Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Chicago, December 1929. The cold was vicious. The kind of cold that made tram wires hum in the wind like contrabass strings strung to their breaking point, and turned breath into frost on the collars of heavy overcoats before it could dissipate. The snow that had fallen no longer melted but compacted into blackened, coal-dust-scented drifts along the curbs. The city was frozen to its core, down to the marrow, down to the last cent in a man’s pocket. But in the basements, the lights were always on. Down there, beneath the feet of the hurried, ordinary citizens, beneath the floorboards of shops and grocery stores, the real life thrived—the kind that earned you either a sentence in a federal prison or a bullet in the back of the head.
St. Michael’s Funeral Parlor was listed in the city records as a model establishment. A gilded sign, mourning ribbons on the heavy doors, the dim glow of icon lamps, and wreaths in the display window—everything was orderly, dignified, proper. It never occurred to anyone that in the basement, where the deceased were supposed to lie awaiting their final rites, one of the most fashionable speakeasies in Chicago was actually located. Don Colombo, the proprietor of this enterprise, valued order and appreciated a certain dark irony: who would think to search among the dead? Who would poke their nose into a corpse’s casket when, beneath the satin lining, boxes of top-grade Canadian whiskey were stacked in neat rows?
Vincent Whittman stood on a small stage, bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp with a red silk shade. Here, semidarkness was favored; it hid faces. Vincent played his saxophone. His fingers danced nimbly over the mother-of-pearl keys, and the soloist sang in a rich, mellow, enveloping voice. They played “St. James Infirmary”—with such energy and poignancy that even the cigarette smoke in the air seemed to move to the rhythm.
The place smelled of wax, women’s perfume, whiskey, and imminent danger. Here, they paid in cash and asked no unnecessary questions. But tonight, something was off.
The lamps with their red shades gave off just enough light to make out a face, but not enough to see it too clearly. The dimness, however, didn’t prevent Vincent from noticing a strange visitor. He sat near the stage but wasn’t watching the performance at all. He wasn’t drinking. His eyes moved from the staircase door to his wristwatch and back again. All the while, he scribbled rapidly in a small notebook, hunched low over the table.
Vincent had played in such places long enough to know that a man with a notebook who didn’t drink and kept watch on the entrance was either a reporter hungry for a scoop or a police bloodhound. Either way, for the people in this room, it ended badly. Very badly.
Vincent tensed, his rhythm faltering for an instant, but he quickly caught the beat again. Out of the corner of his eye, he kept watching the stranger. The man finished writing, tucked the notebook into the inside pocket of his overcoat, and rose decisively from his table.
Vincent didn’t hesitate.
He ducked backstage into a cramped room cluttered with instrument cases. He grabbed his worn case, latched it by feel, and carefully but quickly placed the saxophone inside. His fingers trembled—from adrenaline and a gnawing dread that slithered coldly into his stomach. Slipping back onto the stage with the case in hand, he slid into the service passage leading to the back door.
And just one second later, a heavy, thundering stomp of many feet came from the main staircase, drowning out the music. Vincent’s heart skipped a beat.
“Everyone stay where you are! Police! Nobody move!” a booming voice barked, followed by gunshots meant to subdue the overly eager.
Vincent burst out into the snow-covered street a minute before the front door of the parlor crashed inward under the blows of police batons.
The cold struck his heated face like a slap. Vincent stood there, clutching his saxophone case to his chest—the only thing he had left—and stared at the frozen brick wall across the way. His heart pounded somewhere in his throat. He took a deep breath, and the freezing air seared his lungs so sharply that his vision darkened for a moment.
His job was gone. St. Michael’s would be shut down; Don Colombo would likely make bail—or maybe not. And Vincent was left with empty pockets, a few crumpled bills in his trousers, and an instrument worth more than his entire worthless life. Damn… He was in debt up to his ears. And now there was no one to borrow from—everyone who could have helped was now sitting in a holding cell.
His feet carried him to the pawnshop on the corner of Tenth and Wabash. Without hesitating, he took off his warm overcoat, the last decent piece of clothing he owned, and handed it to the appraiser. He kept the saxophone. He could get by without a coat if he had to, but not without his horn.
With a wad of pitiful, crisp bills in his pocket, he headed for the racetrack. The bright lights of the posters shone through the falling snow, promising spectacle, adrenaline, and easy money. It smelled of hope—that same hope that dies last, burning up your last cents. Vincent bet everything he had on a greyhound named Lightning. He watched her lean, swift body streak under the floodlights, the steel muscles rippling beneath her glossy coat, as she easily outran her competitors…
And lost at the finish line. By half a length. A photo finish.
Vincent blinked, unable to believe it. He had no money left. None. No overcoat, either.
He wandered down the street, aimlessly staring into shop windows, feeling a sticky, cold emptiness spreading inside him. As raw and biting as this Chicago morning.
With the last spark of hope, he turned into a familiar musicians’ booking agency. Maybe there was some work, any work?
He checked every office, forcing a smile. But he heard the same thing every time: “Nothing right now, kid. Take care.”
Then, stepping through another door, he came face-to-face with Nellie… Damn. He tried to back out and shut the door, but it was too late.
“Vincent! You get back here!” Her voice rang out, clear as a bell, across the whole office.
There was no escape. He walked back inside, a charming but guilty smile spreading across his face.
“Nellie… my little bird! If this is about Saturday, I can explain everything…”
“He can explain!” Nellie threw her hands up. “I got a new haircut, bought a beautiful robe, baked your favorite apple pie! And you didn’t even show up! Didn’t even call!”
“Oh, darling… unforeseen circumstances! But as soon as I find a gig, I’ll take you to the finest restaurant in the city! Speaking of which… Do you know if Polyakov has anything for me?”
Nellie pouted, but in a moment, a mischievous glint danced in her eyes.
“Funny you should ask!” she sniffed. “He needs a saxophone player… for five weeks in Florida! All-inclusive! Round-trip fare and a stay in a fancy hotel!”
Vincent gave Nellie a peck on the cheek and hurried into Polyakov’s office, where a man sat hunched in clouds of cigar smoke.
“Hello, Mr. Polyakov!” Vincent burst out, shining like a polished brass tuba. “I’m here about the job! Nellie said you need a saxophone player! Florida, Miami, sun, sea! I’m ready!”
Mr. Polyakov raised a questioning glance, slowly looked Vincent up and down, and grunted.
“You kidding me? Get outta here, kid, I ain’t in the mood for jokes.”
Vincent was taken aback.
“But you need a saxophone player! I’m a saxophone player!”
“I need the instrument, not you!” Polyakov snapped, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke.
“Excuse me, but why not me?”
“Wrong build!” Polyakov declared. “Good day.”
“What do you mean, wrong build? You’re saying I have a bad build?” Vincent was genuinely offended.
“Wrong type, my dear…” Polyakov smirked smugly. “I need a sax for a ladies’ orchestra. Going to Florida. Get it? So, if you’re interested… put on a skirt,” he laughed. “Maybe then you’ll pass for a girl! Ha! But seriously, there’s a dance gig tonight at Molly’s place on the other side of town. Pays four bucks cash. You up for it?”
Vincent left Polyakov’s office, wondering what to do next. He walked over to Nellie’s desk and leaned on it wearily.
“My little bird… Can I borrow your car?” he asked, turning on all his charm. “Just for tonight. I’m playing at Molly’s, and it’s a long walk—I’d be walking till morning.”
Nellie sighed but pulled out her keys and handed them over.
“It’s at Tommy’s garage, on Fifth Street. Tell him I sent you. And you listen to me!” she wagged a finger. “You owe me big time now! Not just a restaurant—you’re taking me to the Palmer House!”
Tommy’s Garage was tucked away in a dead end among old buildings and gloomy warehouse shells. Vincent stepped inside, into the semidarkness that smelled of gasoline, motor oil, and something else metallic and sour.
In the dim light, he noticed a group of men sitting around a table, apparently playing cards. Tommy, catching sight of him, nodded silently at the mention of Nellie and took out a hose to start fueling a battered Ford. Then, from the back entrance, came heavy footsteps and a crash.
Acting on instinct, Vincent slipped deeper into the garage and hid between an old truck and stacks of tires.
A group of men in long overcoats filed into the space.
“…You think we wouldn’t find out?” The voice was low, calm, with an icy rasp. Vincent went cold: he’d recognize that voice among a thousand. Don Colombo.
“Don Colombo finds out everything. You been squealing on him? On Don Colombo?” a loud voice demanded.
“Not me! I swear!” came a frightened, faltering voice that seemed to belong to one of the card players. “I didn’t say anything! It wasn’t me! It was…”
Vincent peered out from behind the truck’s hood. In the dim light of a single bulb, he saw the group of men in long coats, Thompson submachine guns at the ready. Kneeling against the wall, faces to the bricks, were the garage patrons—those unlucky enough to be there at that hour. Tommy was among them, on his knees, hands up.
“No, Don Colombo, I had nothing to do with it…” the frightened voice babbled.
A burst of gunfire tore the silence to shreds. Vincent squeezed his eyes shut, but the sounds branded themselves into his memory: the dry chatter of shots, the clatter of shell casings on the concrete floor, the wet, heavy thud of bodies falling. Then, ringing silence.
Vincent’s heart pounded so loud it felt like the whole garage could hear it. In that tomb-like stillness, as he tried to crawl away, he scraped his sole on the floor. The grating noise was sickeningly loud.
“You there! Over here! Now!” the same icy voice barked.
Vincent rose slowly. It was over. He was a dead man. A witness. An extra witness.
Don Colombo himself approached, casually handling his Tommy gun—a short but deadly man with shark-like eyes.
“I… I’m just a musician, Don Colombo!” Vincent blurted, hands up. “I came for a car! I was hired to play at a dance tonight!”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Colombo grinned. “I don’t leave witnesses.”
Just then, from outside came the deafening wail of police sirens. The sound grew louder by the second. The gangsters froze, distracted for a split second.
That moment was all Vincent needed. He bolted for the exit, weaving between vehicles, not feeling his feet hit the ground. Bullets whizzed past, sparking off concrete and punching through sheet metal. But he ran. Faster than he had ever run in his life.
He burst out of the garage moments before police cars blocked the exit and dove into the darkness of the alleyways.
Run. He had to run. Out of Chicago, out of Illinois, out of this damned life. But how? The mobsters would search. They’d tear the city apart looking for a witness. They’d be looking for a man with a saxophone.
Vincent ran out onto some street, stopped in front of the darkened window of a closed shop, and, breathing heavily, stared at his reflection in the glass.
He exhaled and pressed his forehead against the cold pane.
A ladies’ orchestra. Florida.
Madness. Pure madness.
But he had no other choice.
---
LaSalle Street Station roared, thundered, and belched clouds of steam like a living creature. Pale December light barely penetrated the soot-stained glass dome, casting long, ghostly shadows on the stone floor. It smelled of coal smoke, cheap coffee from a vending machine, and anxiety.
Vincent stood by a pillar, gripping his saxophone case as if it were a life preserver. He wore a woman's coat with a collar of worn fur, which he had bought from a junk dealer for his last five dollars, black heels that were already making his ankles ache, and a ridiculous hat he kept adjusting. A blond wig with long bangs falling over his right eye to hide his main distinguishing feature—heterochromia. How many saxophone players from Chicago had such a unique physical trait?
He took a step away from the pillar, and the heel treacherously slipped on the marble floor. Vincent flailed his arms, nearly crashing down, and just managed to grab hold of a suitcase standing nearby. Someone else's suitcase.
"Whoooo!" a mocking whistle sounded behind him.
Vincent turned and saw two railroad workers openly staring at him, looking him up and down.
"Hey there, beautiful, your legs must be tired, huh?" one of them shouted. "Want me to carry you?"
The second let out an appreciative whistle.
Vincent felt a flush of shame burn his cheeks. He adjusted his bangs to cover his face and, trying to step more carefully, made his way toward the platform. Every step was torture. It seemed like everyone around was staring at him. He felt like a clown in a cheap sideshow.
God, he thought. What do I look like? This is insane. Pure insanity. I'll be exposed in five minutes the moment I open my mouth.
Just then, a newsboy passed by, shouting loudly:
"Sensation! Bloodbath in a garage! Read all about it!"
Vincent went cold. The image instantly flashed before his eyes: the dark garage, the machine-gun fire, the bodies on the concrete floor. He imagined Don Colombo's men finding him. Finding him, Vincent Whitman, in a ditch with a hole in his forehead. Or his chest. What difference did it make. The fear of the mob proved stronger than the fear of looking ridiculous. There was no choice. Only forward. Onto this train. To Florida. Away from Chicago, from the shootings, from the debts, and from everything that had been his life.
He was about to take another clumsy step when he suddenly froze.
Walking past him, from the main entrance toward the platform, came she. Tall, slender, dark-haired. Her neat, shoulder-length bob—hair the color of a raven's wing—gleamed in the dim light like polished obsidian. A black coat with fur trim fit her like it was made for her, accentuating her slender waist and the smooth curve of her hips. She walked lightly, gracefully, as if dancing to music only she could hear. The heels of her shoes tapped out a confident, rhythmic beat on the stone tiles—like a metronome setting the tempo for the entire station.
Vincent stared at her, forgetting to breathe. She was beautiful. True beauty—not the kind from the speakeasy basements, but refined, aristocratic. Her eyes—large, dark, mysterious—looked straight ahead, oblivious to the hustle and bustle around her.
She walked past Vincent, and the light scent of her perfume—sweet, with notes of jasmine—brushed against his face. His heart skipped a beat, then began to pound rapidly, like a frightened bird.
Vincent followed her with his eyes, feeling a strange warmth spreading inside him. He watched her go, his mouth slightly agape in surprise. It wasn't until an announcement came for expedited boarding that he remembered he needed to breathe.
Out of breath, he made it to the carriage, where a stately woman and a short man stood by the doors. They were recording the arriving girls from the orchestra.
Vincent approached hurriedly, smiling awkwardly.
"Um… here I am!"
"Ah, so you're the one Polyakov sent!" the woman said, eyeing him with a sharp gaze.
"Yes! I'm the new girl…"
"This is our manager, Mr. Binstock!" she said, indicating the man, then jabbed a finger at her own chest. "And I'm Beauty Sue! I keep order, so no funny business, sweetheart."
"Nice to meet you, I'm Violet!" Vincent squeaked, trying to sound as feminine as possible.
"Saxophone… noted," Mr. Binstock said with a smirk, running his pencil down a list. "Thank you, you've literally saved us. Your berth is seventh A."
"Seventh A! Thank you!" Vincent replied cheerfully and began to climb the steps, but the heel treacherously slipped again.
Mr. Binstock gallantly offered him a hand, but Vincent, losing his balance, tumbled forward.
"Whoa there, easy, sweetheart!" Binstock said, patting him on the rear.
"You fresh thing!" Vincent blurted indignantly, scrambling up and yanking down his skirt.
He scurried into the carriage, his cheeks burning. Behind him, he heard Binstock's satisfied voice:
"This time Polyakov has sent us real ladies!"
---
The carriage was cramped and noisy.
The orchestra girls chattered like a flock of agitated sparrows before a storm. They eyed the newcomer curiously, whispering and hiding smiles.
"Hello, everyone!" Vincent waved a hand, trying to appear at ease. "I'm the new girl, Violet!"
"So you're our new saxophone player?" a brunette with a sharp, piercing gaze exclaimed cheerfully.
The girls giggled and waved back in greeting. Vincent forced a smile and squeaked as thinly as he could:
"That's right! Nice to meet you!"
"Welcome to the orchestra!" added another girl, plump and kind-looking. "Make yourself at home!"
Smiling, Vincent nodded and, leaving his case on an empty shelf, hurried to the washroom. He needed to catch his breath, collect his thoughts, and simply be alone for a minute.
Muttering under his breath, he pushed open the door and froze on the threshold.
By the small oval mirror, touching up her makeup, stood HER.
Up close, she was even more beautiful. Refined, aristocratic features, expressive eyes, neat lips touched with dark red lipstick. She exuded a quiet, calm confidence—the kind possessed by people accustomed to getting what they wanted. And her stunning black dress fit her impeccably, hugging her figure.
Vincent stood like a statue, forgetting why he had come.
"Oh, excuse me," he squeaked. "I didn't mean to… I'll wait…"
"Come in," the girl said with a kind smile. "I'm done."
She neatly put her lipstick away in her purse and turned to Vincent. Her dark eyes swept over his face and paused for a moment, and Vincent felt as if she could see right through him.
"You must be the new saxophone player?" the girl asked, a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips. "I'm Sugar Kane. Pianist, sometimes I also sing and conduct."
"Violet," Vincent breathed, feeling his cheeks betray him with a blush, and smiled foolishly.
"Nice to meet you, Violet," Sugar Kane nodded and, turning sideways, slightly lifted her dress, revealing a shapely leg in a thin stocking. "Look! Is my seam straight?"
Vincent stared at that leg, at the curve of her calf, at the dark line of the seam running precisely down the center, and words stuck in his throat.
"Straight as an arrow!" he finally exhaled, struggling to look away.
Sugar Kane nodded with satisfaction, let go of her hem, and, before leaving, added with that same enigmatic half-smile:
"You're sweet, Violet… I hope we get along."
The door closed behind her. Vincent leaned his back against the cold wall and exhaled, feeling his cheeks ablaze. His temples throbbed with excitement. Damn it, he was a grown man, practically a ladies' man, a seasoned fellow… and he was acting like an inexperienced schoolboy seeing a girl for the first time.
He slapped his forehead, adjusted his wig, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. A terrified, red-faced young woman with unnaturally blond hair stared back.
Pull yourself together, Whitman, he ordered himself. Losing your head right now is definitely not an option.
---
The rehearsal took place in the vestibule while the train swayed rhythmically over the rail joints. The girls cheerfully played their parts, each on her instrument, humming melodiously, filling the cramped space with lively, pulsating music.
Vincent played his saxophone, trying not to stand out, and listened. He listened to Sugar Kane direct everyone, setting the rhythm with clapping hands and melodic humming.
And when she held the notes, time seemed to stand still. Her voice—sensual, enveloping—flowed freely and easily, filling every corner of the vestibule, pushing out the clatter of the wheels and the wind whistling outside the window. She closed her eyes, threw back her head, elegantly waved her hand, conducting the orchestra, and Vincent couldn't take his eyes off her. He watched her lips move, her chest rise, her long, slender fingers fluttering in the air. A pianist… oh, it was obvious!
He stared, smiling foolishly, and for a fraction of a second, stopped playing.
Sugar Kane immediately looked at him questioningly:
"Violet? Darling, is something wrong?"
Vincent straightened up, blushing like a tomato, and said:
"No! Everything's fine… I'm just nervous! New group, new place…"
"Don't worry…" Sugar Kane said with a smirk, looking at him from under her lashes. "I don't bite, sweetheart."
He was done for. Completely hooked. This girl, with just one look, could make his heart race like mad and his brain refuse to function.
Under no circumstances could he afford to feel this now. But the heart, as they say, wants what it wants.
---
Night had descended over the train, an impenetrable blackness outside the window, broken only by the occasional rare lights of way stations. The carriage swayed steadily, lulling them into an illusion of peace. The girls had already settled down; some snored softly, others whispered quietly in the darkness. Vincent lay on his upper berth, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Sugar Kane. Her eyes. Her voice. How she had smiled at him in the vestibule. He let out a silly giggle and buried his face in his pillow.
"Violet!" a soft whisper jolted him from his reverie.
He propped himself up and saw Sugar Kane below. She stood in her nightgown, and the moonlight filtering through the curtains painted silvery highlights on her figure, transforming her into a vision from another, more beautiful world.
"Come down," she beckoned. "I need to talk to you. And I've got something stronger."
Vincent climbed down from the berth, trying not to make any noise. Sugar Kane took his hand and led him along. Her palm was warm and dry, and her touch sent a shiver through Vincent's body. He swallowed nervously and followed, mesmerized.
They settled onto Sugar Kane's lower berth, and she pulled a flat flask from under her pillow, splashing whiskey into two aluminum cups.
"To new acquaintances, my dear Violet!" she whispered, handing one to Vincent. "Don't worry so much; we're all like family here."
"To new acquaintances," he echoed, feeling dizzy from Sugar Kane's closeness and his throat going dry.
The whiskey burned his throat, warming him pleasantly from within. Sugar Kane took a sip and suddenly slapped her forehead:
"Oh, damn! I completely forgot! I meant to get some ice! Ice makes whiskey almost respectable. Be right back!"
She slipped nimbly out from under the blanket and, putting on a robe, silently left for the corridor.
Vincent was left alone, clutching the warm cup, smiling foolishly. And at that moment, a tousled head appeared over the edge of the neighboring berth.
"Ice, did you say?" one of the girls mumbled in a sleepy but interested voice. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join?"
She sniffed the air, and any trace of sleep vanished.
"Alright, girls!" Mary-Lou suddenly commanded in a surprisingly loud whisper, propping herself up on an elbow. "Everybody up! Our Sugar Kane and the new girl have booze! Everyone into her berth before she gets back with the ice! And anyone else with a bottle stashed away—bring it here!"
All hell broke loose. The girls, like sleepy but nimble mice, one by one piled onto Sugar Kane's berth. Within a minute, five or six of them were squeezed in there, giggling, passing cups around, reaching for bottles and hidden snacks.
Vincent was pressed from all sides. Someone had an arm around his waist, someone stroked his head, someone tickled him, treating him like a girlfriend. The mingled scents of perfume, night creams, powder, and feminine laughter made his ears ring. He felt like a hostage in a harem, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat.
"Violet, darling, tell us about yourself!" chirped the red-haired bass player, twirling one of his locks around her finger.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" another inquired, moving closer.
"What? No, of course not!" Vincent blurted, blushing, but quickly caught himself and added in a thin voice: "I mean, I haven't found the one yet…"
The girls giggled.
Vincent, suffocating in the embrace, frantically sought an escape route.
"I… I need to use the washroom!" he squeaked and, taking advantage of the general merriment, slipped out into the corridor, grabbing one of the bottles on his way.
---
He found Sugar Kane in the washroom. She stood by the sink, methodically chipping ice from a block wrapped in a towel. Seeing Vincent, she raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"What are you doing here? I thought you'd be waiting in the compartment."
"In there…" Vincent caught his breath, leaning against the doorframe. "The whole orchestra is in your berth. Drinking your whiskey… and they brought about ten more bottles! But I snagged this one!" he said, proudly showing off his prize.
Sugar Kane froze for a moment, then laughed—quietly but genuinely. Her laugh was warm and infectious, and Vincent couldn't help but smile back.
"Ah, to hell with them," she waved a hand, wiping her eyes. "Let them drink. We'll sit here."
They settled on the folding seats by the window. The train clacked steadily, beating out its eternal rhythm; occasional lights—way stations, farms, solitary houses—flashed by outside. Sugar Kane poured the remaining whiskey into their cups, added ice, and handed one to Vincent.
"Come on, Violet. Tell me," she said, looking at him intently with her dark, fathomless eyes. "Who are you and where are you from?"
Vincent shrugged, feeling every false note under her gaze.
"Oh, you know… from Chicago. West Side. I had this gig, but… it folded. I had to get out of town fast. Heard about your orchestra, so here I am. What about you?"
"I'm from New Orleans," Sugar Kane took a sip of whiskey and gazed thoughtfully out the window at the black night receding into the distance. "It's not easy there, either. I used to sing in all-male bands, but now I can't afford that…" She paused for a moment, as if weighing her words. "You know what they say: if you want to get anywhere in this life, you have to know how to pretend."
"Pretend?" Vincent repeated, feeling a pang in his heart.
"Sure," Sugar Kane smirked. "Play a role. Make people like you. Especially men. You know, Violet, I realized something a long time ago: men fall in love with what they see. They need a woman to be beautiful, mysterious, and a little… unattainable. I have high hopes for Florida!" she said dreamily, her eyes lighting up. "Maybe I'll meet some millionaire. And preferably one with glasses."
Vincent looked at her and felt something twist inside him. Damn, he was already jealous of some imaginary millionaires.
"Why glasses?" he managed to ask, keeping his voice steady.
"Because men in glasses are so… endearing and cute," Sugar Kane winked mischievously. "Come on, let's drink to us!"
They clinked cups, grinning, and downed their drinks.
Sugar Kane looked at him again—that long, appraising gaze that sent shivers down Vincent's spine.
"Say, Violet," she began slowly, drawing out her words, "you wouldn't happen to… be interested in girls?"
Vincent choked on his whiskey and coughed.
"What? No!" he blurted, wiping his lips. "What makes you say that?"
"Oh, I don't know," Sugar Kane shrugged with that same enigmatic half-smile. "Sometimes you look at me in a certain way…"
She moved a little closer, and Vincent caught the scent of her perfume—that jasmine scent, maddening.
"And you know, Violet," she purred suddenly in a different, insinuating tone, looking him straight in the eye. "I kind of like it. You're so… unusual."
Vincent stopped breathing. Her face was so close. Her eyes, her lips, that languid gaze. His heart pounded somewhere in his throat, drowning out the clatter of the wheels. He wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat, shattered by sudden dryness.
And at that moment, the train—as if in cahoots with his nervous system—lurched and screeched to a halt. Emergency stop. Sudden. The carriage shook so violently that the cups on the table toppled over.
Sugar Kane swayed forward, losing her balance. Vincent, acting on instinct, lunged toward her and caught her around the waist, pulling her to him. She was in his arms, their faces inches apart. Her breath, warm with the taste of whiskey, touched his lips. Her dark eyes widened in surprise, and for an instant, he saw something in their depths that made his blood rush to his head.
Vincent felt the warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her nightgown, felt her pulse beating, felt her scent, her closeness, her lips a millimeter from his… And inside him, a firework exploded. Nothing like this had ever happened to him. Not to him, a seasoned musician from the Chicago basements, who had seen all kinds of women. But this was something entirely different. Pure. Real. Terrifying in its irresistible force.
Frightened by this spell, Vincent released her carefully but quickly, as if burned. He pulled away, jumped to his feet.
"Sorry! I… I'd better go! Good night!" he stammered in a faltering voice and, without looking back, fled into the carriage, tripping over his hateful heels, his shoulder banging against the doorframe, his cheeks blazing and his heart racing.
Sugar Kane remained standing alone in the vestibule, leaning against the wall. She watched him go, and a slight smile touched her lips. A smile that mixed surprise with interest.
And outside the windows of the train, halted in the middle of the night plain, the first snowflakes swirled slowly, falling on the cold tracks and melting instantly, as if they had never been. Only Vincent's heart continued to pound somewhere in his throat, beating out a rhythm that had nothing in common with the music he was used to playing.