Sex, Lies, And Online Dating

Chapter 1

Mystrygrl: Seeks Man for Mystery…

Lucy Rothschild pulled her BMW into the parking slot closest to the Starbucks entrance and shoved the vehicle into park. Rain pounded the hood of her car and bounced off the asphalt as she turned off the Beemer. Her gaze slid to the front of the strip mall and sought the green-and-white Starbucks sign next to the golden glare of Blockbuster Video. Light from within the coffee shop poured out onto the wet sidewalk, while the raindrops slipping down Lucy’s window smeared vivid color and inky shadows like an abstract painting.

Next thing you know, some guy is wearing your head for a hat. Lucy turned off the car and shoved her keys in the pocket of her navy blue Ralph Lauren blazer. She hated when Maddie said things like that. When she made everyone else as paranoid and freaky as she was. Maddie interviewed psychopaths for a living, but that didn’t mean all men were child molesters, rapists, or serial killers. Lucy wrote about murder too, but she wrote fiction and was able to separate what she wrote from real life. Maddie seemed to have trouble with that.

Lucy grabbed her umbrella from the passenger seat and opened her car door. It wasn’t as if she was going to set up a second meeting with hardluvnman or was even going to leave Starbucks with him. It wasn’t even as if she was taking this coffee date any more seriously than she’d taken the others she’d had during the past few months.

She hit the button on her umbrella with her thumb, and the red canopy opened as she stepped from the car. Like the other “dates,” tonight was about work. She had her small notepad and pen in her pocket, right next to her little can of mace. She’d brought the pen and paper in case she needed to write down interesting tidbits about hardluvnman after he left. She’d brought the mace in case he wanted to wear her head for a hat.

Damn that Maddie.

Lucy paused briefly to shut the door behind her, then moved across the parking lot, dodging puddles on her way. Unless hardluvnman was different, she wouldn’t even use the pen and paper. Unless he was different from the others, while they waited in line for coffee he’d give her the slow up and down, as if she were an Airedale at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. If she passed inspection, he’d pay for her triple grande skinny latte (hold the whip, please), ask her what she did for a living (although she’d clearly lied on her bio, stating she was a nurse), then proceed to talk about himself (what a great guy he was) and his former wife/girlfriend (and what a dumb bee-yatch she was). If Lucy didn’t pass the slow up and down, she’d pay for her own coffee. Which had only happened to her once.

Bigdaddy182 had been a real cheap bastard with a silver tooth and a neck-hair ponytail. He’d taken one look at her and said, “You’re skinny,” as if that had been a bigger abomination than his beer belly. She’d bought her own coffee, then proceeded to listen to him talk about himself for the next hour. While he’d rambled on about his run to Sturgis and his bitch of an ex-wife, Lucy had thought about different ways to kill him off. Bad, heinous ways. In the end, she’d known she’d have to stick to her female serial killer’s MO, but erotic asphyxiation had seemed too good a way for him to die.

Two steps from the sidewalk, Lucy planted her foot in a puddle. She’d almost made it. Cold water rushed over the toe of her black ankle boot and splashed the bottom of her black jeans.

“Crap-ola!” she said and stepped up on the curb. She opened the door to Starbucks and moved inside. The smell of rich, dark coffee filled her head, and the low steady hum of voices coalesced with the sound of the coffee grinder and espresso machine. No matter what city Lucy might travel to, Starbucks always looked and smelled the same. Kind of like Barnes and Noble or Border’s. There was some comfort in that.

Lucy closed her umbrella, and her gaze took in the gold walls and the patrons sitting at brown tables and hard wooden chairs. No man in a red baseball hat. Hardluvnman was late.

Lucy shoved her umbrella in the stand by the door and moved to the counter. When he’d e-mailed her and asked her to meet him, he’d written that his real name was Quinn. Lucy preferred to think of him as hardluvnman. She didn’t want to think of him or any of these dates as real people. It was easier to kill them off that way.

She ordered her latte, sans whip, then took a seat at a small round table in the corner. She unbuttoned her blazer and smoothed the collar of her navy blue turtleneck.

She supposed it was a sad commentary on her love life that the only dates she’d had lately hadn’t even been real dates at all. The only reason she was subjecting herself to men like bigdaddy182 was that she needed research for her new mystery novel, dead.com.

Lucy raised the latte to her lips and took a cautious sip. She only needed one last victim for her book. Even if hardluvnman turned out to be a decent guy who didn’t need to die, Lucy was done with Internet coffee dates. She’d had enough of men who acted like it was her job to pursue them. Like she had to convince them to ask her out again. If this last date didn’t prove fortuitous, she’d figure something else out. Like taking all the lying, cheating, needy characteristics of all her former boyfriends and roll them into one. But she’d done that before, and she was afraid her readers might catch on to the fact that the victims in all her books were starting to resemble the same recycled losers.

No, it was time for new losers. She’d agreed to meet hardluvnman, as opposed to some of the other candidates, for several intriguing reasons. First, his photo on the dating site was so grainy that it was hard to determine what he actually looked like. It just gave an overall impression of a dark, intense broodiness that she found a little mysterious. Second, in his bio he stated he was a plumber who owned his own business. Which could be a lie but was probably the truth because, really, why would anyone lie about being a plumber? Third, instead of falling into the thirty-five-to-forty-year-old-never-been-married-or-divorced categories, hardluvnman had stated that he was a widower. Which could be the truth or a sleazy way to score sympathy points and trick women into bed. If the latter turned out to be the case, Lucy had her last victim. Voilà!

The front door swung open, and a man with thinning red hair stepped inside. Lucy recognized him immediately. His name was Mike, aka klondikemike. He’d been her first coffee date, and the first murder victim. He moved toward a blonde woman standing next to a display of mugs, and together they walked to the counter. Mike did the up-and-down thing with his eyes and paid for the two cups of coffee and a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans. As the two made their way to a table a few feet from Lucy, Mike’s gaze met hers, then slid guiltily away. He hadn’t e-mailed her again after their date, but she could have told him not to worry. She had no interest in a guy who talked nonstop while popping coffee beans like they were cross tops, and whom she’d left with a plastic bag over his head in Chapter One.

She brushed the red lipstick on the lip of her cup and glanced about at the other tables. She was surprised the recent murders in Boise hadn’t slowed down the dating scene. Surprised but relieved, as it suited her own purposes.

In the past few months, three men had been suffocated in their own homes. She’d actually met one of the victims, Lawrence Craig, aka luvstick, at Moxie Java and was still a little freaked out about it.

The police weren’t releasing much information, other than saying that all three deaths had been due to suffocation. They weren’t saying what form of suffocation, only that the perpetrator was believed to be a woman. The newspaper hadn’t stated how or where the killer met her victims; Maddie had speculated that the woman probably met them in bars. Lucy figured she was probably right. The fact that Lucy was writing about erotic asphyxiation and men were being suffocated was a huge coincidence, but there were a lot of different ways to die of suffocation. As many as the human brain could conjure, and the chances of life imitating art were too huge to ponder. And besides, she refused to confuse real life with fiction and become as crazy as Maddie.

By the number of couples in Starbucks, men didn’t seem worried about meeting women in coffee bars. Probably because like Lucy, they’d met these women via dating sites and had been exchanging e-mails. And out of all the places to meet, Starbucks was safe.

Before Lucy had decided to online date in the name of research, she’d always thought online dating was…well, desperate somehow and more than a little lazy. While Lucy could certainly understand why women sought men online, she could not understand the reverse. Why would any reasonably attractive man, who had a job, his own neatly brushed teeth, and did not live with his mother have to search for a date online? Wasn’t picking up women in bars and restaurants or even in the vegetable aisle at Albertson’s in a man’s job description?

A month after her first online date, what she discovered was that the men online-like bigdaddy182 and klondikemike-expected her to pursue them. They also seemed to fall into two categories: those in want of killing, and those so boring she’d wanted to kill herself.

Oh, she was sure that out there somewhere were some great online guys. Nice men who just wanted to meet nice women and didn’t meet a lot in their everyday lives, great guys who didn’t hang out in bars or veggie aisles. She just hadn’t met any of them. In fact, she hadn’t met any great guys, online or otherwise, in a very long time. Her last boyfriend had been a charming alcoholic who’d been off the wagon more than he’d been on. The last time she’d had to bail him out of jail, she’d finally had to admit that her friends were right. She was an issues junkie with rescue fantasies. But not anymore. She was tired of trying to rescue assorted lame asses who didn’t appreciate her.

Lucy pushed back the sleeve of her jacket and looked at her watch. Ten after seven. Ten minutes late. She’d give hardluvnman another five, and then she was leaving.

She’d learned her lessons about dysfunctional men. She wanted a nice, normal guy who didn’t drink too much, wasn’t into extremes of any kind, and didn’t have mommy/ daddy issues. A man who wasn’t a compulsive liar or serial cheater. Who wasn’t emotionally retarded or physically repugnant. She didn’t think it was too much to ask that he have sufficient verbal skills, either. A mature man who knew that grunting an answer did not pass for conversation.

Lucy took a drink of her coffee as the door to Starbucks swung open. She glanced up from the bottom of her cup to the man filling up the doorway as if he’d been blown in from a “mad, bad and dangerous to know” convention. The bill of his red ball cap was pulled low on his forehead and cast a shadow over his eyes and nose. His tanned cheeks were flushed from the cold, and the ends of his black hair curled up like fish hooks around the edge of the hat. Rain soaked the wide shoulders of his black leather bomber’s jacket. The jacket’s zipper lay open, and Lucy’s gaze slid down a bright strip of white T-shirt to the worn waistband of faded Levi’s. As he stood there, his gaze moving from table to table, he shoved his fingers into the front pockets of the worn denim, his thumbs pointing to his button fly.

Mr. hardluvnman had finally arrived.

Like his photo on the Internet site, Lucy could not see him clearly, but she knew the second his gaze focused on her. She could feel it pinning her to her chair. She slowly lowered her cup as he pulled his hands from his pockets and moved toward her. He walked from his hips, all long and lean, with a purpose to each step. He navigated his way through chairs and coffee drinkers but kept his gaze on her until he stood across the small table.

The shadow of his cap rested just above the deep bow of his top lip. He raised a hand and slowly pushed up the brim of his cap with one finger. By degrees, the shadow slid up the bridge of his nose and past thick black brows. He looked down through eyes the color of a smoldering Colombian blend.

Lucy was a writer. She worked with words. She filled each of her books with a hundred thousand of them. But only two words came to mind. Holy crap! Not eloquent, but fitting.

“Are you Lucy?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. His voice was deep, testosterone rough. “My dog got into the garbage just as I was leaving, and I had to clean up after her.”

Which Lucy supposed could be true but, she reminded herself, probably wasn’t. Not that it mattered. After tonight, she would never see this hunk of hardluvnman again. Which was kind of too bad, since he was the best-looking thing she’d seen outside of a men’s magazine.

“I’m Quinn.” He held his hand toward her, and the sides of his jacket fell open across his chest to reveal hard pecs and abs of steel all wrapped up in his tight T-shirt. The kind of pecs and abs that begged the question: Why did a guy like him have to go online to find a date? It didn’t take her long to come up with the answer. Inside that hard body, there was something wrong with him. Had to be.

Lucy took his hand, and his warm palm pressed into hers. Calloused. Strong. The kind that actually might belong to a plumber. She took her hand back and wrapped it around her cup. “Aren’t you going to get a coffee?”

“I’m good.” As he sat, his dark scrutiny touched her face, her hair, and cheeks, then slid to her mouth. His voice dropped a little lower when he asked, “Are you good?”

Was she good? She blinked several times and asked, “At what?”

He chuckled. “Do you need another coffee?”

“Oh. No. Thanks.” She placed her palms flat on the table and slid them into her lap. “I’ve had too much caffeine.” Obviously. She wasn’t the sort of woman to get all rattled over a good-looking man. Usually. “That’s the problem with these late-night coffee meetings.”

“How many of these dates have you been on?”

Dates? “Enough.” She tilted her head to the side and concentrated on finding a flaw. Just because she was a bit rattled didn’t mean she’d forgotten what this meeting was all about. “How many have you been on?”

“Not many. It’s been a long time since I dated, and this whole Internet, chat room, dating stuff is new to me.”

There it was. He trolled the chat rooms. She’d been right. There was something wrong with him. Something that hid behind those dark eyes and long black lashes and smooth, masculine voice. “I read in your bio that your wife died. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” He took off his hat and combed his fingers through the thick black strands of his hair. The ends curled up around his knuckles. “She died six months ago.”

Which seemed a relatively short time to seek a replacement, Lucy thought. It could mean he was lonely. Or a callous bastard. “How’d she die?”

“Car accident. It was our tenth wedding anniversary and she’d run to the store for a bottle of champagne. I waited at home with two dozen daisies, but she never returned.”

Daisies? Was he a cheap callous bastard?

He laughed uncomfortably and pulled his hat back on his head. “Daisies were her favorite flowers.”

Okay, that made her feel a little mean. It was possible he was telling the truth. Or it was just as possible he was a scammer. A scammer with a body that scrambled a sensible woman’s brain. “You must miss her terribly.”

“More than I ever thought possible. She was everything to me.” He looked down at the table, and she wasn’t able to see the emotion in his dark eyes for the brim of his hat. “Sometimes the pain is so bad…” He paused for several heartbeats before he continued, “Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.”

Oh my God, Lucy thought. She should write this down for Clare. Clare wrote romance novels, and this was heartbreaking stuff. Lucy had to admit that it was even working on her-a hard-core romance cynic.

“She had soft red hair, and it used to fan out across her pillow while she slept. Sometimes I stayed awake just to watch her dream.”

Lucy pulled her brows together as Aerosmith played in her head. That was either the loveliest thing she’d ever heard, or he was poaching song lyrics. If the latter was the case, he was really cheesy. “What was her name?”

“Millie. We started dating our senior year in high school.”

“You were high school sweethearts?”

“Yeah, but we broke up briefly once because I was a dumb ass.” He shrugged his big shoulders, but he didn’t look up. “I was twenty-three and thought I needed to date other women. That lasted a month before I realized Millie was everything I would ever want in a woman.” He cleared his throat and said as if he were having a difficult time getting the words out, “She was the other half of my soul.”

Again, that was either really romantic or really cheesy. Lucy leaned toward cheesy because there had to be something wrong with a guy who was physical perfection yet trolled the chat rooms for a date. Some hidden personality disorder. “Perhaps it’s too soon for you to date?”

“No.” He looked up, and his brown eyes met hers. “I have to try and get on with my life. I’m not looking to replace my wife, but some nights I just need to get out of the house. Sometimes sitting at home watching Cold Case Files with just a dog for company gets old.”

He watched Cold Case Files? Cold Case Files was her favorite show, and if she was forced to miss an episode, she taped it. “Cold Case Files on CBS or A &E?”

“A &E. I like the real cases.”

“Me too! Did you see it last night?”

“Where they discovered the torso in a gym bag?” He sat back, and the shoulder seams in his jacket popped as he folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah, I saw it.”

“They caught some lucky breaks with that one.”

Quinn slid down a little in his chair and brought his gaze level with hers. “Science finally caught up with the criminal.”

“That’s true. Makes you wonder how anyone can get away with anything these days.” Lucy took a sip of her coffee and gave up on trying to pick him apart to discover his flaws. Since she would never see him again, it didn’t matter really. “But then people do get away with crime every day. They just have to be smart about it.”

His thick brows lowered in thought. “Do you think there’s such a thing as the perfect crime?”

Did she? In her books, the mystery was always solved by the last page; the perpetrators brought to justice. But was that true in life? “I think if you’re smart and do a little research, you could commit the perfect crime. And even if it’s not so perfect, you could still get away with it.”

He looked at her for several heartbeats, then asked, “How’s that?”

“Most criminals are caught because they have to talk about what they’ve done. Except serial killers. Serial killers get away with their crimes because they don’t usually talk about what they’ve done.”

“Why do you think?” he asked.

“Probably because they don’t have a conscience. Most people with a conscience tell someone about their crime. It’s like a sneeze. It’s got to come out to relieve the pressure.”

“You don’t think serial killers need to relieve the pressure?”

“Sure. But for them, the killing relieves the pressure.” Talking crime was one of her favorite pastimes. When she got together with her friends and they talked about writing, it was more about the process. Each wrote in a different genre, so they didn’t really get into specifics. Well, except for Maddie. She’d get into the gruesome specifics, usually over lunch, and they’d all have to tell her to stop. It was kinda nice talking murder with someone who didn’t look like he was going to get excited about liver temperature.

“Did you catch the show the other night about that woman who poisoned five husbands?” Quinn asked.

“Bonnie Sweet? Yeah, I saw it.” Bonnie had been the inspiration for Lucy’s fourth book, Tea By Proxy. Like Lucy’s murdering protagonist, Bonnie had boiled lilies of the valley into a toxic tea and served it in Wedgwood. “That woman just loved to garden.” The fact that Lucy was having this conversation on a coffee date might seem strange, but it beat the hell out of listening to him bitch about an ex, talk about his motorcycle, or relive his hunting trip to Alaska. She was never going to see Quinn after she left Starbucks, so what did it matter what they discussed? “You gotta give Bonnie points for style.”

Quinn gazed into her eyes as if he were trying to determine whether she was a psycho nutcase or spent too much time alone with her television. The truth was that she was a writer with page upon page of research in her head. Everything from lace to lividity.

He straightened and leaned forward to place his arms on the table. “It takes one coldhearted woman to slowly poison someone she supposedly loves. Or did at one time.”

Which was absolutely the truth. Female serial killers were coldhearted bitches. Every last one of them. They were also neater. Smarter. Cleaner and, as far as Lucy was concerned, far more interesting than their male counterparts. “Yes, but that’s what makes them ultimately fascinating.”

“Fascinating?” He shook his head and laughed without humor. “Thank God there aren’t many of those ‘fascinating’ women around.”

“Maybe they are around and we just don’t know it?” Lucy smiled and tilted her head to one side. “Maybe female killers are just smarter than men and don’t get caught.”

“Maybe.” His intense gaze stared into hers, and she got the feeling that he was watching for something. For what, she had no idea. Quinn opened his mouth to say more, but a gagging sound caught his attention. Lucy looked to her left at Mike and his blonde date. Mike’s hands clutched the sides of the table and his face and neck were turning a deep red.

“Oh my God!” Lucy stood so fast her chair fell backward. “Klondikemike is choking. Somebody do something.”

“Shouldn’t you do something?”

She looked at Quinn as he rose also. “Me?”

“Aren’t you a nurse?”

Nurse? “What?” Oh crap. That’s right. She’d lied about that in her bio. Since no one else seemed to be doing anything, she quickly moved the short distance. She didn’t know the Heimlich maneuver, so she did the next best thing: She thumped Mike between the shoulder blades. Nothing happened, and she thumped him harder.

Mike’s date screamed. Someone across the coffee shop yelled, “Call 911! A man’s choking to death.”

The noise inside Starbucks went from a low steady hum to a wave of shouting and scraping chairs.

“Jesus H. Macy,” Quinn swore. He grabbed Lucy by the arms, picked her up, and moved her out of the way. He hauled Mike up from behind, and with one abrupt squeeze, a coffee bean flew out and hit Mike’s date between her stunned eyes. Mike took a deep, gasping breath. “Thanks,” he wheezed.

Quinn nodded. “No problem.”

The cacophony of raised voices grew even louder as people crowded around Mike to make sure he was all right. Quinn stood with his weight on one leg and his hands on his hips. A frown pulled at the corners of his lips as he watched the commotion in front of him. The gap between the zipper of his jacket widened across his hard chest, and Lucy thought she heard him mutter something that sounded a lot like “Nurse my ass.”