I don’t think my stalker is here tonight.
Is that a good thing for a first date? Maybe, but I confess I’m a little disappointed that he’s not chasing me around London when I’m doing something other than walking to work and back.
And it means this evening is even more dull than I was expecting. The hotel attached to this restaurant sells itself on providing a great night’s sleep. Presumably they don’t expect the snoozing to be over dinner, but I’m at considerable risk of flopping face-first into my food.
I have more chemistry with this bowl of spaghetti than with my date, Howard. And the marinara sauce has waaaayyy more spice.
I try hard to focus on Howard, and what he’s saying about martial arts boxing. Yuh-huh. I believe you, with those weedy arms that don’t fill out your shirt. Does he box against cardboard cutouts?
Picking at my food, I wish I’d put more cheese on it. But I don’t want to look greedy, so I just shoot longing glances at the little bowl of parmesan.
The problem is, past-Jenna’s decisions were led by fear rather than attraction. I swiped right on Howard because he wasn’t threatening. Blondish hair. About my age. Slight build and pale complexion, as though he sits at a desk too much.
Will this meal never, ever, end? My spaghetti bowl is a bottomless pit.
Perhaps I could get a dog from the vet practice where I work to polish it off for me. There was a gorgeous black-and-white collie puppy rescued by an even more handsome owner who would do the job admirably.
And honestly, I’d have better conversation with a dog too. My date hasn’t asked anything about me all evening. He’s told me repeatedly that he’s a police officer, and while that doesn’t mean much in London—everyone knows the mafia lords have all the power here—it underlines what a dull option he is. He seemed the type of man I ought to like. And since my experience with men is purely fictional and second-hand, I thought I should make Good, Sensible Decisions™.
Not—you know—thinking with my pussy choices. Embracing actual reality rather than diving into a book or writing yet another spicy micro-story for my social media account: CatchMeKissMe.
In my dating app profile, I wrote that I was looking for a man who enjoys being out in nature, physical activities, deep conversations, and has strong leadership skills.
That may have been a euphemism.
Actually, what I want is a rich and dangerous silver fox twice my age, with an interest in chasing me through forests and taking my V-card by force as he calls me his good girl and tugs my hair.
Practically the same thing, no? Joke’s on me.
Forcing a smile, I put my spoon and fork together neatly. “I’m stuffed.”
“Stuffed?” Howard’s eyes meet mine and for a split second something ugly crosses his face, too fast for me to analyse.
Stuffed. Ehhhyy… I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. Online, I am notorious for wanting a good stuffing. Not the too-much-food type, or the up-a-chicken type, either. Nope, the older man who pushes me to the ground and stuffs me deliciously with his length, type.
But no stuffing tonight. Never with this pasty, boring jerk.
“Really not hungry,” I say firmly.
Howard’s mouth twists and my stomach drops in a not-nice way. “Another drink maybe? While I finish my food?”
“Sure.” I’m not thirsty, but I guess it beats more conversation.
“I’ll go to the bar.” He’s on his feet before I can point out that the waitress would come over.
While he finishes his food, I take a couple of sips of the drink. Thankfully, he doesn’t suggest dessert and the waitress notices right away that I need to get out of here, and brings over the bill.
“Absolutely not. You can’t pay for your dinner,” Howard says loud enough for half the restaurant to hear when I offer to split it. Even a man eating on his own in the corner looks over, and my brain thinks I recognise him, but I quickly look away, flushing as Howard goes through the bill item by item, noting which are mine.
“This drink is expensive.”
“It’s pomegranate juice,” I’m compelled to justify, and my ears prickle with humiliation. “Really good for you, and delicious.”
“I prefer a basic beer,” he replies. “A bit rough, you know?”
“Mm.” I make a non-committal noise. Pale, bitter, fizzy water? Not for me.
As we walk out of the restaurant into the foyer of the hotel, I’m itching to get away.
Worst first date. Ever.
Honestly, if this is real-life dating, I’m going back to book boyfriends. At least they are fun. Fictional is a disadvantage, I concede, but if spindly, blond Howard is the best reality can provide, count me out.
“Thank you for a lovely evening.” I pre-empt any kiss—not that I think he’ll offer, but better to be safe—by holding out my hand for a handshake.
Howard scowls and doesn’t reciprocate. “The pleasure was all mine.”
Oof. Awkward.
“Goodnight.” I turn away. This date has been more tiring than I thought. I’m so ready to be home and in bed with a book boyfriend.
“Jenna!” Howard catches my shoulder and I flinch. “Jenna, wait.”
I slide out from under his grasp with a nervous fake giggle.
“Could you do one quick thing for me?” Howard sounds hang-dog and hurt that I shied away from his touch.
“What is it?” I don’t say yes.
“Would you come and have a look at my puppy?”
I stare at him, and my head feels woozy with disbelief. “You have a puppy?”
“In my room. I brought him with me. But he’s a bit unwell. I thought you might take a look?”
Oh, for crying out loud. I am a vet nurse, not a free on-call veterinarian. But I’m polite, and I don’t chastise him for leaving a puppy alone. It’s his hotel bill. My bet is that any puppy will have used the bed as a toilet and everything as a chew toy. “What’s happening with your dog?”
“He’s lethargic. I thought he was tired, but… I dunno. He had a hot, dry nose. That’s normal, right?”
“No…” Oh no. He has a sick puppy and, instead of looking after him, went on a date? What is wrong with people? So exhausting. “That’s not right. You should take him to a vet.”
He shrugs. “Oh, I guess he’ll be fine. I’ll let him be if you don’t want to see him.”
Crap. So unless I go to the puppy, it’s probably going to be left in pain and unwell by his neglectful owner.
“Just come and look for a minute and give me your professional opinion. Five minutes, tops.”
I hesitate and Howard senses my weakness.
“I did buy you dinner.”
I’m too tired to argue. It’ll be quicker to see the puppy than to worry about it and have to text message instructions in the middle of the night or something. I nod and follow, because there is no way I can let anyone neglect a dog. And yeah, I guess he paid for my food.
I’ll check up on his puppy, then go straight home. Boy, did I misjudge him. There needs to be a tick-box on these apps to filter by “kind to animals”.
I won’t think about how the tattooed, older man with a Russian accent brought in a rescued puppy to the vet the other day. I won’t think of how swoony it was that he paid for the dog’s treatment and left a substantial donation to the local shelter. And I definitely won’t think about how I liked him so much that I’ve been imagining that he’s been stalking me. Feeling his presence, imagining that I glimpse him in the reflections of shop windows. The man who picked me out of a puddle last week—not a euphemism this time, sadly—really seemed like him. But he was gone so quickly I didn’t have a chance to do anything but stammer out my thanks.
Doesn’t do any good to reflect on the mistakes of giving away your first date ever to a man who cannot even do 101 puppy care like, take it to the vet and don’t leave it alone when it’s ill.
“Just in here,” Howard says as he fits a key into the lock.
There’s no sound coming from inside, and that feels like a bad sign. Poor dog. Possible illnesses skitter through my mind.
Howard opens the door and indicates for me to go in ahead of him.
“Where is he? And what’s his…” I walk into an empty and entirely clean and tidy hotel room and the door snicks shut behind me.
My pulse spikes.
“Name…” I finish pathetically as Howard advances on me, eyes hard. My chest tightens as I step away.
“Now we’re alone, you can stop pretending,” he says with casual malice.
“W-what? I’m not pretending. Where’s your puppy?”
He grabs his crotch with one thin hand. “I’ve got all the big dog you need, right here.”
Gross and crude. The backs of my knees hit the bed and it becomes horribly clear. There’s no puppy. He lured me here under false pretences.
“I’m leaving now.” My voice is unnaturally high.
He laughs. “Go on. Try. You like being chased, don’t you?”
Everything inside me goes cold and dead.
He knows. He knows about my secret, illicit, fantasy-filled Instagram account.
“How did you find me?” I ask, floating above my body in shock. I thought I had been really careful about maintaining my anonymity.
“I’ve been watching you for a while, first online, then I found you here in London.”
Did I think this man was unthreatening? I’m an idiot. I’m a total blunderhead and I’m paying for my mistake.
“I know you want it, I saw what you wrote.” He takes another step forward. “Chase me. Catch me. Kiss me. Hurt me.”
My throat closes in terror. Not the good kind from a fantasy or a horror movie.
No.
I don’t want it like this. I don’t want to actually be raped. I wanted… Scary but exhilarating. Fear and fun. Someone who’ll pursue me, yes, but who’ll catch me before I fall.
If Howard forces me, it’s going to hurt.
Real pain. Not nice hurt.
Why did I let him convince me to come to his room? Stupid. So stupid.
To think I was reassured that he’s a policeman.
I can’t even call the police.
“Scream all you like,” he says in what I suppose he thinks is a reassuring tone as he slides a folding knife from his pocket and flips the blade open. The sharp metal glints menacingly. “This room has especially insulated walls. For a good night.”
