Page 28 of My Killer Blind Date

I pull back just enough to whisper, ‘Yes.’ Then, I lick gently into his lips, and he opens as I meld my mouth into his. He emits a tiny satisfied sound low in his throat, which sends a current like shooting stars up my thighs.

I press into the kiss, my body aching. I know I should pull away … but it’s not like he’s going to kill me in a public restaurant, right? I’m safe here, for now, so I might as well enjoy the fruits of my labor – the promise of another date … and what is quickly and very unfortunately becoming the best kiss of my entire life.

Chapter Nine

I’m off work Saturday, but my body doesn’t let me sleep in. I jolt awake at seven, covered in sweat, remembering last night’s kiss.

I brush my fingers over my lips, trying to conjure it back. It was so good. So dang good.

I could tell myself that kiss was all part of the game … that I was just being strategic … but I’d be lying. I was actually into it. Which is wrong in all kinds of ways, and probably says terrible things about me. My penchant for interesting people and their forearms wasn’t supposed to override all systems, dammit! Freaking lizard brain.

I cover my face in my hands and groan.

Of course I’m still committed to taking Liam down, if he is indeed a serial killer. But the other thing I’ve learned about myself over the years is, once I get turned on by someone, it’s nearly impossible to turn that attraction off, adding a very annoying, very complicated side to all of this.

At least I showed some common sense once I got home around eleven, because even though I was extremely tempted to unearth my vibrator from the depths of my messy nightstand and replay that satisfied sound Liam made over and over until I got it out of my head, I resisted the urge. Instead, I emailed the restaurant group that owns Wine & Thistle requesting their security camera footage from the night Zoe disappeared, then spent two hours researching the best self-defense tools to carry in my purse. Nothing sobers one up quite as fast as researching the tools needed to take down a potential assailant.

Next, I looked up local self-defense classes, because if I was going to infiltrate the home of a killer in less than twenty-four hours, I should at least know some basics beyond the old knee-in-the-balls trick. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any classes in a thirty-mile radius that were meeting in the next twenty-odd hours. Then, I searched for Liam Porter on the socials, but found nothing. Finally, around two a.m., I ended up where I do every night – on Reddit, where I snuck into a ‘Dating in Chicago’ thread and scanned just in case Liam’s name popped up. It didn’t.

Now, with the sunlight biting through the blinds and the memory of the kiss pulsing on my lips, I shift in bed and dare myself to imagine, just for a second, that Devin is right. That Zoe is still alive. That Liam could just be this interesting guy with views on the world that piss me off and intrigue me all at once, with a belly laugh I can’t wait to hear again and the softest lips I’ve ever kissed. That I could just be a normal, single gal looking forward to a date with a cute guy.

But that’s not reality, girlfriend.

Time to get back to those weapons.

I roll out of bed in one violent move and, in my PJ’s, head down three floors to the apartment foyer, where a pile of packages awaits me.

Say what you want about Mr Bezos, but today, Prime overnight delivery is working for me. After a brief frenzy of ripping open packaging in my kitchen, I survey my treasures on the counter. A keychain pepper spray. An air horn. Two personal safety alarms, one waterproof. A slim folding knife. A UV flashlight for tracking blood. And finally, a combination pepper spray, flashlight and stun gun that I didn’t realize was going to come in hot pink.

Now I’ve earned my coffee and oatmeal. As I heat my water for instant coffee, I check my phone calendar. Right. The alteration appointment at the bridal shop at noon. And, of course, the date with Liam at six p.m., hanging over the day like a guillotine. We’re meeting at Navy Pier, Chicago’s most famous lakefront attraction, which Liam was horrified to learn I’d never been to.

‘How can you have lived in Chicago for so long and never been to Navy Pier?’ he said with undisguised shock.

‘Whoops?’ I said.

So Navy Pier it is. It extends into Lake Michigan with its promenade of shops, restaurants, theater and other amusements, so there should be plenty to do. I have to admit that, however corny, I have my heart set on taking a ride on the famous nearly two-hundred-foot Ferris wheel that promises unparalleled views of the city and lake.

I’ve checked the weather forecast, and it’s going to be chilly tonight. I’ve already planned to ‘forget’ my jacket so that I can whine about being cold, which ideally will lead to Liam inviting me back to his place. Assuming this works, though, it’s still unclear to me how I’ll be able to really look around his apartment while I’m there. Drugging Liam would be an efficient way to manage this problem, but even if I could get my hands on something I could slip into his drink, it just feels too morally questionable. Maybe we can watch a movie and he’ll get sleepy? That’s my best idea so far – and a weak one, I’m aware. But I’m resourceful. Something will come to me when the time is right.

As I sip my coffee, I look up self-defense videos on YouTube.

Soon, a fierce, sixty-year-old woman in spandex is teaching me how to break a chokehold. ‘Now there are a few simple steps that can make all the difference in a life and death situation …’

OK. Simple is good. I stir my oatmeal as I watch.

‘One arm straight up – now spin—’

I adopt the poses along with her demonstration, sneaking bites of oatmeal in between. For the Ground Choke Escape, I set my oatmeal down and lie on the floor, mimicking the trap and roll. Right hand to right wrist. Left hand to upper right arm. Foot to – where? Bridge up the hips – huh? Ugh. I need to replay the whole thing from the start. But even after a replay, without an instructor, it feels confusing. I’ll just have to keep the stun gun handy.

Around eleven, after a quick shower, I wrap my hair in a towel and head to my closet to plan out my outfit for tonight before heading out for my bridesmaid’s dress fitting. I’m looking for sexy, you-want-to-take-me-home vibes – and clothes I can run in, just in case.

The pilled dress with the hole, I decide, is out. In the light of day, it’s looking distinctly not great. I push through the hangers looking for other options. Not flannel … not a sweatshirt … ew, not that ratty old Henley … also, do all my tops have pit stains? Gross. Suddenly, I’m at the end of the line. Wait – do I really own nothing nice? How did this happen??

I paw through the rack again. OK, it’s not all flannel; I do have some going-out clothes from years ago when I used to go clubbing with Zoe – but teensy-weensy pleather skirts and sequined tube tops from Forever 21 aren’t my thing any more (and were they ever, really?). My remaining college clothes amount to jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts. The only other fashion phase of my life – the receptionist years – has been all button-down tops and ugly business pants. I half-heartedly push hangers back and forth for a few more minutes just in case something incredible is hiding in there … and that’s a nope.

‘Well, shit,’ I finally mutter, suddenly and irrationally angry at my closet for being such a downer. Or, more likely, I’m the downer, and my closet has been reflecting that. For years.

Ugh. I hate that that actually makes sense.