“Yep. Be that girl. Fuck him hard and fast and good. Be the one he’ll never be able to get out of his mind. The one he always wonders what the hell happened to.”
I stare off, not at anything exactly, just a random patio paver. That girl. She would fuck him and leave him.
“Mommy…” The little girl at the other table is attempting to whisper, but she’s only talking in a rather hushed voice. “That lady. Look at her.”
“Shhh.”
I turn just in time to see the mother scolding the little girl, her eyes briefly flicking up to mine before she looks away.
“Rude little demons, see.” Janine adjusts her shirt, tugging the neckline down enough to showcase her impressive cleavage. “Marilyn Monroe, she said something along those lines,” she says, pushing back from the table and grabbing her purse as she stands.
“Said what? That kids are rude little demons?” I down my wine so fast a momentary wave of nausea settles over me.
“No, that 'a wise girl kisses but doesn’t love, listens but doesn’t believe, and leaves before she is left.' Something to that effect.” She smiles. “And Marilyn was that kind of girl.”
“Who had an affair with a president and died before she was thirty…”
Janine’s already to the gate, one foot on the sidewalk. “Exactly. She experienced life, hun. All you’ve done is write about it.”
“Strange Love” - Halsey
I stand on the porch, staring at the doorbell, my nerves completely rattled. I go to ring the bell but stop, quickly digging through my purse for a tube of lipstick. I touch up my lips, comb my fingers through my hair, and take a deep breath. Ring it, Miranda. Just do it.
And I do, my finger shaking. For a split second, I debate turning around and leaving. Because what am I going to do once I step through that door? It’s six in the evening. And I’m at his house. Why? Because he thinks he’s going to fuck me? That is what that email basically said. And here I am, because I want him to fuck me… shit…
The lock clicks. My pulse speeds up. The knob twists. I take another deep breath. The door opens, and here I stand, my mouth hanging open with not one fucking word to be found.
"Hello, gorgeous," he says, a beer in one hand, a tired look in his eye, but a smile still on his face. "I'm glad my emails didn't scare you off too much." He sidesteps and puts a hand out for me to come in.
"Nope. Not at all." I step inside.
He closes the door, sighing. "It's been a hell of a day. It's nice to see a friendly face."
He leads me to a couch in the front living room. The inside of his house is bare except for the artwork he most likely found at a garage sale. No photographs or personal touches. Only essential furniture and an old box TV.
"Can I grab you something to drink? I've got beer or some whiskey or vodka."
"Sure…"
"Well, I can't really pour 'sure' over ice, so what'll it be?" he asks with a snarky smile.
"Vodka's fine. Thanks." I settle back into the couch, watching as he makes his way into the kitchen adjacent to the living room.
He opens the freezer and pulls out a bottle of vodka. "So how’s working with EA going?" With a grin, he drops ice into a glass, fills it with vodka and water, and walks it carefully over to me. He hands me the drink before retrieving his beer from the coffee table and taking a seat beside me. Really close beside me.
"Uh, okay, I guess…" I bring the glass to my lips and take a slow swig.
He sips his beer and reaches for the TV remote, flipping through a few channels before turning to me with a hopeful look in his eye. "Speaking of… when do I get to meet this guy?"
"Yeah…” I laugh and shake my head. “Trust me, you're better off not meeting him. It'll ruin the image you have, I assure you. The more time I spend with him, the more certain I am that he is actually a psychopath."
He laughs loudly, shaking his head, and sets the remote back down. "Yeah, I'm sure he is. I'm sure Stephen King has seen his fair share of dead bodies too. You gotta be a little fucked up to write that kinda stuff. I mean, aren't you?" He winks, his lips spreading into a smile—and those damn dimples…
At first I’m put off, offended. But he must be joking. So I pretend to be that girl. “Yep.” I smile. “Sure am, and you invited me into your house." My eyes drop to his full lips, and I inch just a little closer to him. “And now you’re all alone with me.”
"Lady, I've spent four years on the streets of Asheville and three more before that killing towelheads. If anybody in this room is bordering on psychopath, it's me." He lets out a nervous laugh, and his hand comes to rest on my thigh. He lifts the beer bottle to his lips but doesn't take a drink. "Shit." He chuckles, his thumb gently gliding over my leg. "You must think I'm nuts. I'm totally kidding by the way."
Shrugging, I take another drink of vodka, trying to not pay so much attention to his hand on me. "Sure you are."