main bathroom, and finally past the office where I spent almost all of my time while at home. The bedroom had a sitting area with a two-way fireplace, and then the sleeping parlor with half a dozen windows and automatic blinds that strangled all signs of light at the touch of a button. The en suite bathroom where Violet would’ve cleaned herself up had his-and-hers everything, including toilets, and a shower large enough to accommodate a little league baseball team.

I left my luggage in the open closet, then closed that door before settling into my office with its large desk overlooking the half-moon driveway out front. I had two computer monitors—one for all of my drafting, the other for pleasure—and all sorts of books that filled the shelves on the walls.

“I’m hungry,” Violet said behind me.

I spun around in my chair. She was leaning against the doorframe, naked from the waist down. I didn’t remember noticing this detail earlier, back in the kitchen. I grinned, eying her with an elaborate desire. “Mmm. Me too.”

“I’m going for a pizza run,” she said with boredom, tugging the front ledge of her shirt down over her pubic area.

My eyebrows rose all on their own.

She narrowed her eyes, as if insulted. “You’ve had me once and made your mess. I’m going to eat now. Do you want anything?”

I considered her, the sudden childlike pout to her words, the penetrating greyish-green eyes that were a magic show all by themselves.

I spun back to the monitor. “Fine. Go. I’ll take a turkey sub, minus the cheese.”

I heard her walk away as I activated the “pleasure” monitor and began watching tonight’s act from nine different camera angles.

Let the magic show begin.

The next time I saw Violet, I was standing in line at the Starbucks at O’Hare’s Terminal three. Instead of the black, skintight outfit that had gotten my heart racing a few weeks ago, she was wearing loose grey track pants and a matching hoodie. Her hair had grown and turned red in that time, and now it was pulled into a ponytail that flowed out the back of a black Detroit Tigers ball cap. Her hair had a natural, lazy curl to it. Even from behind I recognized her as she stepped up to the cashier and ordered a Venti soy caramel latté. Her voice was also recognizable, as familiar to my ears as Vivaldi’s Four Seasons Concerto,
L’autunno
, or a Dr. Seuss nursery rhyme—
I do not like them, Sam I am, I do not like green eggs and ham
.

As she reached into her purse to pay for her five dollar treat, she glanced back at the line behind her. I like to think she recognized me immediately, but the reality was that her eyes sailed right across my face, past the people behind me. She flung her attention back and accepted her change before moving to the pick-up area at the other end of the counter.

By the time I paid for my grande non-fat cappuccino, I expected Violet’s soy latté would’ve come up, but it hadn’t. So I moved to the circular counter where the baristas placed the finished drinks, the entire time watching Violet’s face from half-beside her and half-behind her. And when she raised her attention to me, I looked away. Shy or embarrassed, I wasn’t entirely sure, but those eyes – hazel right now – definitely had an intimidating character about them.

“I know you,” she said, smiling.

I smiled back, a little hurt that she didn’t recognize me from her show. At least I looked the same, my hair only marginally longer but essentially the same color.

The smile melted away as she frowned and focused on me. “Don’t tell me. Why’re you so familiar?”

I wanted to suggest that maybe I looked familiar because I was the man of her dreams, but I hadn’t flirted with a woman since I’d met my wife—ex-wife—and I didn’t want to experience that kind of thing again. Like ever. Ever, ever, ever.

I simply smiled back.

“No, don’t tell me.” The color in her face seemed to dim into the darkness of serious concentration. “So very familiar…”

The barista gave it away when she announced, “Non-fat cap for Carter,” and placed the cup on that circular counter space.

“Fuck,” Violet sighed and immediately snapped her long fingers over her lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to swear.” That same hand fell away, and she offered it to me. “Nice seeing you again, Mr. Carter.”

I smiled back, a half-smile because I knew my teeth weren’t as perfect as hers. My own smile was a little crooked and, well, regular. It had served me well in my professional role, but not with women, especially with pretty young women like Violet.

“Likewise.” I released her grip and started to move away.

“Wait, we’ll sit together.”

“Okay,” I said. “Sure.”
Shut up, stop talking before you embarrass yourself
.

Her soy latté came next, accompanied with an apology from the barista for messing it up and having to re-do the tricky drink that essentially dripped out of a machine. Violet shrugged off the inconvenience and dropped into stride next to me as we walked to the escalators and rode up to the second level where our gate was.

“You’re heading back to Detroit?” she asked.

I nodded. “Yes. I sure am.”
You said ‘
sure’
twice in the last six words, you’re saying it once every third word, thirty-three percent of the time. Shut. Up.

“What were you doing in Chicago, Carter?” she asked with an interest that seemed genuine if not a little nervous.

I shrugged. “Just work. A client.” Another shrug, but I noticed that I hadn’t said
sure
again.
Maybe that’s because you replaced ‘sure’ with shrugs?

“Do you travel a lot?” she inquired, seeming interested.

“Sure.”
Fucking idiot
. “Sometimes it sure seems—I mean, only when it’s needed. Nine times per year. Chicago is the farthest I’ll go, I sometimes drive, but—” I stopped. I just stopped.

Violet glanced over at me, and I realized this entire time that maybe she was a little nervous, too. She had kept one hand on her soy latté, the other on her bag’s shoulder strap, her eyes on the floor as we walked. When she glanced at me, turning her head and attention so she could see me, take me in, it struck me that my awkwardness was just plain stupid.

I chuckled. “Listen, I’m not normally like this.”

“It’s okay.”

“But your show at the Fisher. It’s…I mean I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s amazing.
Fucking
amazing,” I added to offset her swearing from earlier.

She started smiling again, her lips curling up gradually, like the heat coming off a newly lit fire.

“Are you trying to charm your way into my pants, Mr. Carter?”

That stopped me. Our gate was close, they weren’t boarding or anything, but she had me convinced that she truly possessed a gift for magic because getting into her pants had been on my mind since meeting her.

Violet laughed, then punched me with the hand that had been gripping her shoulder strap. She hit firmly, and while her abuse definitely bruised, it also impressed me.
Tough girl
,
not too spoiled to not fight her own battles
.

“So why haven’t you called me, Carter?” she asked before pulling her stare away and continuing to the next gate where other passengers sat, waiting for the boarding call.

I hurried after her, not wanting her to get too far ahead of me, too far away that I would lose her. “I sure wanted to.”
Sure? Really?

She gave a
tsk-tsk
as she claimed a vacant airport seat and crossed her legs, while taking a breath of her soy latté as if testing it for heat. “But you didn’t.”

I sat next to her, staring at the lack of expression on her pretty face. She would’ve had freckles as a child, I thought to myself, noticing a faded mark on the bridge of her nose, closer to her right eyebrow.
Creep
. But if I hadn’t been a creep, I wouldn’t have noticed the mark, wouldn’t have made a promise with myself that this faded freckle was the first part of Violet that I would kiss before making love to her.

She chuckled, snapping me out of my unlikely fantasy. “Did I lose you, Carter?” Then she sipped her coffee while I watched those eyebrows tighten from the burn in her mouth. But as any good magician would, Violet masked the pain.
No sign of weakness
.

“Okay, I figured you gave me a fake number,” I admitted.

I expected another chuckle, a dismissive grin, something to call me out and make me feel like, or look like, a fool. Instead, a somber veil settled over her face and those eyebrows drew closer together, nearly swallowing the faded freckle that hinted at a wild and adventurous youth.

She asked, “Why would I do that to you, Carter?” with the most sincere and caring tone I had ever heard.

And in that instant, I realized and accepted a truth that I had never known existed. It didn’t take her show to convince me, but that had certainly been one of those starting points, the seed. And everything else in between—the way she spoke, the words she used, even the way she struck me—led me to this conclusion: Magic happens in life’s seams, the tiny space, like this, that exists between the moments that count.

Over the course of the following week, all I could think about was Violet. Every little detail from the prior week’s trip home from Chicago—our chat in the airport, the weight of her fist against my arm, the hazel beauty of her eyes, her laugh, the thick sincerity of her words—and by Thursday, as I sat in my office working through a flawed spreadsheet from hell, I admitted I was a little distracted.

“Are you alright, Carter?”

I looked up and spotted Jonathan at the door. In his mid-twenties, Jonathan’s youth even reminded me of Violet. She was inescapable. I gave him a professional grin and nodded. “What’s up, Jonathan?”

“Ted’s called, he’s looking for us. We have that lunch thing today at the club.”

I stepped away from the computer and grabbed my suit jacket off the back of my chair. Despite the large office with the big windows and views of the lake, my role here was pretty minimal. Jonathan, almost a decade younger than me and with eight years less seniority (he started three months ago) was just one level below me; he was bright and would be my equal once one of the other derivatives specialists retired and, given his good looks and gift with words, would probably be my boss in less than five years. But for now, I owned him, so he had to be nice to me.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I gave another nod. “We’re walking?”

“Yes.”

It’s three blocks away, my car is parked one block the other way. Not a day to brag about your genius, Mr. Carter
. Inescapable.

We rode the elevator down to our building’s luxurious lobby with its three-story atrium, marble-slab waterfall and crystal chandeliers. Stepping through the turnstile security at the doors, we stepped outside to Detroit’s financial district. There were people in the street, people in suits with high stress fatigue in their faces, and people in white shirts, blue jeans and Birkenstock sandals (yes, with socks), also with high stress facial expressions, but reeking of Starbucks coffee and most texting on their iPhones.

Jonathan leaned closer to me, nudging me with his elbow and indicating a teenager wearing socks and sandals and tapping madly on a MacBook. “That tree hugger in the poncho—” He wasn’t wearing a poncho, unless an A+E hoodie was now called a poncho. “—just got a check for forty million dollars.”

“Google?” I asked. Ever since the company had invested in the area, it seemed all kinds of teenagers were cashing in.

“No, some Canadian group.”

We walked the rest of the remaining two blocks to the private bar in silence. It didn’t look like much from the street with its thick, wooden door—to an outsider, we could’ve been entering a strip club—and even once you stepped inside, the place looked like a forgotten warehouse of some sort.

Jonathan led the way down the narrow hallway to an open atrium where two industrial elevators and a maître d’ in a tweed jacket with elbow patches and jeans greeted us.

“Welcome.” He had a West Coast accent, which seemed to emphasize the recent rise in Silicon Valley immigration to my old-school city.

“Ted Baxter’s party.”

The youngish man who seemed to be playing the part of a 1990’s professor nodded. “Of course.” He pointed us to one of the elevators.

We rose to the third floor and noticed the long boardroom table, set in the middle of this loft-like space that looked out to an alleyway scattered with abandoned rusted metal crates with greenery growing through.

The ambience on the third floor merged the formal elegance that one would expect from a corporate boardroom with the progressive trendiness of today’s hottest architecture and designs.

The rest of our colleagues—vice presidents, business heads, relationship managers like myself, and analysts—had assembled near the bar. They were sipping fancy drinks. I saw scotch, gin and tonics, even a couple of martinis, and the occasional mojito from the usual cowboys who ran our commodities unit.

Ted Baxter, the company’s President and CEO, strode over with a white-teeth smile flashing through his big, grey-peppered goatee. As a larger man, he offered a bulldozer handshake and told me he was happy I’d made it, but I knew he had delivered that same line to everyone else.

“Grab yourself a drink, Carter, we’re going to get started in five,” he said, then headed off to the bathroom downstairs.

Jonathan and I ordered drinks and eventually settled down at the big table with the others. Before our heavy lunch arrived, Ted discussed several business matters, and then I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I took the big wooden stairs that looked like something taken from a rail yard, and noticed that the other, smaller rooms on this level had their doors closed for private functions.