Taryn

Disappointed with a client I couldn’t please, I’d drowned my work-related sorrows with two glasses of sangria. Three margaritas followed. The rest of the night was a blur of laughing, joking, and slamming shots with my girlfriends.

On my way out of the bar, I succumbed to the intellectual banter of a handsome member of the opposite sex. He was lean muscle from head to toe, and wore an I bet you don’t have the guts to fuck me smirk.

I was never one to back down from a dare, even if it was implied by nothing more than a grin and a set of intimidating slate-colored eyes.

I’d become rather versed on drunken hookups, none of which produced anything more than a single night’s satisfaction. A former San Diego Chargers cheerleader who once aspired to be an actress, I considered myself to be quite a catch. For whatever reason, the male population of Southern California didn’t seem to agree. It seemed once a woman reached her thirties, she became a target for men interested in nothing more than one night stands.

Seated at an armless contemporary leather sectional in the home of a man I didn’t know, I blinked my drunken eyes and stared in disbelief at his home furnishings. Lack thereof was more accurate.

The home’s stark white walls were bare.

Completely void of anything.

I inhaled a shallow breath through my nose. Oddly, I couldn’t identify a single odor. The home was spotless, but it didn’t smell clean. Or dusty. Or as if anyone had ever cooked in it. Nor was there a lingering scent of soap in any form, or even a candle.

It smelled like nothing.

The armless companion to the sectional sat on the other side of the room. My eyes drifted toward the full-height wall that separated me from my sexy drink-making friend. A round glass table and four perfectly-placed chrome and white leather chairs sat just outside the kitchen, opposite a glass wall that overlooked the beach.

I would have figured him for Western or Shabby Chic, but not Contemporary. It didn’t fit his muscled physique, the tattoos, or the boldness of his walk.

“Salt or sugar?” he asked.

His voice caused my focus to shift from the dinette set to the kitchen. I shouted into the living room’s abyss. “Sugar, please.”

I wondered if he was moving out or moving in. Convinced he simply detested artwork, comfortable furniture, clutter, and odors, I shrugged it off and mentally prepared for one last drink and a night of wild sex.

The sensible side of me intervened for a fleeting moment.

I scanned the living room furniture again. It could have been Modern, I wasn’t sure. Not that it made a difference. The home’s furnishings were sparse, primarily white leather, and without clutter. I added throw pillows to the list of things he somehow managed to refrain from possessing.

Despite his handsome looks, million-dollar smile, and broad chest, the practical side of my brain didn’t like what I was seeing. Something was wrong. The house was too clean. Too perfect. Too sterile. Too quiet. Too secluded.

Then, it came to me.

He was a mass murderer.

I checked the gray hardwood floor for any signs of blood stains and found nothing. Convinced he knew everything there was to know about eliminating any hint of bodily fluids, I pressed my palms against the couch cushions and considered standing.

The precursor to leaving.

I wanted to sneak away and never see him again, but felt doing so would be impossible. His attentive nature led me to believe that he could hear a pin drop from a mile away. Certain that my alcohol-induced mad dash to the door would sound like a herd of buffalos running across a gym floor, I opted to slump in my seat and embrace my fate.

There was no doubt about it. I was going to become a statistic. San Diego County murder victim number 617. A toe tag would undoubtedly be the final addition to my extensive wardrobe.

The thought of my sister getting a visit from the police at 2:00 a.m. on a Thursday caused my stomach to heave. Then, it began to grumble. The same attention-grabbing noise it made when I forgot to eat breakfast. Feeling like a complete idiot for allowing myself to be lured into such a situation by mouth-watering muscles and a pair of demanding eyes, I pressed my forearms against my mid-section and rocked back and forth.

I gazed toward the front door and wondered how long it would take me to reach it if I was in a full sprint. Too long, I decided. My drunken attempts to run to – or from – anything while clutching my purse resembled a slow-motion replay of a running back fumbling a football for twenty yards along the sideline.

Accepting my demise didn’t come easily, so I chose to press him for more information.

“How long have you been here?” I shouted. My voice echoing off the undecorated walls sent a chill the length of my spine.

I wanted to know how long he’d lived in the bare-walled mansion, but decided I’d settle for any response he was willing to give. I was becoming creeped out by the hospital-like atmosphere, and hoped his reply would somehow provide comfort.

“In California?” he asked.

It wasn’t what I was after, but it was a start. I pressed on. “Yeah.”

“My entire life, basically.”

His response did little to ease my state of mind.

“I like this place.” It was a complete and utter lie, but I wanted him to think it wasn’t. I gazed through the glass wall – toward the moonlit beach. “What made you decide to get a place on the beach?”

“The seclusion.”

Hacking people to pieces and stuffing their remains in quart-sized Zip-Lock bags while surrounded by neighbors would prove difficult. If one chose to be a serial killer, I was sure there had to be advantages of living in a secluded location.

“This place has a great view.” Now convinced he had just moved in, I decided to ask anyway. It never hurt to confirm suspicions, especially when it came to potentially sleeping with a psychopathic murderer. “How long have you been here?”

“Four years.”

Therein lied the answer. Four years. He lived without a single photo, piece of artwork, or depiction of the likeness of another human being. My keen sense of human nature must have been broken. I’d somehow managed to leave the beachside bar with a loner who was a neat-freak and a murdering psychopath.

When we arrived, he’d unlocked the door by pressing buttons on a keypad. I wondered when I burst through it in my attempt to escape if an alarm would sound. I really needed to make a run for it. Alarm or not, I needed to get out before he made a lampshade out of my skin.

Before I could grab my purse and stand, he emerged from behind the wall holding an oversized margarita glass in each hand.

One of which, I was convinced, had a dissolved roofie in it.

Shit!

He extended his left hand.

I stood, forced a grin, and then reached for the glass in his right hand.

His eyes narrowed.

I offered an apologetic shrug as I stripped him of the drink. He glanced at the other glass and then at me.

“What’s your name again?” I asked.

“Marc.”

“Marc, I changed my mind,” I said. “Sugar on the rim just doesn’t sound good.”

I decided I’d make my getaway when the effects of the drugs weakened him. He was twice my weight, so whatever he had planned for me would at least render him sloth-like once it kicked in.

I raised my glass. “To uhhm. To…”

I wanted to give a cute little toast, have him drink the drug-laden drink, and wait patiently for him to begin slurring his speech. His handsome looks and bulging muscles were wreaking havoc on my plan – and on my ability to assemble a meaningful sentence.

“To uhhm. To beachfront living,” I stammered.

Where the hell did that come from?

He raised the glass. After feigning a sip, he coughed and then wiped his handsome face with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t drink this.” In complete support of my theory, he lowered the glass, and then met my curious stare. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He disappeared behind the wall.

As the sound of him mixing another margarita bounced off the home’s hard surfaces, I set my glass on the end table. Then, I reached for my purse, clutched it tight in my hand, and did what any paranoid drunk would have done.

I ran for the door.