by B. B. Easton
Holy shit! Ken, the enemy of fun, is actually having fun!
“Dude! You should come do karaoke with me sometime!” I blurted once the song was over. It seemed like a great idea. I liked to sing. Ken could actually sing. “We could do a duet!”
Ken’s face fell as he pulled into the parking lot of Gusto’s Trattoria. “I don’t do karaoke.”
“Aw, why not? You’re so good!”
I could see him shutting down before my eyes. His face paled under my stare, and he seemed agitated as he threw the car in park and cut the engine.
“It’s fun!” I pushed.
Ken jerked up on the emergency brake.
“And, if you’re too embarrassed to sing, you can just rap. That’s what I do. Nobody deserves to hear me sing into an actual microphone.”
Ken opened his car door without a word, so I followed suit, hopping out and scurrying to catch up with him.
“Man, you really don’t want to do karaoke, do you?”
“No,” he snapped.
I looked at him as though he’d sprouted a second head as he held the wooden door open for me. His features softened a bit under my glare.
“I don’t like attention,” he offered as I walked past him.
Who doesn’t like attention? It’s basically my favorite thing ever.
“Welcome to Gusto’s. Table for two?” the young brunette at the hostess stand asked, her eyes bouncing from me to Ken.
I paused, waiting for Ken to be a typical guy and speak for us, but he said nothing. When I glanced up at him, he flicked his chin toward the hostess, gesturing for me to answer her question.
“Uh, yes?” I said, not meaning for it to come out as a question. Turning toward her, I clarified, “Table for two.”
Gusto’s was dark, dripping in Old World charm, and smelled like they’d soaked every board and plank in garlic butter before building the place.
I didn’t make a habit of eating—in fact, I actively abstained from it unless I felt like I was about to pass out—but Italian food was my weakness.
My mouth watered, and my palms began to sweat in anticipation of what was about to happen. Of the damage I was about to do. Of the guilt I was going to be racked with later.
“This is my new favorite restaurant,” I murmured, watching our server set a plate of baseball-sized garlic knots dusted with Parmesan cheese on the table.
With far more class than I could ever hope to possess, Ken nodded in approval as he pinched a piece off of his fluffy hunk of heaven and popped it into his mouth.
Resisting the urge to shove mine into my mouth all at once, I took a bite out of the side like an apple and immediately felt a shot of dopamine explode through my body. My eyes rolled up in the back of my head as I partook in my guiltiest pleasure—carbs.
After the first bite, I was triggered. I wanted to binge. I wanted to eat my roll, Ken’s roll, and every beautiful golden-brown ball of sin in the building, but I had to pretend to be normal. I had to smile and breathe and make small talk with my cute, quiet date.
“So”—I set the doughy crack rock onto my plate and looked up—“how did somebody so…shy end up being the manager of a movie theater? It seems like you would have to be the center of attention a lot with that job.” I’d chosen my words carefully, not wanting to accidentally insult him.
“Not really.” Ken shrugged, taking a sip from his glass of water. “I mostly stay in the office, doing paperwork, all day. If there’s a problem with a customer, I have one of the assistant managers deal with it.”
“Nice.” I laughed.
“It’s a job.” Ken lifted an impassive shoulder and let it fall. “But I get to see every movie that comes out for free, so that’s cool.”
“What would your dream job be?” I asked, taking another unladylike chomp out of my roll.
“I dunno,” Ken deadpanned. “To watch movies all day without having to work.”
“Dude, are you telling me, you have zero ambition to do anything but watch movies?”
“Yes,” Ken answered without a shred of sarcasm.
“Okay, so what if you had to work? Movies no longer exist, and you have to find a new job. What would you want to do?”
Ken stared at me like he was trying real hard not to roll his eyes. Then, he sighed. “I don’t know. Financial planning maybe? Or accounting?”
“Oh, man! You should do that! I’d hire you…if I had any money.” I giggled.
That earned a tiny half-smile from Ken. “What about you?” he asked over the rim of his water glass. “Is psychology your dream job?”
“I guess so,” I answered. “I mean, I love it, but I also love making art and writing poetry. I guess I just chose the thing I love that will pay the bills.” I shrugged. “Maybe, in my next life, I’ll come back as a National Geographic photographer. Wouldn’t that be amazing? To travel the world, taking pictures, and get paid for it?”
“I don’t think that’s how reincarnation works,” Ken teased.
“You don’t think reincarnation works at all.” I wiggled my head back and forth like a taunting child.
“Exactly.” Ken smiled, tipping his glass toward me like the smug, atheistic bastard he was.
While we teasingly debated what happens after you die, our server returned to take our orders. I got the eggplant Parmesan. Ken got the chicken Parmesan. It was the perfect metaphor for us. We had the same taste, but below the surface, we weren’t even the same species.
After what was hands down the best meal of my life, our server bagged up our leftovers and placed the check on a little silver tray in front of Ken. I giggled to myself as I watched him pore over the itemized bill, waiting to see if he would flat-out ask me to pay for my half or if his head would explode from the awkwardness first. As soon as our server left with his Mastercard, I reached into my purse and tossed a handful of twenty-dollar bills onto the table.
Ken’s face shot up immediately, his eyebrows stitched together.
“That’s for my Cirque ticket, my dinner, and half of the tip…unless you have a Buy One, Get One Free coupon I don’t know about.”
I would have paid sixty bucks just to see that expression. Ken’s lips parted, his shoulders relaxed, and his bright blue eyes sparkled like twin flames.
“No coupon”—Ken smiled, swiping the cash off the table—“but the chicken Parm was tonight’s special. I saw it on the chalkboard when we walked in.”
I laughed and shook my head. Ken might have been a cheap-ass bastard, but considering the fact that my last boyfriend had blown all his rent money on nose candy—and strippers named Candy—a grown-ass man with good credit was suddenly ranking pretty damn high on my list of turn-ons.
“And I get double cash back when I use my Mastercard at restaurants this month.”
“Oh my God!” I laughed, kicking his foot under the table. “I’m starting to think you owe me money now!”
Ken smirked at me as our server returned with his card. “How about I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow?” He signed the receipt and handed it back without taking his eyes off me. “I have a coupon for a free salad bar at Ruby Tuesday.”
I laughed even harder and threw my cloth napkin across the table at him. “It’s not buying me dinner if it’s free, asshole!”
Ken caught it effortlessly, his tilted smile spreading. “What if I get the salad bar?”
“Okay. Deal.” I nodded once, extending my hand across the table.
Ken stared at it for a moment, the way he’d done with Jamal the day before.
Shit. I forgot he’s weird about—
Standing up, Ken took my offered hand and helped me out of the booth. I felt the warm, charged hum of electricity envelop me as he gently pulled me up and into his bubble. The air shifted from flirty to focused as he shook my hand in one slow, deliberate motion.
“Deal,” he breathed, letting it fall.
Ken didn’t sing with me as he drove back to my car, and he only seemed to be half-listening to what I was
saying, which was highly unusual for him. I didn’t mind at first because, with Ken lost in thought, it allowed me to ogle him from the passenger seat. He had a beautiful profile. Striking. The way his hair flipped up in the front mirrored the subtle upturn at the tip of his nose, which curved at the same angle as his cleft chin and enviable cheekbones. But, when Ken pulled up beside my car in the movie theater parking lot and hadn’t said more than five words the whole ride back, I began to worry.
Ken wasn’t a chatty guy, but something was definitely off.
Shifting the car into park, he turned to face me. I couldn’t quite make out his expression in the dark, but I didn’t need to. Ken gave nothing away.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked, making no move to get out of the car.
Ken held my gaze and his breath as I waited for the hammer to drop. He’d changed his mind. He didn’t want to go to Ruby Tuesday tomorrow after all. He’d just remembered that his coupon had expired, and he didn’t know how to break it to me.
His chest expanded as his lungs finally forced him to suck in a breath. With a face as hard as stone, he asked, “Do you want to see my house?”
Do I want to see his house? That’s a weird fucking question. Does he mean hang out or, like, literally drive by and look at it?
“You want me to come over?” I asked, not meaning to sound as confused as I was.
“If you want to.”
“Like, now?”
Ken nodded slowly.
I couldn’t get a read on his intentions. Maybe he was just nervous about asking me to come over, or maybe he wanted to dismember me and eat my brains. Either way, the vibe was intense.
“Um…” Fuck it. He’s cute. “Okay.” I shrugged and forced a smile.
Ken suggested that I follow him in my own car so that I could leave whenever I wanted. I think he was trying to make me feel more comfortable about being alone in a strange house with him, but all it did was make me question whether or not I should be alone in a strange house with him. I mean, that was on the Serial Killer 101 syllabus, right? Lure your victims to an isolated place under the guise of safety?
Ken could totally be a serial killer, I thought as I followed his Eclipse convertible away from the city and into the suburbs.
Think about Christian Bale in American Psycho. He was handsome and meticulous and quiet, too…worked out a lot…wore ties! Oh my God, I’m about to be hacked up with an ax.
Shh…calm down. Maybe not. Scope the place out. If you find a clear poncho, an exfoliating facial mask, or a tanning bed up in there, then you can freak out.
I left a voicemail on Juliet’s phone, telling her where I was going, just in case.
We drove down countless twisty, tree-lined streets, past horse pastures and elementary schools, until Ken turned into an adorable little subdivision called Pinewood Lake. I don’t know where I’d pictured him living, but it most certainly was not in a swim and tennis community out in the ’burbs.
He turned right, just after the clubhouse, and drove past a half-dozen single-family traditional-style houses with Toyota Camrys in the driveways and tricycles left out in the grass.
This was not bachelor country.
As we crept down the street, a large white two-story caught my eye up ahead. Perched at the top of a gentle hill and illuminated by a nearby streetlight, it seemed to glow in the dark compared to the other houses. Every window was bracketed with black shutters and adorned with a flower-filled window box. A covered front porch spanned the width of the first floor and ended in an octagonal gazebo on the corner of the house. And, just when I thought we were about to pass it by, Ken’s taillights brightened.
Wait.
What?
Ken pulled into the home’s spacious two-car garage while I parked in the driveway behind him, trying to figure out what the fuck was happening.
Ken lives here? How? My parents don’t even have a house this nice.
Oh my God. I’m such an idiot. Parents. He must live with his parents. Duh.
Whatever. That’s fine. I live with my parents.
Gasp! Is he about to introduce me to his parents?
No, dumbass. Look around. Do you see any other cars?
I didn’t. Half-delighted and half-terrified by the idea of being alone with Ken, I hopped out of my Mustang—subconsciously palming my pepper spray keychain—and bounced over to where he was waiting behind his car, bathed in light from the garage door opener overhead.
“Dude!” I cried. “You live here? This place is beautiful! And that gazebo is fucking adorable.” I gestured to the front of the house with my left hand, which I realized still had a lit cigarette in it.
Ken’s lips curved slightly. “Thanks. I put a swing in it last summer. Want to see?” Ken walked past me, headed toward the sidewalk that led to the front porch.
I turned and watched him go, blinking. Then, I hustled to catch up.
We walked up the white front steps, onto the white wooden porch, past two white rocking chairs, and into the little white gazebo on the corner where a white bench swing was swaying gently.
I squealed as soon as I saw it. I knew I had about T-minus five minutes before my teeth started chattering, thanks to the February chill, but I wasn’t leaving without sitting on that damn swing. Zipping my flight jacket up to my chin, I hopped up on the hanging bench, leaving enough room for Ken to sit next to me.
He didn’t, of course. He stood three feet away, leaning against the railing with his personal-space bubble intact.
Damnit.
I was just about to start kicking my legs to get some momentum going when Ken lifted a foot and gave the bench a gentle push. I swung away from him in surprise and rocked back in anticipation, my knees grazing the edge of his magnetic field. Ken held my gaze as I advanced and retreated, but he was quiet again. I could see the wheels turning behind his shadowed eyes.
“Now what are you thinking about?” I found myself asking for the second time that night, the future psychologist in me frustrated over my inability to read him.
Are you wondering how my brains will taste?
Do you think I look pretty?
Shit. Do I have marinara sauce on my chin?
“I’m wondering how many pounds that swing will hold.”
I laughed through my nose, a smile splitting my frozen face. “You’re just over there, crunching numbers, huh?”
Ken’s lips pulled up on one side. “Always.”
“Don’t worry.” I smiled, trying to hide my panic. “If it breaks, we’ll just sue Gusto’s Trattoria for damages. I’m pretty sure I gained ten pounds tonight, thanks to those garlic knots.”
As my thoughts began to spiral about my weight and what I was going to do the next day to keep from gaining more of it, it occurred to me that Ken was wondering about the weight limit—not because I was a heifer, but because he’d never sat on that swing with another person before.
The thought warmed me from the inside out.
Then Ken’s body was next to mine, and it warmed me from the outside in.
Unlike mine, Ken’s legs were long enough for his feet to touch the ground, but he didn’t give us a push. He let us hang, just like the silences that never seemed to bother him.
Ken was content with stillness.
I, of course, was not.
As soon as my cigarette was done, I leaped off the swing, reached through the gazebo railing, and smashed the butt of my Camel Light into the soil beneath a rose bush.
“So”—I spun around to face Ken, practically jogging in place—“can I see the inside?”
Ken nodded and walked us over to the front door, which wasn’t white like the house or black like the shutters.
“I love your red door,” I chirped as Ken stuck his key into the deadbolt. “What does that symbolize? Aren’t red doors supposed to, like, protect you from evil spirits or something?”
Ken chuckled as he pushed the door open. “I wondered the same thing, so I looked it up.” Holding the do
or open for me, he said, “In Scotland, it means your mortgage is paid off.”
I giggled as I stepped inside, wondering who the fuck was paying this mortgage, when Ken flipped on the lights.
The interior was immaculate. Tasteful. And devoid of a single personal memento or photograph.
Oh my God, this isn’t even a private residence! It’s a model home! Ken tricked me! This must be where he brings all his victims!
The front door opened into a sparsely decorated living room, painted a cozy shade of sage green. A staircase leading to the second floor was on the right side of the expanse. A stately stacked-stone fireplace took up most of the left wall. And, on the back wall, a plush camel-brown suede couch was flanked by two wide entryways, one into the kitchen and another into the dining room.
The light fixtures were steel. The coffee table was wooden. And the art above the couch was an eclectic collection of watercolor paintings and pen-and-ink sketches, mostly of the Eiffel Tower.
No, seriously. Who the fuck lives here?
“I, uh…love the color,” I stammered, taking it all in.
“Thanks.” Ken shut the door behind us, causing me to jump. “I did all the painting, but my dad helped me with the crown molding.”
I knew it!
“Oh, does he live here, too?” I unzipped my coat and wandered over to admire the wall of Eiffel Towers.
“No, but my sister does. She rents the master bedroom from me.”
So, a woman lives here. That explains all the Parisian art.
“That’s cool. Did she help you decorate?” I asked, focusing on one particularly good watercolor of Notre Dame Cathedral after a rain shower. The wet sidewalks looked like mirrors.
“No. She just moved in a few weeks ago.”
“Really?” I turned toward Ken with my mouth hanging open and my jacket half-on and half-off. “So, you bought this place and painted it and decorated it…by yourself? It’s so”—domestic, perfect, empty—“beautiful.”
Ken smiled shyly. Holding his black wool coat in one hand, he extended the other to take my jacket. I shrugged it the rest of the way off and gave it to him.
“Where did these paintings come from?” I asked as he walked over to a coat closet tucked beneath the stairs.