Sex, Lies, And Online Dating

Chapter 10

Hadenuf: Seeks Girl’s Best Friend…

“He was only dating me because he wanted me to kill him,” Lucy sobbed and took a drink of her wine. Her vision blurred, and she could hardly see the faces of her friends gathered in her living room. “Remember when I told you he was pursuing me hot and heavy? He was! He thought I was a serial killer.”

Her friends, being the wonderful women that they were, were shocked and outraged on her behalf. They condemned Quinn for being a jerk, a loser, and a royal a-hole.

“It all makes sense now,” Lucy cried. “All the questions about those men being killed. All the interest in whether I’d dated any of them, and I just thought he was being cautious. I excused everything because I thought we liked the same television shows!”

Two hours later, they were all feeling the buzz of alcohol and condemning all men on principle.

Maddie reached for the bottle and refilled her own glass. “Men are lying bastards.”

“Sneaky, lying bastards,” Adele added, her eyes getting as glassy as Lucy’s. “Too bad we need them.”

“Why?” Lucy asked. “Sure, they come in handy when you’ve got fifty pounds of cat food loaded into your car and you need someone to tote and fetch, but that doesn’t make up for the sheer volume of all their lies. I’ve had enough of men’s crap.”

“They cook dinner sometimes,” Clare added to the conversation as she swirled the wine in her glass. “And it is nice when they make little tables out of broken tiles.” She looked at her friends and was quick to add, “But you’re right. Men for the most part are a pain in the keister. Vibrators are a girl’s best friend.”

They all fixed their attention on Clare. On the one woman in the room who believed she’d found her soul mate the moment she’d laid eyes on him. So why was a vibrator her best friend? Perhaps all was not well in romance-ville.

“Oh, don’t you all look at me like that,” she said. “I know you girls aren’t exactly sitting around waiting for a man to give you an orgasm.”

“I’m not waiting around,” Maddie said. “But I thought you were.”

Clare took a drink of her wine and licked her top lip. “Sometimes Lonny is tired. He works really hard.”

“Making tables out of tiles?” Maddie shook her head. “Honey, if a guy is too tired to have sex, doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Yes. That he’s artistic.”

Lucy cleared her throat and shook her head slightly. As drunk as she was, she wasn’t going to let anyone tell Clare that her dream man dreamed of doing men. Clare was one of the most genuinely nice people Lucy knew. She was kind and had a huge heart, and if she wanted to pretend that Lonny wasn’t gay, that was fine with Lucy. Besides, who was she to tell anyone anything about their love life? She’d fallen in love with a man who’d only dated her because he’d thought she was a serial killer. Adele had dated a guy who kept sneaking up to her house and leaving stuff on her porch like he was some sort of double-secret knot-knot spy. Maddie was so freaky that she thought every man she met was a serial something-or-another, and she hadn’t even had a date in about four years.

Frankly, Lonny and his tile tables looked pretty damn good.

Adele sat on the couch next to Lucy and rubbed her arm. “Well, at least you didn’t know Quinn long enough to fall in love with him.”

“That would have been a disaster.”

“Good thing you don’t believe in love at first sight.”

“Yeah. Good thing,” she lied and set her glass on the table before she dropped it. A sure sign that it was time to step away from the booze.

“You know I love you,” Maddie started, which always meant trouble, “but I’ve got to say it. This fits your typical pattern of dating guys you want to rescue.”

Lucy held up one finger. “Not this time. Quinn didn’t have rescue issues, and he didn’t steal my money. He’s normal.” She frowned and felt a little confused. “Well, except that he’s a lying bastard.”

“Which just made Maddie’s point,” Adele said. “He had lying bastard issues.”

Lucy felt her forehead get all wrinkled. Was there such a thing as “lying bastard issues”? “I don’t want to talk about men anymore. It’s just too depressing.”

“I know what we can talk about.” Adele sat up a little straighter. “I need help plotting the next scene of my book.”

Lucy groaned inwardly. Plotting with Adele meant that you came up with suggestions and she never used them.

“Now might not be the best time,” Maddie said, bless her neurotic soul. “I’m having a really hard time concentrating.” Then she turned to Lucy and asked, “Do you really buy fifty pounds of cat food at a time?”

“I think it might be more like forty.”

“No wonder Snookie is so damn fat.”

“He’s not fat. He’s husky.”

Adele laughed at that. “Husky is just a nice PC way of saying he should push away from the cat dish. If he were a man, he’d have to buy his clothes at a big and tall store.”

“You need to put Snookie on a diet.”

“I’ve tried,” Lucy said through a sigh. “But if I don’t get up and feed him when he wants food, he bites my feet.”

Clare looked up from inspecting her fingernail and sort of listed to one side. “Did you know that Costco sells coffins online?”

Obviously it was time to sober her friends up. Time for dinner. “No way,” Lucy said and reached for the phone.

“You’re kidding.”

“Do you have to buy two at a time?”

The next afternoon, Lucy jumped in her Beemer and headed to McDonald’s. Her head pounded, her stomach felt queasy, and the dark lenses of her sunglasses did little to help the pain in her eye sockets. The night before, she’d intended to stop drinking before dinner arrived, but then she’d decided a few more glasses of wine with her meal wouldn’t hurt. After that, everything got really fuzzy. She recalled toasting to everyone’s futures and to Quinn getting a disease, but that was about all she remembered.

She placed her order and drove forward to the pickup window. There was just nothing that cured a hangover better than a Quarter Pounder with cheese, greasy fries, and a Diet Coke. She grabbed her food and ate in her car on the way to the post office. She hadn’t been to her PO box in about two months now, and it was time to check out what might be hiding for her in there.

She pulled into a parking slot and washed down the last of her burger with a swig of Diet Coke. Yeah, she knew. What was the point of a Diet Coke when she’d just scarfed about two thousand calories and one hundred grams of carbs and fat?

Who cared?

She stuck her brown Coach hat on her head and climbed out of her car. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, spring flowers were beginning to bloom. The world was moving on, and she felt so empty inside. Even after stuffing herself with French fries. It just didn’t seem right.

She moved into the post office and opened her PO box. It was crammed with mostly junk mail, which she tossed in the trash. She shoved five reader letters in her purse and headed back home. When she got there, she checked her answering machine, but her voice mail was empty.

“I’ll call you,” Quinn had said, proving yet again that he was a big fat liar. Not that she would actually pick up and talk to him if he did call, but he should at least grovel on her machine.

Lucy yawned and tossed her hat on the kitchen table. She knew she should march her butt upstairs and get to work, or clean her house, or do something productive. Instead she fell into bed and curled up with Mr. Snookums.

She rolled to her side and scratched her cat’s belly as her thoughts inevitably turned to Quinn. Everything he’d ever said to her, everything she believed about him, was as tangible as smoke. Did he actually have a family? Had he really broken his arm showing off for the neighbor girl? Was his wife really dead? Or was Millie an ex-wife or a former girlfriend? Or, God forbid, he was married or in a relationship. Was his name even Quinn, or was that, too, a lie?

Just like everything he’d said, everything he’d made her feel was a lie. It might have felt real. Even now it felt real. It burned inside her chest like it was real, but it wasn’t. She’d kicked men out of her life for various reasons, but at least she’d known those men. Quinn was different. She’d fallen in love with a man she hadn’t even known. A man who’d touched and kissed her because it had been his job. Oh, she knew that he’d been attracted to her. She’d felt the proof of that against her thigh and held it in her hand, but that didn’t mean he cared anything for her. That just meant he was a man.

Mr. Snookums purred and licked her hand. Then, in an effort to make it all better, he pulled out all the stops and head-butted her chin. She wished it were that easy. That a loving head-butt from her cat could take away the pain in her chest, but it only made things worse by reminding her that she was probably going to die all alone with no one but her cat. Her biggest fear was that Snookums would blow through his cat food and turn his hungry eyes on her corpse.

She thought about getting out of bed and getting to work. Instead she took one of the sleeping pills she usually saved for stressful times in her life. Her heart ached and her head pounded and she wanted to sleep until it all went away. She promised God that if he would just help her out with the hangover, she’d never drink red wine again.

She fell asleep until the next morning, and when she woke, she instantly noticed three things. One: She was still dressed in the clothes she’d had on the day before. Two: God had been good to her and her hangover was blessedly gone. Three: Her heart still ached. She wasn’t over Quinn yet. Maybe she should have asked God to heal her heart instead of her head. The only consolation, although not a big one, was the fact that she would never have to see Quinn again.

Lucy changed into her bathrobe, then padded into the kitchen and made coffee. While she waited for it to brew, she fed Mr. Snookums and grabbed the reader mail out of her purse. Three of them had the same typed address and Boise postmark. The others were from California and Michigan. The reader from California praised Lucy’s talent and wrote that she was looking forward to her next book. Lucy set that letter aside to be filed with the other readers whom she planned on sending a note and a bookmark. The writer of the Michigan letter wasn’t so praiseworthy. He pointed out that the trajectory of a bullet’s path in her second novel was physically impossible. He’d drawn a diagram and asked if she did research. Lucy filed that letter in the trash.

She took the three remaining letters with her to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee. She checked the date on the postmarks and opened the oldest, which had been sent mid-February.

I’m your biggest fan. I’ve read everything you have written and consider myself quite the Rothschild aficionado.

Aficionado? That was a little over the top, Lucy thought and leaned her behind against the counter.

I’ve followed your career closely and have read all of your books. I am in awe of your talent. You’ve kept me sane when I thought I would lose my mind in this insane world.

You’ve given me hours of nail-biting suspense, and I would like to return the favor. I would like to share with you my own little mystery.

Lucy took a drink of her coffee. For legal reasons, she did not read people’s unpublished manuscripts. She was going to have to write to this person and tell him or her not to go to the expense of sending it. She looked at the envelope sitting on the counter and noticed there wasn’t a return address. Weird.

I am sure you will appreciate my little mystery as much as I’ve always appreciated yours. Quid pro quo, I always say.

My story begins like this. A woman tired of dating losers just out for sex decides to take care of them one by one. Kind of like a vigilante. Ridding the world of perverts and degenerates. Men who can’t commit or who are whiners. Men who beat their wives or girlfriends, cheat on them and scam women out of money, to say nothing of the trail of broken hearts they leave behind. Have you ever asked yourself why nothing bad ever happens to them? Why they are allowed to go blithely on their way to the next victim? Well, something should be done about those men. They deserve to know the pain they cause as they draw their last breath.

At first I thought I would write a book about these dirty men, but I lack discipline. And re-ally, the odds of getting published are so slim. So, I’ve decided to live it instead.

Lucy straightened, and she felt her forehead get tight.

Read the front page of the Statesman dated Feb. 25th. What the paper fails to mention (because they couldn’t know something the police don’t even know) was that Charles Wilson kicked so hard I thought he was going to kick his bed apart so I had to hold his legs down. He was frightened and pathetic. Poetic justice, I say.

Do you like my work? I’d love to sit down with you for a critique. To get your thoughts, but of course, that is impossible.

Well, I have to go.

So many men. So little time. So much to do.

Lucy reached for the next letter and opened it. This time she pulled out a front-page news clipping along with a letter. A photo of a house blocked off with yellow crime scene tape dominated half the page. The headline read DAVE AN-DERSON, SECOND MAN TO DIE IN HOME WITHIN THE PAST MONTH.

This letter was shorter and more vehement.

Don’t you just love the incompetence of the BPD? They haven’t figured out yet that the two deaths are related. Morons. Cavemen. But what can you expect? Certainly not intelligence. Not from men. Dave Anderson was a big bumbling buffoon who flattered himself that I was interested sexually in him. Dirty man.

Read the Statesman article. What a riot. The police have nothing to release to reporters because they have nothing. I leave nothing behind. Nothing can be traced to me. I’m too smart for them. I learned everything I know from reading mystery novels. Your mystery novels.

Flattered?

Lucy might be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, like when it came to realizing that everything Quinn had ever uttered had been a damn lie, but not this time. She knew what this was. She’d done too much research, delved into too many twisted minds, written too many books, not to recognize bragging when she read it.

Breathless wanted her to know exactly what she’d done. She was showing off. Like when Mr. Snookums killed a mouse and left it on the back porch for her to discover and admire. A killer wanted Lucy to see and admire her work.

Lucy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her cat jumped off a kitchen chair, and she jumped out of her skin. Her heart pounded, and she raised a hand to her throat. “Holy Jesus,” she whispered. She set the letter on the news clipping and stared at the third envelope. She didn’t really want to open it, but she had to. This time she was more careful. She retrieved her pink Playtex gloves from beneath the sink and pulled them on. Her hands shook as she grabbed a steak knife and sliced the top of the envelope open. She tipped it upside down, and another article and letter fell into her palm. The newspaper had run a photo of the victim, as well as a picture of the crime scene. Lawrence Craig, the man Lucy knew as luvstick, looked out from the paper, a slight smile tilting up the corners of his mouth. Her scalp got tight, and tension pulled at her brows. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Well, the BPD finally figured it out. Three murders in eight weeks and they finally figured that they were related. Duh! I know they’re waiting for me to mess up. Make a mistake, but I won’t. I’m too smart for them. I’ve been thinking that maybe I will write a book about what I’m doing after all. Someday when I’m more disciplined. You know what they say; write what you know.

Here’s a little FYI between professionals, in case you want to use it in your book. When you suffocate someone, they make a little noise in the backs of their throats. At least that’s been my experience. Maybe that doesn’t happen with everyone. I’ll keep you posted. Lawrence made the most noise, thrashing about like it would do any good. He liked the idea of me tying him up, but not so much at the end, I guess.

When I first started, I thought it would be difficult to find dirty men who are willing to be handcuffed to a bed. For the most part, it has been easy. Men will do just about anything if they think they might get sex. But you’re an intelligent woman, and I’m sure this doesn’t surprise you. I’m sure we have a lot in common and could spend hours swapping dating horror stories.

Women want love. Men don’t care about love. They just want sex.

What’s a girl to do with throwbacks and bottom feeders?

Lucy set the letter and news clipping with the rest and slipped the gloves from her hands. She felt like the world had fallen out from under her feet. It was as if she was being pulled down into someone else’s sick reality. The telephone rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked at the caller ID and didn’t recognize the number. No way in hell was she going to pick up. She had the sensation of being watched, and she ran around her house, room to room, shutting all the curtains and blinds.

In the living room she sank onto her couch and stared across the room at her chinoiserie entertainment armoire, at the black lacquer paint and gold pavilion scenes. Her pulse pounded in her throat and she swallowed past the dry knot of fear choking her.

Why? Why had a psycho decided to contact her? She didn’t live her books. They were fiction. She wrote fictions; not road maps to murder. She didn’t want to be involved in this. It was sick and twisted and made her feel as if someone with cold, evil hands was playing with her life. She wished she’d never gone to her PO box. She wished she could close her eyes and it would all just go away.

Lucy didn’t know how long she sat there thinking, trying to figure out what to do, when in reality she’d known what to do the whole time.

She reached for her phone and dialed.