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Me? I didn’t do anything!
You and Perky are assholes. I called him one instead of you.
So you blew it?
No. He still wants to go out with me.
Masochist?
Hey!
Sorry. Then again, not sure which one of you is the masochist, but go on the date! Dance with him. Then you can press against him and see what he’s packing.
I start to reply something about guns and then groan.
You want me to dance with a guy on the first date so I can use my thighs and belly to figure out how big his erection is?
I hit Send, then panic. Did I send that to David?
Closing texts, I go back to the app. Whew. Nope.
Sure, I type into the app’s messaging system. When and where?
Tonight? Seven? At Bailargo?
That’s the dance studio one town over.
It’s a date, I type back. My name is Mallory, by the way.
I was looking forward to calling you Deco91. Like a Star Trek character.
I figured I’d help a nice guy finish, I reply before I realize that’s a big old no-no.
I get a smile in reply.
Bzzzzz.
We’re Googling David. Found his LinkedIn profile. Works as a conversion consultant.
Did you hack his DNA test results to determine his percentage of Neanderthal genes? I joke.
No, but Perky says that’s a great idea!
“From erections to Neanderthal genetic material. Come on. When did finding someone to have sex with become so complicated?” I mumble, coming back to reality here in Will’s boyhood bedroom.
“I don’t know, Mallory. You tell me,” says a deep voice behind me, the sound of a live human’s vocal cords shattering every speck of composure I possess.
Right behind me. He’s right behind me. The primitive part of my brain signals to me that I’m about to be eaten by a velociraptor. I grab the nearest object I can, lifting a crystal football trophy over my head as I step forward, impulses set to away.
Screaming at the top of my lungs, I jump on the bed, knees unlocked and thighs ready to lunge. I inventory my situation with lightning speed:
I am alone.
In an empty house.
No one knows I’m here.
A man is threatening me.
