White Roses, Black Doves

Library books, drugs, and rock and roll-2

Chapter 2: First Impressions

Vivian Torres hated mornings. She hated the rush, the noise, and the way the city forced everyone to act like they were participating in a marathon they never signed up for. She just wanted her coffee, her book, and the quiet sanctuary of the library where she spent her days.

But the universe, apparently, had other plans.

She stared at the man standing in front of her. He was a mess—hair sticking out in random directions, sunglasses on inside, smelling faintly of bourbon and something expensive that he clearly didn't deserve. He was the epitome of everything she despised: the arrogance, the entitlement, the "I’m the center of the universe" energy that clung to him like a bad cologne.

When he snapped at her, Vivian didn’t even feel a flutter of intimidation. She felt pity. A cold, hard spike of it. He was a trainwreck in skinny jeans, and he was taking it out on the world because he didn't know how to handle his own demons.

"You're a real piece of work, aren't you?" she had said. She meant it. She watched him recoil, surprised that she hadn't melted under his gaze.

As she knelt to gather her books, she felt his eyes on her. They were heavy, intense, and surprisingly bright behind the black lenses. She could feel his focus shifting, his agitation morphing into something more predatory. It was a look she recognized—the look of a man who was used to getting whatever he wanted, and who was suddenly realizing he might not get her.

Good luck with that, she thought.

She stood up, books clutched to her chest, the damp fabric of her blouse clinging to her skin. It was irritating, uncomfortable, and frankly, she didn't have the time to deal with a man-child acting out.

"Excuse me," she said, stepping around him.

"Wait."

His voice was lower now, lacking the jagged edge of his initial explosion. He had taken off his sunglasses. His eyes were bloodshot, exhausted, and remarkably blue.

"I... s**t," he muttered, running a hand through his messy, dark hair. "I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. I’m having a rough time."

Vivian paused, her hand on the door handle. She looked him up and down, unimpressed. "Rough time or not, you don't get to treat people like props in your personal drama. Get some sleep, drink some water, and try being a human being tomorrow."

She walked out into the cool morning air, the bell chiming behind her. She didn't look back. She didn't want to know his name. She didn't want to know why a guy with that much money looked like he hadn't washed in three days. She just wanted the smell of old paper and the silence of the archives.

Back inside the coffee shop, Jimmy watched her leave. He was still standing in the middle of the shop, the barista looking at him with a mix of fear and curiosity. He didn't care about the barista. He didn't care about the coffee he had spilled, or the fact that he was probably going to have a massive migraine in an hour.

His entire nervous system was focused on the woman who had just told him to be a human being.

"Who is she?" Jimmy asked the barista, his voice low and dangerous.

The barista hesitated, glancing at the door. "That's... that's Vivian. She works at the public library down on 4th. Look, man, leave her alone. She doesn't like your type."

"My type?" Jimmy chuckled, a dark, dry sound. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a stack of cash, and threw it on the counter—way more than the cost of the coffee and the mess. "You don't know my type, kid. Nobody does."

He walked out of the shop, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt like he’d just been hit by a truck, and for the first time in his career, he didn't want to run away from the wreckage. He wanted to understand it.

He watched Vivian turn the corner two blocks away, her posture rigid and unimpressed. He knew he was supposed to go back to the hotel, sleep it off, and get ready for the show that night. But Jimmy Santos wasn't a man who followed instructions.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over his manager's contact. He needed to know everything about the librarian. He needed to know what she liked, who she was, and why she made him feel like he was finally waking up from a decade-long blackout.

He had just met the first person in his life who didn't want a piece of him, and God help him, he was going to make sure she was the only thing he wanted.

He didn't need the alcohol anymore. He needed the challenge. And as he walked toward the library, he knew he was walking into a war.

Let the games begin.