White Roses, Black Doves

Library books, drugs, and rock and roll-3

Chapter 3: The Obsession Begins

The penthouse suite was a monument to decadence and total, utter rot. The remnants of last night’s after-party were still strewn across the living room—shattered glass, overflowing ashtrays, and the distinct, metallic tang of spilled champagne. Jimmy Santos sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, his head throbbing in rhythm with the bass thumping in his own skull. He wasn’t drinking. For the first time in three years, the bottle sitting on the coffee table stayed capped.

He stared at his phone, the screen cracked, illuminating his face with a cold, blue light. He hadn't touched the alcohol. He didn't want the numbness anymore. He wanted the friction. He wanted the way that librarian—Vivian—had looked at him like he was a cockroach she was considering squashing.

"f*****g pathetic," he muttered to himself, scrolling through the limited search results he’d pulled up on his tablet.

It was almost too easy. People like Jimmy didn't have to hunt; they just had to throw enough money at a situation until the information spilled out. A quick call to his assistant, a few hundred dollars dropped into the right pockets of the coffee shop staff, and boom. Vivian Torres. 28. Lead archivist at the public library on 4th.

He pulled up her social media. It was barren. No selfies, no thirst traps, no humble-bragging about her brunch. Just a few photos of dusty, leather-bound books and a black-and-white picture of an old, crumbling gothic building. She was private, guarded, and completely uninterested in the circus that surrounded him.

Jimmy stood up and paced the room, his boots making no sound on the thick carpet. He felt a weird, jagged energy buzzing beneath his skin. It wasn't the chemical high of cocaine or the sluggish, warm blanket of booze. It was hunger. Pure, unadulterated, primal hunger.

"She doesn't want the fame," he whispered, running a hand through his matted hair. "She doesn't want the money."

Most women threw themselves at him. They wanted the backstage passes, the i********: clout, the proximity to a guy whose face was plastered on every billboard from L.A. to Tokyo. They were easy to figure out. They were books written in big, bold, neon lettering. But Vivian? She was written in cipher. She was a goddamn puzzle, and the more he thought about the way she’d dismissed him, the more he felt the need to solve her.

His manager, Kyle, walked in, his suit sharp enough to cut glass. He took one look at the untouched whiskey bottle and his eyebrows shot up.

"Jimmy. What the f**k is this? You’re not drinking?" Kyle asked, his voice dripping with practiced concern. "We’ve got the sold-out show at the arena tonight. You need to be loose, man. The fans expect the wild child, not a monk."

Jimmy turned to look at him, his eyes dead and intense. "I’m not drinking today, Kyle. Get the f**k out of my face."

"You’re going to crash," Kyle warned, stepping closer, his posture stiff. "Don't be a damn i***t. You're a rockstar. Act like one."

"I am acting like one," Jimmy growled, stepping into Kyle’s personal space. "You keep the press off my back, you book the travel, and you shut the f**k up about my lifestyle. I’m doing the show tonight. I’ll be on stage, I’ll play the hits, and I’ll scream at the crowd until they lose their f*****g minds. But don't tell me what to do with my day."

Kyle backed off, holding up his hands in surrender. "Fine. But if you blow this tour, I’m not saving your ass."

"You never saved anything, Kyle," Jimmy said, turning back to the window. "You just managed the wreckage."

As soon as the door clicked shut, Jimmy grabbed his jacket. He didn't care about the press, or the setlist, or the mounting pressure from the label. He looked at the screen again—Public Library on 4th.

He wasn't going to drink. He was going to hunt. He was going to see if that fire he’d seen in her eyes was real, or if it was just a fluke. He needed to know if she could withstand the hurricane that was Jimmy Santos. He knew he was being a psycho. He knew it was crossing the line. But for the first time in a decade, he felt alive. And he’d be damned if he let that feeling fade into the haze.