AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER EIGHT
He spots her the minute he steps through the door.
She is sitting by herself at a table in a corner of the crowded room, trying not to be conspicuous, and when she half-rises from her chair, he thinks she might be the one he came here to meet, the woman he knows as Lulubelle. He walks toward her, realizing even before he reaches her side that it isn’t her.
She’s a pretty girl. Not beautiful, at least by his standards, although she might be considered beautiful by others with less exacting tastes, less developed sensibilities. But there is something compelling about her, something that tempts him to veer from his original game plan and abandon Lulubelle. Something in her eyes, he realizes. A spark that tells him she is smarter than most of the women he meets, that she would make a nice change of pace, a more worthy adversary. Winning her trust without the normal weeks of online foreplay would be a true test of his prowess, his ability to seduce.
And besides, a little spontaneity never hurt anyone.
Except, of course, in this case, it will. It will hurt a lot.
“Waiting for me?” he asks, careful to keep the question on the charming side of arrogant.
She sways toward him.
But before she can answer, an unwelcome voice intrudes. “Wildflower?” the interloper asks.
“Samson?” She turns away from him as if he no longer exists.
The fake names confirm they’ve met through a dating site, undoubtedly one of the many he’s on. It should be relatively easy to find her profile, he thinks as he begins drifting from her side.
“Do you think we can dispense with the aliases?” he hears Wildflower ask.
“Sam Benjamin,” the man responds, a name as nondescript as the man himself.
“Paige Hamilton,” comes the reply.
Paige Hamilton,he repeats silently, approaching the far end of the bar and making a mental note to check for her presence on Facebook and Instagram. He looks back in her direction, waiting for her to notice his absence, annoyed—even angered—that she seems totally captivated by this extraordinarily ordinary-looking man.
He wonders if her snub is deliberate and considers marching back to her table and throwing her drink in her face, then smashing the glass over her head and watching the blood slowly dribble down her cheeks. That would teach her. But then he catches sight of heavily ringed fingers waving at him from the other end of the long bar, and he is quick to regroup, to return to his original plan. He’s spent weeks cultivating this relationship. It would be a shame to miss out on the payoff.
Paige Hamilton, also known as Wildflower, will have to wait for another day.
His back stiffens and his shoulders straighten as he strides, newly resolute, toward the pretty, but plump, brunette at the end of the bar. He is an arrow sailing toward its target—fast, focused, and deadly.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the woman apologizes as he draws close. Her face goes from pink to red, so that it almost matches the color of the dress her large breasts are spilling from. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Lulubelle?” he asks, his voice dripping warm honey. Her name is accompanied by the same boyish grin he used on Paige Hamilton, the one he spent the better part of the morning perfecting. The grin is one of many in his repertoire. He can call on them at will, but still, it’s important to stay diligent, to not take such things for granted.“Practice makes perfect,”as his mother used to say. Just one of the endless platitudes that fell from her stupid mouth every day. You could hardly blame his father for using his fists to silence her.
“Mr. Right Now?” Lulubelle asks in return, her initial embarrassment disappearing into a wide smile, the kind of smile that says she can’t believe her good fortune. Unlike Wildflower, there is nothing going on behind those big, bovine eyes.
“Call me Eric,” he says, although that isn’t his real name. It’s not even a name he particularly likes. Still, it’s one he hasn’t used before, and it’s important to keep things fresh. While he is meticulous in certain aspects of his planning, he likes to keep other things somewhat looser. It keeps him on his toes, gives the whole charade a certain frisson. So he never picks out a name in advance, choosing to wait for whatever name drops from his lips unbidden. He’s learned to enjoy tiny surprises such as these.
The women—unlike Wildflower—rarely surprise him.
“I’m Lulu,” she says. “Well, it’s really Louise. But no one ever calls me that.”
“You didn’t recognize me,” he says, waiting for the compliment he knows will follow.
“Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” she obliges him by saying.
“Ditto,” he says, lowering his chin while lifting his eyes, a move meant to suggest both shyness and sincerity. It’s a lie, of course. The picture Lulu posted next to her profile—loves Drake and all things Star Wars—was clearly taken several years and twenty pounds ago.
“Well, I’ve put on a little weight since that picture was taken,” she admits, acknowledging the obvious.
“I like women with a little meat on their bones,” he assures her. Another lie. He isn’t happy about her extra weight. It speaks to a lazy mind, a lack of willpower. He prefers his women slim and in good shape, like Wildflower. But Lulu will be punished for her dishonesty soon enough. He leans toward her, catching a whiff of her perfume. Miss Dior, he recognizes. Not bad, though he prefers anything Chanel. “What are you drinking?”
“White wine spritzer?” she asks, as if she isn’t sure.
