Chapter Text
Twenty-five minutes out of Albuquerque, Eve’s Range Rover sat, stalled, equal distance from a Walmart and John’s Famous Chili House. The sun was bright and relentless, heating the car’s interior like a sauna. Eve reveled in it, spread her limbs and baked in the proverbial frying pan. There was nothing quite like it: the sun, the views, the quiet, early-morning silence. Oh, and a breakfast burrito.
“Shit, that’s good,” she moaned, same as every morning. Why change a routine when it works? John’s breakfast burritos were unbeatable. Uncontested. A full-body experience. If she wasn’t in an entirely different line of work, she’d work for him for free. Maybe someday, she mused, letting the dream wrap her in its simple warmth. She had rehashed the fantasy so often she could nearly embody it―the hypnotizing scent of frijoles, carne, butter-soft tortillas.
The breakfast burrito euphoria accompanied her down the road and off the highway, past the long, indistinct stretches of sand and dirt that outlined her commute. She never bored of the monotony, never tired of the views; to her, it was one long gradient, glorious hues of sandalwood brown, red and blue skies. Connecticut knew nothing of New Mexico.
It was a brisk fifteen minutes until she rounded the corner into the plaza. Not unusually, she was alone: her Rover occupying a single, lonely space in the oversized parking lot. Early, comparatively, yes, but work still awaited. She grunted out of her carseat and approached the familiar building: a small, Spanish-style pueblo with green and yellow walls. A giant sign hung above: “E’s Artifacts.” She smirked at it. It looked terrible―really needed a paint job. The E was barely an E, more like a dying L. She laughed. It was never getting fixed. Not while money bought better things, like add-on Guacamole.
“You smell like burrito,” was how she was greeted, not unusually, by Hugo, “it’s nice. Fragrant.”
“Fuck off,” she half-grinned back at him, flipping the shop’s sign from Closed to Open.
“Is that you firing me?”
“Not formally. But you should be scared.”
“Right,” Hugo laughed, “I hope you’re aware you’d go under in about three days without me.”
Hugo was completely right, so Eve ignored him. She placed her bag behind the counter and sat down, heaving out a sigh as she surveyed the shop like she did every morning. She called it doing inventory, but, truthfully, taking inventory was near impossible. There was just too much of it―too much stuff. The tiny space was brimming, cluttered, utter chaos. It was a mess of computer parts, old televisions, keyboards, retro consoles, 50’s toys and mechatronics, barbies and Kens and doo-dads. She grinned. It was a mess, but it was her mess. How disgustingly adorable.
Tuesdays were slow, and this Tuesday was no different. She had a few regulars in, collector types. A few old women came in to bid on some typewriters. Some money-fisting tourist took a handful of old Nintendo games. Eve let them pass in and out, her eyes locked on the wall, her mind elsewhere. She was waiting impatiently for a big delivery, but the UPS truck never arrived. The shipment had been delayed days, weeks. She was used to slow shipping from her antique suppliers, but this was a new level of incompetence.
“Eve,” Hugo announced, startling Eve out of a hours-long haze. He was uncomfortably close, leaning over the counter inches from her face. She swatted him away, groaning.
“What? Jesus, I was sleeping.”
“Sleeping? Eve, your eyes were open,” he said in disbelief.
“So?” she chuckled.
“Nevermind,” he shook his head, “just look outside.”
Eve’s eyes widened with curiosity, and she obliged. The parking lot was typically vacant save a few trucks, vans, and Eve’s Rover. To her surprise, a completely foreign vehicle was parked smack dab in the center: a hot pink ferrari. Eve’s jaw nearly unplugged from her skull.
“Who the hell is that?” she laughed, “God, I already hate them.”
“Hate them? You’re kidding? That is the sexiest thing I’ve seen in a decade."
“You’ve barely been alive a decade.”
“I don’t have to be old to have taste,” he retaliated, “just like you can be old and have none.”
Eve laughed, mocking offense. She was comfortable in her everyday uniform―fitted overalls, red brick turtleneck, low-cut boots. It was an outfit that said, in a phrase: Yes, and what about it? She had worked hard cultivating that image.
“I wonder who owns it,” Hugo mused, still stuck to the window.
“Someone pretentious, definitely.”
“And gorgeous,” he added.
“Or, you know, rich and ugly.”
“No, Eve― definitely gorgeous,” he stressed, turning to Eve and pointing through the glass at a figure approaching the storefront. Eve’s eyes nearly rolled back in her head. The first thing she saw was the suit―tailored, tan, warm like the sandalwood fields. Then, much more importantly, its wearer―slim, subtly muscular, tall, utterly stunning. Her hair was dirty blonde, cut right at the shoulders. She had a hard, direct confidence that was evident in her walk, but offset by the charisma in her features, soft pink lips and high cheekbones. It took Eve more than a minute to realize her ogling was not one-sided. Light eyes were looking right at hers through the window, holding Eve’s gaze unabashedly. It made Eve’s stomach drop.
“Yeah, fine,” Eve responded weakly, much too late. Hugo smirked wildly.
Before he could shoot back a comment, the shop’s bell was jangling, the door ajar. The woman stepped through with ease, looking around like she’d been there a million times. Hugo said something or other, maybe a hi or hello, but the woman seemed not to hear it. She was entranced by the space, looking intently at the floors, then the ceilings, at the TVs and grandfather clocks. She had an imperceptible look on her face, simultaneously absorbed by everything and completely absent from it.
“Welcome,” Eve said, her voice sounding more like a hiccup than a greeting. The woman turned immediately to her, her focus suddenly undivided. To Eve’s surprise, she immediately smiled.
“Hello there,” the woman replied, and Eve immediately detected a Russian accent. Huh. Eve's interest was piqued.
“So is this your shop? Are you L?” the woman joked.
“Oh, um, it’s actually an E. It’s just a terrible sign,” Eve laughed. The sound escaped her, drawn out unexpectedly like a fish on a line. This woman’s presence felt just like that, bait on a fishing rod, “it stands for Eve.”
“Eve,” the woman enunciated the name like it was fine art, tongue slipping around each letter with deliberate care. The name seemed to please her, as if Eve had chosen it specifically for her, for this occasion, just another item sold off the shelf. Before Eve could form an emotion about it, the woman was instantly closer. No, too-close, elbows propped up on the counter, inches from Eve’s face, “so you are Eve, and you sell artifacts.”
“Something like that,” Eve laughed, again, and hated herself for it, “oddities. Antiques. Weird shit, honestly. Basically anything goes, as long as I think it’s interesting enough to hang on the wall. We also fix stuff, computers, hardware, printers. Oil tanks, one time.”
“So you sell anything, and fix everything?” the woman lifted an eyebrow, her tone mockingly genial. Eve couldn’t tell if she was being fucked with or flirted with. Both?
Eve schooled her expression, shrugged her shoulders, “Pretty much.”
“How weird,” the woman commented.
Eve scoffed, offended.
“Weird?” Eve said, hands on her hips.
“Yes, very weird,” the woman’s nose crinkled adorably, and Eve’s heart stammered. She was growing more fond of and more annoyed by this stranger every passing moment, “not bad weird, but certainly weird. I have been to many shops like this, but they usually have a niche. You know, something to… tie things together. You have John Lennon CDs and a grandfather clock.”
Eve’s eyebrows furrowed, the scales of fondness and annoyance falling flatly on the latter side.
“Thanks for the feedback,” Eve said icily, “I’ll be sure to jot it down.”
The woman merely grinned back, a permanent snicker etched on her features. She leaned away from the counter and towards the center of the store, tearing her eyes away from Eve to examine the inventory once more. She ran a long finger over an antique stool, and Eve felt it in her gut.
Jesus.
“Do you sell chairs?”
“Chairs?” Eve said, a laugh escaping her once more. Who was this person?
“Yes. Preferably wooden. Aged. I am looking for inspiration.”
“Inspiration? For what? A chair moodboard?”
“You are not the most convincing salesperson,” she sat on the stool, crossing and uncrossing her legs, then standing back up with a frown, “this one is nice, but not that nice.”
“It’s a perfectly good stool,” Eve said, uncannily defensive. Hugo shot her a look, a knowing smile mixed with a confused why are you defending a stool? sort of expression.
“I didn’t mean to insult your stool, Eve,” the woman laughed, giddy like a child. She strutted back over to the counter, once again invading Eve’s space, “but it’s just not for me. I have specific tastes.”
The way specific tastes rolled off her lips, Eve knew it meant more than one thing. It meant multitudes. Everything about this woman was more than one thing, indescribable, unattainable. The woman’s eyes were stuck to Eve, tracing her features with the precision of a rifle, locked and loaded. Eve wanted to say something back, to keep up the gentle bickering the best she could, but her throat was so dry, her mind barren. The woman licked her lips.
“I don’t have it yet, but we have a shipment coming in,” Eve said suddenly, words slow but urgent, “you’ll want it.”
“Oh?” the woman quirked an eyebrow, “I will?”
“Yes,” Eve said with a laugh, “it’s a piece I selected myself. I’ve been waiting for it for over a year now. The designer was murdered. Pretty spectacularly, but it wasn’t pretty. It inflated the prices of his pieces like crazy, but I have the right suppliers.”
“I see,” the woman said, but Eve knew she had her. Her eyes were dark, lips slightly ajar, movements unflinching. She was looking at Eve like she had just discovered Atlantis.
“So you want to put down a bid?”
“A bid?” the woman laughed, “I don’t bid. I buy.”
“It’s procedure,” Eve said, grinning at the woman’s reaction, “you have to bid like everyone else.”
“Then I will outbid,” she said, matter-of-fact. Her expression was certain, calm, unrelentingly sexy. Eve wanted to leave. Needed to leave. Didn’t want to be anywhere else but here.
“You can certainly try.”
“So when does it arrive?”
Eve grimaced, “I.. don’t know. Was supposed to be last week. It’s taking fucking forever. It should be here soon, though, no later than a week. Or else I’m going to give UPS a piece of my mind.”
“You swear like this in front of all your customers?” the woman grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye. Eve bit her lip.
“Yes, she does,” Hugo interjected, “but she hardly speaks to them for long enough for them to notice.”
“Oh?” the woman said, finally acknowledging his existence, “I’ve found you quite chatty, Eve. I appreciate the special treatment.”
Eve guffawed, her face suddenly hot, “you’re not getting special treatment. I just like money. And that ferrari can be seen from Mars.”
The boldness of the statement seemed to affect the woman, her cheeks reddening slightly. Eve couldn’t tell if it was from anger or delight or something… else. Whatever it was, it was passing, her composure easily regained. She turned to Eve once more and caught her eyes, offering her that same, chilling look she got through the window.
“This has been great,” she said, and licked her lips, “but unfortunately, I have to go. Meetings to make. People to see. You know. It was such a pleasure to meet you, Eve.”
She outstretched her hand like a challenge, hanging it delicately in the space between them. Eve grasped it, reluctantly at first, and then firmly.
“I don’t know your name,” Eve breathed out.
The other woman grinned, “you can call me Villanelle.”
Eve blinked, feeling the name etched on her consciousness in permanent ink. Their hands idled in the air for a few more seconds before Villanelle dragged her fingers across Eve’s palm, so slowly and so smoothly that Eve thought she imagined it.
“Well! See you two, then, for the bid.” Villanelle chuckled to herself, overwhelmingly cocky. She gave Eve a last meaningful look before turning on her heel and walking out the door, the wind slapping it closed behind her. A silence filled the shop, like a vacant ocean after a cruise ship came throttling through.
“Wow,” Hugo said, with a long whistle. Eve couldn’t even acknowledge it. Couldn’t even agree with it. She just sat there, her body and mind aflame, alive, awake.
This was going to be trouble.